What Stays in Vegas
by
Beth Labonte
Copyright 2011 by Beth Labonte
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
First Edition (May 2011)
Cover Art: www.misketch.com
Cover Design: Kevin Labonte
www.secretary4life.com
- 1 -
I peeled my eyes away from the rain coming down in sheets across my windshield and glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 2:57 p.m.
"There's no way," I said out loud. "There’s no effing - ahh!"
A Hummer-driving maniac came out of nowhere and narrowly missed my left fender as they cut into the lane in front of me.
"Jerk!" I yelled. "The grocery store gonna close soon?"
I took a deep breath and with one hand reached over to reposition the box of engineering plans sitting on my passenger seat. This was total insanity.
Not only was this one of the worst rain storms that I've ever driven through in my life, but I also had a sore throat that every time I swallowed felt like Johnny Depp was swashbuckling his way out of my epiglottis.
The afternoon had started off relatively okay. I had just settled in at my desk with a nice hot cup of tea with honey, when the annoying little leprechaun's footsteps came to a halt outside my cubicle. Apparently there was a life or death situation involving these plans getting up to Dover, New Hampshire before the town hall closed at 3:30 p.m. Otherwise, another one of our precious Jiggly Kitty strip joints might not get built.
No, that's not true. It would still get built, it just might be delayed a couple of months. And in the larger scheme of things, it is much better to risk your administrative assistant's life than to cost your creepy client a few months income. Besides, it was 1:53 p.m. when I left, which, according to the leprechaun, is plenty of time to get somewhere in the middle of a typhoon. Especially when you're driving 30 mph on the highway.
My posture had deteriorated into that of an eighty-five year old nursing home patient. My back was tense and my fingers, the ones that hadn't loosened their grip on the steering wheel in over an hour, were beginning to cramp up. And yet throughout all of this, there were still people driving like absolute lunatics.
Just because they drive these monstrous vehicles -
The sound of my ringing cell phone jolted me from my internal rant.
Keith Burns. The leprechaun.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not a racist towards the Irish or anything. I don't even know if Keith is Irish. I'm sure as hell not involved enough in his personal life to know that kind of information. I call him a leprechaun simply because he is a bouncy, spritely, little thing with way too much enthusiasm for civil engineering. If there were ever anybody cut out for scampering around at the end of rainbows, it was this guy.
"Hello?" I said, trying to keep the car steady while holding my cell.
"Tessa, hey," said Keith. I could barely hear him over the rain. "Whereabouts are you?"
Whereabouts am I? On a fucking merry-go-round. Where do you think I am?
"Just outside Lowell," I said instead, glancing at a road sign. "About a half hour from Dover, why?"
"Ok, cool. Look, I just got a call from the client and we don't need those plans delivered after all. So you can just go ahead and come back to the office."
As his words sank in, so did my car. I'd suddenly become submerged by some kind of tidal wave, and my wipers were struggling to keep up.
Oh God, I'm actually going to die while on the phone with the leprechaun.
For a split second I couldn't see a thing. For a split second I was lost in a sea of dirty flood water and anger. Rising anger.
"Oh," I said. "Um, you realize that I've been driving for an hour in some pretty bad weather, right?" I forced a laugh that felt like sandpaper in my throat.
"Yeah, cool," he said, not listening to me. "So just head on back. I've got a few proposals for you to type up. Tessa? You there?"
Proposals? But it's already 3:00 p.m. By the time I get back...
"Yeah, I'm here. The rain is just really ba - "
"Hello?"
"YES! I'm here! I just have a pretty sore - "
"Tessa?"
"I FEEL LIKE SHIT, OK?!" I used my throat's last ounce of strength to get my point across. But there was nothing but dead air at the other end - which, in retrospect, was probably a good thing. Still, I whipped my cell phone onto the floorboard and violently pulled off at the next exit.
I came to a stop at the bottom of the ramp and glanced into my rearview mirror just in time to watch myself get rear-ended by an olive green Hummer. My airbag punched me in the face, just as the back window of my Jeep popped open and icy pellets of hail gusted in- soaking me, soaking the precious plans, soaking everything.
Cursing the world, I pulled to the side of the road to exchange insurance information. None of this should have surprised me though. This day just about summed up my life.
No wonder I wanted out.
- 2 -
I’ve wanted out since day one. Not just day one of this job, but day one of every crappy job that has come before it. Pretty much ever since the day I unintentionally landed myself a career as an administrative “professional.” Call me what you like, what I really am is a glorified secretary.
I’ve built up a tolerance to it, for the most part. I’ve come to tolerate the endless filing, the constant interruptions, the fact that there is a day in April dedicated to the appreciation of me. You know you’re in a dead-end job when you get a holiday forcing people to appreciate you. The obligatory flowers that turn up on our desks when the big day arrives are always nice. Obligatory flowers are better than no flowers at all, though I’d prefer the extra fifty bucks in my paycheck if I had a choice. But yeah, I don’t have a choice.
My problem is not that I couldn’t continue to do this job day in and day out for the rest of my life. I most certainly could. I could do this job with my hands tied behind my back and my head in a paper bag. Some Mondays I’ve been tempted to do this job with my head in a plastic bag. But let’s not get morbid.
