I looked at Susie and tried to tone down my exasperation. She may not have been the sharpest crayon in the box, but she wasn’t conniving or manipulative, so that put her head and shoulders above most of the other people there. Of course, Channel 8 would chew her up and spit her out in six months or less, but that was really her problem.
“Susie, calm down. If you bite your lip any harder, you’re going to need plastic surgery. Don’t worry. I’ll get Finnegan’s back.” Everything was the end of the world in television, and it got on my nerves. Some piddly client placing three hundred dollars a month on overnights misses a spot, and people were screaming and yelling and crying and cursing like they just spotted the Four Horsemen shopping at the 7-Eleven on Main.
Susie shook her head. “I don’t know, Wanda. Blaine said that Finnegan’s needed more personal attention.”
“Yes, and I’m a person. I’ll handle it. Stop fidgeting. Jesus. Get a prescription, will you?”
“But Blaine said—”
“Don’t worry about Blaine. I’ll handle Blaine.”
Blaine Dowd was the general manager at Channel 8, and he was exactly what you’d expect when you heard the name Blaine: a pale-faced, sweaty-palmed, spineless weasel. He’d been fired from every job he ever had, usually for incompetence, although rumor has it that once or twice he’d been caught taking money from petty cash. Eventually his dad, Edgar, who owned Channel 8 along with half the media outlets in east Tennessee, put Blaine in charge of the station, where he could keep an eye on him. The simulated rice cake was the first of many stupid things Blaine had done with the station. We were number two in the market when he took over; now it was a good Nielsen book when we could show evidence that anyone had watched at all.
I looked over toward Blaine’s office, which was a big glass fishbowl in the southeast corner of the building. He was on the phone. I shooed Susie away from my desk and headed toward Blaine’s office, slamming the door behind me as I entered.
“What the fuck, Blaine?” I was loud and could see a few more gophers pop up in my peripheral vision. Blaine had gotten off the phone right quick when he saw me coming. Probably a wise move.
“Wanda, I’m glad you stopped in,” he said, motioning toward the chair across from him. He sat down and clasped his hands together. “We need to talk.”
“No shit we need to talk.” He bristled at the language. The worst word I’d ever heard Blaine say was drat, a fact that made it almost impossible for me to conduct a conversation with him without swearing.
“So I guess Susie told you.” He smiled one of those quivery-lipped smiles that you get from people who have never had a genuine good feeling in their entire lives.
“Yeah, she told me.”
“Well, then, there really isn’t much more left to say, is there? There are some empty boxes down in Cate’s office. Please have your things cleared out by the end of the day.”
My things? I stared at Blaine as my mind processed what he was saying.
His eyes flashed in a panic. “Susie didn’t tell you.”
“Susie told me that Finnegan’s is on Trudy’s account list. She didn’t tell me that you’re firing me. You’re firing me?” I stood up and leaned over his desk, although you’d think the knock on the head in the courtroom would have cured me of heat-of-the-moment behavior. What can I say? I wasn’t a quick learner.
“Look, Wanda, it said clearly in your contract that if you didn’t meet your sales quota for three weeks in a row, the station would be within its rights to find a replacement for your position.” He grabbed a stress ball and squeezed it, then tried to work up a smile. “You’ve been gone three weeks.”
“I was in a coma, Blaine,” I said, speaking slowly so he would understand. The office joke was that Blaine had a brain disorder that translated anything anyone ever said to him into “blah-blah, blahbiddy, blah-blah-blah.”
I grabbed the stress ball from his hands and stared him in the eye. “You can’t fire someone for being in a coma. It’s illegal.”
His index finger shook as he pointed to a photocopy of my contract, which was conveniently sitting on his desk. “You see, it says right here—”
“I know what it says, Blaine.” I sighed. This was pointless. “Where’s your dad?”
Blaine was trying to maintain an air of composure, but I could practically see the wet spot forming at his crotch. “I’m the general manager here.”
“Oh, please, Blaine. You’re the general joke around here.” Blaine gasped, and a flush crept up his neck. “I know you’ve been wanting to can me for a long time, but how stupid are you? I mean, really. I’ve got like twelve fucking lawsuits here.”
“Wanda, you know that language is inappropriate, and actually, if you refer to the employee manual, it is grounds for termination.”
“Oh, bite me, you little son of a bitch. Now, where’s your dad?”
“On a cruise, and he won’t be back until next Friday.” He cleared his throat, stood up, and smoothed his tie. “But that doesn’t matter because the decision is mine, and there isn’t much left to say on the matter.” His palm left a sweat mark on his tie. He looked like he was about to throw up.
I took a moment. It wasn’t so much that I minded losing the job. Selling television advertising was a degrading existence, and God knows working for Blaine only made that reality more biting. I’d saved up enough money to last me a few months, knowing that the day would come when I would reach my limit and quit in a blaze of glory. I tended to do that on occasion. But being fired by Blaine Dowd...
My pride wouldn’t stand for that.
