Call Me Lydia

by MaryAnn Myers

  "Lydia, this is your dad. I thought I'd check and see if you're all settled in."

  "Yes, I am," she lied. "Thanks for having everything ready for me."

  "Betty and George did it. I don't come up anymore. There's just too many good memories there."

  Lydia walked straight over to the bar in response to that logic, stretching the cord as far as it would go. "So what time are you coming in tomorrow?" she asked, pouring some Scotch in a glass.

  "Sometime in the morning."

  Lydia gulped down the Scotch in one swallow and had to clear her throat to speak. "Well, I'll see you then. I plan on getting there early before the shift change."

  "Third's been the heaviest."

  That didn't make a whole lot of sense to her, third being the premium shift. But she chose not to get into it right then and said instead, "Dad, did I tell you how good it is to be home?"

  "Home...? You're not home. If you were home, you'd be here."

  Lydia sighed. "Don't worry, you're gonna see a lot of me, I promise. Speaking of which, if you want to see me in top form tomorrow, you'd better let me get to bed."

  Her father was quiet for a moment, then said softly, "Good night, dear. Your daddy loves you."

  Lydia lowered her eyes, remembering all the times he’d told her that as a child. Back then it didn't sound so sad. She swallowed, wanting her voice to be strong. It had to be strong. He was depending on her.

  "I love you too, Daddy. I'll see you tomorrow."

  Chapter Two

  It seemed strange to Lydia to see a new building being erected on the parkway. But just as strange was its futuristic design; a bold statement compared to the boarded-up building next to it, scheduled for demolition. As she drove by, she tried to forget the fact that this once thriving company started business the same year as Merchant Manufacturing, hoping there was nothing relevant in that. Then she came to the next one, on strike and shut down as well, and it reeked of a premonition.

  The mood of the picketers was contrary though. They waved signs and whistled at her from their lawn chairs. Several of the men pitching pennies made an entertaining attempt to block her way. All in all, they seemed to be having a grand old time.

  Lydia laughed, waving to them when they let her pass. Taking the north drive into the shop, she slowed to a stop and looked around for a moment. If the thought of the company's future resting on her twenty-four-year-old shoul­ders wasn't pressure enough, the cars, some looking like they'd have trouble starting, were.

  She pulled around to the front entrance, where, as ex­pected, a parking space with her name awaited her. This seemed strange too for some reason, even considering she'd practically grown up here. She even felt a foreboding chill, but determined, she shook it off as just nerves and went inside with a positive attitude, only to be greeted by a woman she'd never met.

  "May I help you?"

  Lydia frowned. She was sure they'd never had a recep­tionist this early before. "No, I don't think so."

  The woman seemed annoyed by that. "Is there someone you wish to see?"

  Lydia shook her head and glanced around. Everything seemed so odd. "No, but tell me, what time do you start?"

  This obviously irritated the woman even more, because she replied rather sarcastically. "I'll be leaving shortly, that is if my replacement shows up on time."

  Lydia smiled. "Oh? Is she late a lot?"

  The woman sighed, further annoyed. "Is there something I can do for you?"

  Lydia shook her head, still looking around. "No, not really."

  "Then what are you here for?" the woman asked, giving her a scrutinizing once-over.

  "I'm...uh...reporting for duty," Lydia said, getting more strange feelings about the place. "I'm Lydia Merchant." She extended her hand.

  The woman looked wary, as if this were a joke and someone was watching. Lydia smiled again. "I've been away at school. Are you new?"

  The receptionist nodded, shaking her hand and stammering, "I'm sorry, I just. Nobody told me..."

  Lydia waved it off, smiling as she thought of her father's fear that she would come in like gangbusters. "No problem,” She walked on, past the cafeteria, where several groups of people were gathered around the vending machines, and up the stairs to the second floor. When she stopped to light a cigarette, she was practically run over by a man hurrying to the elevator.

  "You shouldn't be smoking," he said, glancing back.

  Lydia took another drag. "Oh, really? And why's that?"