My point is that I work in a nice office and get along with most of my coworkers. I do not have to clean toilets, make change, or slice deli meats. Many times I’m able to sneak an extra twenty minutes into my lunch hour. My cubicle is spacious and I get two weeks for vacation. There are some sickos out there who might even be envious.
My problem lies in the fact that if I, Tessa Golden, were to suddenly find myself eighty years old, lying on my death bed and looking back upon my life, would I find anything there to be proud of? Or would I see nothing but filing and typing and paper cuts? What runs shivers down my spine is that even after I am gone, the filing will continue to pile up, and a new administrative assistant will be along to continue the cycle. It will be as if I never existed.
I will never have made my mark on the world. The pointlessness of it all is not what dreams are made of. It is certainly not what my dreams are made of. Or were made of. I’ve lost track these days.
One thing making it particularly hard to keep track of anything at the moment was Nick Trask - tall, dark, and dripping wet - smiling at me from the driver's seat of his pickup. My Jeep ended up having to be towed, so I called Nick to come and get me. He's my best friend from work, and before you make any assumptions about my feelings for him, let me just confirm that they are all correct.
"Did Keith go home yet?" I asked. I turned up the heat and blasted my face with the most wonderful feeling hot air.
"Nah," said Nick. "He was still bouncing around when I left. We'll sneak you in the back. You can hang out in my office until I finish up, then I'll take you home."
The rain was coming down just as bad as it had been before, but here in Nick's truck it wasn't scary or annoying at all. It was kind of cozy. I turned up the radio and sank back into my seat.
Nick was single when we met during my early days at Flamhauser-Geist, and we had a good three years to fall madly in love with each other. At least I held up my end of the bargain. But for Nick, at least as far as I know, it never happened. We've been to countless drunken Christmas parties together, movies, lunches - yet he never made a move. At one point I began to wonder if he was gay, except for the fact that he dated plenty of other girls. Perhaps he just valued our friendship more than I did, or maybe he simply found me repulsive.
All I know is that one day, about a year ago, Nick returned from a Caribbean cruise a married man. He had met this girl on board, a foreclosure attorney, and he married her as soon as the boat docked in Florida. I cried myself to sleep for a week before I began to turn my anger at Nick into bitterness towards his new wife, Megan. She was pretty, therefore she had to be a bitch. She was super nice to everybody, therefore she was definitely a phony. If he were married to me he would never work late. She must treat him just terribly at home. All those smiling photographs in his office? Those were just for show.
Okay, okay, I'm not that delusional. I know that he's probably deliriously happy, goes home each night to his lingerie clad wife, and they make love on a bed of rose petals and puppies. This is just how I cope. The fact of the matter is that Nick Trask is smart, hot, and completely unattainable. He is the bane of my office existence, and married or not, he is the only thing that gets me into the office each morning.
We pulled into the parking lot and went up the back staircase to Nick's office. I sat down in his client chair while he grabbed a red pencil and went to work scribbling on some plans. Nick is an engineer, but he's more "one of us" than "one of them." By that I mean he can schmooze with clients just as well as anyone in upper management, but he can also still appreciate a good article from The Onion. His sense of humor has stayed in tact.
"So, how's married life going?" I asked, hoping to sound casual.
"It's, uh, you know, it's great," said Nick. He grabbed an eraser out of his drawer and removed a few red scribbles without looking up at me.
"Great like the way I say filing is great? Or great like 'Hey there's a baby on the way!'?"
Nick looked up at me silently for a second, then arched an eyebrow. "There's definitely no baby on the way. Not at this rate."
Not at this rate? What did that mean? My vision of rose petals and puppies suddenly went poof.
"What are you talking about?" I asked.
"You know, we just don't have much - "
Just as I was about to hear potentially life-changing news about the love of my life's marital status, my stupid boss, Tom Skeeter, had to poke his head through the door.
"Tessa! I thought I might find you here," said Tom. "Would you mind swinging by my office when you get a second?"
“Sure," I said. I was always swinging into people's offices. One day I want to literally swing in from a chandelier, just for the hell of it. I stood up to walk back with him, but by the time I got into the hallway he was already long gone. Nobody at Flamhauser-Geist walked at normal speeds.
"Be right back," I said to Nick.
As I walked into Tom’s office I saw that the rain had finally started to clear. It was December and I should probably have just been grateful that it wasn't snowing. Either way it was cold and disgusting outside. If I didn’t have family here in Massachusetts I would have left for a warmer climate a long time ago. Scraping my windshield each winter morning with ice crystals stinging my face and snow soaking into my heels is pretty much hell on earth, except that Hell is much warmer. And certainly administrative assisting cannot possibly be as depressing if your office is overlooking West Palm Beach, rather than the gloriously scenic MBTA commuter rail tracks.
Speaking of which, those tracks taunt me. They make me think of where I could go if I were on one of those trains. It’s all very silly as I know exactly where that train goes. Boston. And what would I do in Boston that is different from what I do here? Most likely I would work at another civil engineering company as another administrative assistant. Perhaps I would work in a high rise building, or for a bigger and more important firm. I would definitely spend more of my paycheck on lunchtime shopping. So maybe I am better off where I am.