  "Because it's frowned upon around here," he said, combing his eyes over her. "Especially in the halls."

  "Who the hell dictated that?"

  The man shrugged, feasting his eyes back up and down her body as she walked toward him. He hadn't seen her before, because he'd definitely remember if he had. But then again, he was usually well on his way before shift change. "Probably some asshole," he said.

  Lydia nodded slightly. "Hmph. And you are...?"

  "Jack Cox." He pushed the elevator button again and, not a second later, proclaimed emphatically, "Nothing works around here!"

  "The stairs work." Lydia backed up and pointed to them. "They work real well."

  "Sheeeet..." he said, curling his lip. “You must be new."

  Lydia shook her head, about to say something, but he jabbed at the elevator button again, swearing to himself, and she suggested instead, "Maybe it's broken."

  "No, it’s always this slow. Everything around here is. And you'll learn once you're here awhile to adjust your pace accordingly."

  Lydia raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Words to live by?"

  He nodded with authority, and just then the elevator doors opened. "Going down?" he asked.

  Lydia said, "No" and when the doors closed, turned and walked on, rolling her eyes. The office next to her father's had her name on it already, so she dropped her shoulder bag off there and headed for the conference room. Several women were standing outside the door, looking as if they were waiting for something. She couldn't imagine what, and as she walked in past them, they eyed her curiously.

  One look around the room and the reason was obvious. She felt like she'd just crashed a lodge meeting, and to make matters worse, there wasn't a familiar face in the bunch.

  "Good morning!" she said, as pleasant as can be. "The coffee smells good. Is it pay as you go, or do I pitch into a fund?"

  A reasonable question, certainly. But not a single reply came forth. Not one. They all just looked at her. She managed to return the lack of response with a social grace that would've made Miss Manners proud. But then, after walking across the room to the coffeepot and trying to ignore their stares, she had to ask, "Okay...I give, where are the cups?"

  A large bearded man who reminded her of a biker in a motorcycle gang, stepped forward. "We don't have any," he said, bobbing his head. "We weren't expectin' guests."

  Lydia didn't think that was particularly funny, but it got a lot of laughs from the assemblage of baritones and bass, so she played along. "Oh, I get it," she said, tongue in cheek. "For men only."

  The biker nodded. "Yeah, and though we'd be tempted to let you stay, there's coffee elsewhere, so check with one of the other broads."

  Again, though he did not seem very humorous to Lydia, his cohorts laughed heartily. As she looked around from one to the next, her father's concern that she not go in like gangbusters crossed her mind again. It was tempting, but she exercised some newfound restraint and decided to just leave instead.

  Muffled comments as she turned and walked back across the room further tested that restraint, and at the door she stopped. "Which shift are you all from?" she asked. "Third or first?"

  This too struck the men as funny. No one bothered to give her a related answer, and her blood started to boil. ."Okay," she said. "I'll ask one more time. Which shift are you from?"

  Still no answer.

  She glared across the room at the biker. "Maybe you'd like to tell me," she said. "You seem to have a way with words."

&n
bsp; The man looked around, bobbing his head like a proud cock. "We're third. What's it to ya?"

  Lydia drew a deep breath, counting in her head, and made a conscious effort to keep her voice calm. "Then why are you taking a coffee break now?"

  "Hey, that ain't none of your business. You don't even belong in here."

  Lydia turned her head. "Oh really? Well, we definitely have a difference of opinion there. But tell me, do the foremen from the next shift come in here before they start?"

  The man laughed and was quickly joined by the others, spewing out a whole slew of comments. And that did it. Lydia slammed the door to get their attention and pointed across the room.

  "All right! I want that coffeepot out of here! And the same goes for every one of you! Now!"

  The biker started to object, but she threw her hand up, stopping him with, "What's your name, mouthpiece? I'm thinking I'd like to get to know you better."

  The man stuttered and sputtered, turning red in the face as nothing came out, and she goaded him on. "Go ahead, don't be shy. The floor's yours."

  He stuck his chin out. "Who's askin'?"