“Have a seat," said Tom, who had already managed to get back to his desk and start typing an email. The man could type emails in his sleep. I pushed aside a set of plans and sat myself down on the leather couch, studying the top of his curly gray head as I waited. I could literally tell by his hair how much energy he had. Each curl was unusually perky that afternoon, as if they had personally taken a sip from the bucket sized cup of coffee on his desk.
With a few more brisk taps to his keyboard Tom sent off his email and leaned back in his chair. It was a little hard to take him seriously with the framed picture of the very first built Jiggly Kitty strip club hanging on the wall behind his head, but I tried my best.
“So,” he said, “do you remember Kendra Stoltz? Branch Manager out in our Las Vegas office? I think you met her at the Christmas party.”
Ah, the Flamhauser-Geist Holiday Gala. This is when all four branches converge on a hotel ballroom dressed in their finest, get totally shitty from the all-night open bar, and are kindly asked by hotel management to find themselves another venue next year.
I remembered the night quite clearly. Nick and Megan were slow dancing to Wonderful Tonight, and I could tell that Nick was singing the lyrics into her ear. Totally vomit-worthy. I stood by the bar downing a gin and tonic, while some freakazoid from Las Vegas tried to make conversation. He said his name was Todd Stoltz and that he had a Twister board upstairs in his room. Clothing optional. At that point I excused myself and hurried off to the ladies room where I noticed a blonde kneeling in front of a toilet trying not to vomit.
“Are you alright?” I called over to her from the sinks. She sniffed and wiped her mouth with about three hundred squares of toilet paper.
“Too...many...shots. Look, look what I did.” She turned and jabbed at a bluish stain smack in the middle of her white dress. “My husband is so embarrassed.”
“Oh I’m sure he won’t even remember any of this tomorrow,” I said. I pulled a travel sized stain removal stick out of my purse. “Come sit over here, we'll get that stain right out.” I sat her down on the ladies room couch and rubbed some stain remover into her dress. It didn’t exactly come out as I’d promised, but it did turn to a lighter shade of blue.
“Oh my God, I love you. You’re the awesomest awesome person ever." She hiccupped and held out her hand. “I’m Kendra. Kendra Stoltz."
Stoltz. She had to be kidding me.
“Tessa,” I said, shaking her hand and trying not to picture her husband upstairs playing a game of naked Twister with the housekeeper. “From the Massachusetts office.”
"Jessica," she muttered, closing her eyes. "That's a pretty name."
"Actually it's - "
"Jessica," repeated Kendra. "You're my new best friend." She leaned over and gave me a drunken, sloppy, hug.
After that, I had helped her off the couch, walked her back to the ballroom, and never saw her again.
“I think I met her briefly in the ladies room,” I said to Tom.
“Well, you must’ve made quite an impression. I got a call from her last night," he said. "Her assistant will be going on maternity leave and she needs somebody to fill her place. She’s requested you, Tessa. Actually, she requested somebody named 'Jessica,' but I put two and two together." Tom smiled.
The words took several seconds to sink in. Las Vegas. Maternity leave. She requested Jessica. I was Jessica!
“You
want me to go to Las Vegas?” I asked slowly. “You’re serious?”
“Completely serious,” said Tom. "It's a three month deal."
Despite the joy rising up inside of me and the desire to scream "Yes!" from the roof tops, I was slightly insulted that they would just hand me over for three months. Who would type their letters? Send their faxes? It is true that a monkey could do my job, but I didn’t think there were any other monkeys so readily available.
“But, um, don’t you guys need me here?” I asked.
“Tessa, don’t think for a second that we’re happy about losing you. But you know Kendra, she has a lot of pull around here.” He pushed his glasses to the top of his head where they were instantly swallowed up by curls.
Kendra did have a lot of influence in the company. Perhaps I didn’t mention that she is also the daughter of company President, Mr. Sean Flamhauser, owner of the very couch upon which I sat.
“It's just temporary anyway, and we can make do with Donna until you get back,” said Tom.
Fifty-seven year old Donna Spang - when she wasn't outside smoking she was inside enveloped in a cloud of hairspray. So basically, the company just wasn't going to survive.
“It’s a free trip to Vegas, Tessa. I would never stand in your way.”
“I'm just shocked," I said. "I mean I only met Kendra for like ten minutes, and that was a year ago.”
“Hey, whatever happened between you two in that ladies room, it worked." said Tom. "I requested a transfer to Vegas quite a few times and never got it.”
“Oh no!” I said. “You wanted to leave us?”
“This was years ago, back when Donna was the only admin around here. Half the office probably put in for transfers.” He gave me a wink. “But I guess I didn’t have the right connections. Maybe I should have hung out more often in the ladies room.”
“I’m thinking that would have landed you in jail, not Vegas.”
I know that I called him stupid earlier, but I really love Tom. He has never spoken a single harsh word to me, and for the most part has always treated me like I actually have a brain. In return, I developed loads of respect for the guy, which is not something many people can say about their bosses. You might even say that I will miss him.
What Stays in Vegas Page 1