  Lydia glanced around the room and almost laughed; this was like a scene in a bad movie. She wondered if now was when she was supposed to throw her name out, so they could drop their jaws and gasp as one.

  "We'll save introductions for a better time," she said. "I want to go on record as having walked away from this before it goes any further."

  Unfortunately, when she turned to leave, she heard several of them say, "Who the fuck does she think she is?" So she turned right back around to tell them. They'd asked so passion­ately, it seemed only fair.

  "The name is Lydia Merchant. Merchant, as in Merchant Manufacturing." She looked around at their changing expres­sions. "And since I doubt I need say anymore, thanks for the coffee, and have a nice day."

  She left them with gaping mouths and not five strides down the hall, bumped into two men coming around the corner. "Oh gee," she said. "You must be first shift."

  One of the men stepped back to make a point of taking her in entirely while the other seemed content to just stare at her breasts, and she looked off, shaking her head. "All right," she said. "Here I go again. Are you foremen from the first shift?"

  "We could be," one of them said flirtatiously.

  "I see," she said, nodding. "Well, I could be your new boss, so why don't you play along and give me a straight answer."

  "Yes, we're first shift," the other one said hesitantly.

  Lydia glanced at her watch. "Well, the way I see it then, for supervisors, you're late. And since the coffee's unplugged, I suggest you get out on the floor and take your break when you need one."

  These two were wise not to challenge her, but as soon as she took the stairway and was out of sight, they went to the conference room to see what was going on. When they opened the door, it sounded like a swarming beehive.

  Back upstairs in the office her father had hoped she'd take, Lydia tried making sense of everything that had happened so far. The attitudes, the new faces, the feeling she was getting, and even more puzzling, why hadn't her father told anyone she was coming? It might've helped. But then again, he must have told someone, she thought. After all, her name was on the door, and there was her reserved parking space.

  "Good morning, Miss Merchant!"

  Lydia looked to the doorway to see a tall, thin young woman, smiling and with her hand extended. "I'm Jan Cline. I'm your secretary."

  Lydia felt a wave of relief, thinking maybe she wasn't in the twilight zone after all, and shook her hand warmly. "Thank God you know me. This was really starting to get scary."

  "What do you mean?"

  "What do I mean?" Lydia repeated slowly. "I mean this place. It's unreal. Yeah sure, I know I haven't been here in a while, but Jesus Christ."

  Jan stared somewhat blankly in response to this, returning things to bad or maybe worse as far as Lydia was concerned. "I feel like a stranger here. This is weird. I have a hunch I'm not going to know anyone."

  Again, Jan just stared blankly, and Lydia found herself asking, "How long have you been here?"

  "Nine months," Jan said, very prim and proper-like, with her hands clasped and ankles touching.

  Lydia nodded. "Nine months. Hmph. Gee, is there anyone here from a year ago?"

  "Yes," Jan said. "Your father and Mr. Carlson."

  "You mean the janitor?"

  When Jan nodded, Lydia threw her hands up. "Oh great! Carlson the pervert!"

  Jan's eyes widened, but Lydia was dealing with her own revelations and paid no attention. "Did everyone quit, or were they fired?"

  "Both...I think."

  Lydia shook her head; this was crazy. "So who have you been working for?"

  "Your father and Mr. Reed."

  Lydia lit a cigarette. "Mr. Reed? Who's he?"

  Jan guided herself into a chair, clearing her throat. "Um...Mr. Will Reed. He's the man who's more or less in charge when your father isn't in."

  "Oh? And how often is that?"

  Jan cleared her throat again. "What do you mean?"

  Lydia took a drag off her cigarette. "My father? You made it sound like he hasn't been coming in that much."

  Jan didn't think she had, but it was true. When she answered, swallowing twice first, she looked like a reluctant witness under cross-examination. "Um...he's been coming in mornings. Sometimes just for a few hours."

  Lydia nodded, leaning back in her chair, trusting it to stop without ever having tested it, and sat quietly, just thinking for a moment.

  "Tell me, Jan, since you're so close to the top, what's the problem with this company?"

  "Problem?"

  "Yeah, problem. As in going down the tubes."

  Jan gasped, obviously hearing this for the first time, and Lydia sighed heavily. "So who does the books now?"

  "That would be Dan Morris."

  "What time does he get in?"

  "Oh, usually around eight, sometimes nine. It all depends."

  "On what?"

  "Oh...that I don't know."

  Again, Lydia sighed. "I'll bet you're one hell of a typist, Jan."

  "Ninety words a minute."

  Lydia smiled. No doubt. "Well, I'm gonna need to see this Dan Morris when he gets in, and I also need to see the man in charge of maintenance. And, God, don't tell me he doesn't come in till nine ‘depending,’ or I'm gonna scream."

  Jan fidgeted in her chair. "Oh heavens no, he comes in at seven, and his name is Bill Shoop."

  Lydia looked off, mumbling, "How am I ever going to remember all these people?"

  "I can make you a list," Jan suggested.

  Lydia frowned; she hadn't really expected an answer. "No, that's okay, I'll figure them out. Meanwhile, get this Bill Shoop on the phone for me. No, better yet..." She reached for the phone. "Give me his extension."

  "Um, I don't know it. But I'll get it and be right back."

  During the wait, Lydia walked over to the window and looked out past the parking lot to the company next door. The picketers were still pitching pennies.

  Jan came back quickly, saying she'd called Bill Shoop and that he'd be up soon. Lydia nodded and motioned outside. "How long have they been on strike?"

  "Um, I believe about a month, but I'm not real sure. I carpool to work and don't pay much attention."

  Lydia glanced at her, not doubting that for a second.

  "Will there be anything else?" Jan asked nervously.

  "Yes. Which office is Reed's?"

  "The one just past your father's."

  Lydia hardly acknowledged that, deep in thought. Again Jan asked, "Will there be anything else?"

  Lydia shook her head, walking back across the room. "No, but I'm gonna run down to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee, so if this Bill..."

  Jan interrupted, "I can get you your coffee."

  "Why? That's not necessary. I can operate a vending machine."

  Jan looked offended. "But it's my job. A
nd there isn't any coffee in the vending machines. Just water for Sanka and hot chocolate, so..."

  "Are you telling me I have to drink instant coffee?"

  "Oh no! There's coffee, a large pot of it. But you'll need a cup if you..."

  Lydia rolled her eyes. This was unbelievable. "And I take it there are no cups there either?"

  Jan shook her head, saying how someone kept stealing them, then started rambling about the thefts and how upset people got when they had to keep replacing them…and Lydia really felt like screaming now.

  "Please!" she insisted. "This is ridiculous! Surely there has to be a cup around here somewhere."

  Jan turned quickly, as if she'd just thought of one, and said on the run, "I'll get you your father's. Oh, and there's coffee on this floor too, only it's not ready yet." Her voice trailed off, but she was back in a flash, announcing formally, "Bill Shoop to see you, Miss Merchant," and in the man came, looking lost.

  Lydia smiled, studying him as she walked over to shake his hand, and then motioned for him to have a seat. He seemed too young to have such deep wrinkles around his eyes, his com­plexion was too pasty, and his hands were too small for his shoulders and arms.

  She sat down in a chair next to him instead of behind the desk, and while she lit a cigarette, he crossed his legs, uncrossed them, and crossed them again. Not needing to be a mind reader to sense his anxiety, she tried putting him at ease by asking casually, "So, how are things going?" It didn't seem to help much.

  "Fine," he said in a strained voice.

  She glanced down at his hands, so small and being wrung to death. She noticed when she looked up that under his boyish haircut, his forehead shone with perspiration.

  She touched his arm. "Fine? Then why do you look like you're about to puke?” Humor sometimes worked for her; she thought it might work for him.

  He glanced at her, almost cracking a smile. But then his expression changed, perhaps remembering where he was and who she was, and his Adam's apple began working up and down. If he was going to answer, it would have to wait.