“Okay, Blaine,” I said. My palms were placed flat on the desk, and I stared him straight in the face. “I’ve got two words for you, and I want you to remember them, because I promise as God is my witness they will haunt you to the end of your days.” Blaine gulped. Visibly. Audibly. Like Alfalfa on The Little Rascals. “What... what two words?”
I leaned in closer. “Walter Briggs.”
His eyes darted from side to side. “Walter Briggs? The janitor?”
“The janitor’s name is Bob, you dumb-ass.” I grabbed his yellow sticky note pad, scratched “Walter Briggs” on it, and slapped the note on his desk.
“Walter Briggs,” I said slowly, “is my lawyer. You’ll be hearing from him soon.”
I turned and stormed out of the office, not bothering to gather my things. I could swear I heard a collective sigh of relief as the door closed behind me.
***
I slammed my front door and kicked off my shoes, then made a beeline for the kitchen, searching through the cabinets until I found my bottle of Scotch. My father had given it to me for my thirtieth birthday, even though he knew I didn’t drink hard liquor.
“Everyone has days for which the only cure is Scotch,” the card had said. “Just wanted to make sure you were prepared.” I opened the bottle.
Good old Dad.
I lay down flat on my living room floor, glass in one hand and bottle in the other, staring at the ceiling.
“This is my life.” It sounded even worse out loud than it did in my head. I was thirty-two. Thirty-two. I should have been a doctor. Or a CEO. Or a college professor. Something big. Something meaningful. But I went in a different direction, took a path that led to being jobless and lying on the floor of a crappy apartment with a bottle of Scotch by my side, straining to identify phantom music only I could hear. Oh, if only I could get a picture for the Chappaqua High alumni newsletter...
The phone rang. I let it ring three more times before rolling over and grabbing the cordless from under the sofa.
“Leave me alone.”
“You fucking bitch.” George’s voice was rough. Bitch came out slurred.
You were right, Dad. Some days definitely call for Scotch.
“George. So good to hear from you.” Glancing at the calendar, I confirmed my suspicion. Payday. The only predictable thing about George was a hostile call every other Thursday.
“Y
ou and your cunt lawyer can fucking kiss my ass.” He slurred on lawyer and ass. I downed a gulp of the Scotch, and after a few moments of choking on flaming burrs, I felt warm and floaty. Nice.
“I only got half my goddamn paycheck,” he continued. His voice dropped to a rabid whisper, which I could barely hear over the sounds of the bar in the background. I was pretty sure it was some sort of death threat. It wouldn’t be the first.
“George, no one forced you to represent yourself in court.” I could hardly feel sorry for him. He fired three lawyers before stumbling into court drunk and representing himself. I hadn’t even asked for alimony. The judge was so pissed off at him that she ordered it on her own.
He coughed. A long, hacking cough. I was reminded of the doctor who, ten years ago, told George he’d be dead in eight if he didn’t quit smoking. Friggin’ quack. At the rate George was going, he was going to outlive us all, cough or no cough.
“How ya feeling there, George?” I asked, swallowing a minor stab of guilt at my fervent wish that he’d drop dead right that minute. I could live with phantom music if God would just take George out. Easy trade.
“I’m gonna come down there, slit your fucking throat, and get my money back.” This from the guy who was too lazy to pull the remote control out from under his own ass. Despite the knowledge that my safety thrived in his sloth, my heart still clenched up in fear. Just like old times.
I got up, walked over to the wall unit, and hit the red button on my phone. “Care to say that again, George?”
His behavior in court had been the setup, but the recorded threats were the slam dunk. George caught my drift, added a string of profanities to his greatest hits, and hung up. I poured myself another drink and lay down on the living room floor, thinking about Walter Briggs and his business card and wondering if I’d ever get to like the taste of Scotch.
***
“So... so what you’re saying is, you’d like for me to sue... who, exactly?” Walter loosened his tie and poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table. I’d called him after waking up on the floor the morning after Blaine Dowd had fired me. I told him I wanted to pursue legal action and asked him to meet me at the Fireside Diner. Surprisingly, he agreed.
The Fireside was drastically misnamed, as there was no fire to be found in the place, save the flaming embers on the ends of the cigarettes the waitresses smoked out back by the dumpsters. It was a cheap little dive with linoleum tables and a rotating dessert cylinder so huge it partially blocked the entrance, but it was within walking distance of my place and I thought the fresh air would do me some good.
I was right. By the time I got there, I felt like I could take on the world. Or at least Walter Briggs.
“I want to sue the city of Hastings, Hastings General Hospital, and Channel 8. Oh, and my ex-husband.”
Walter’s eyebrows lifted. “Your ex-husband? What did he do?”
“He’s alive. I want you to sue him for not being dead yet.”
Walter sat back, his white dress shirt sticking a bit to his skin. It’s possible the Fireside had been named for the fact that it was always hot as hell in there. “You can’t sue for that.”
“Why not? He’s supposed to be dead by now. Doctor’s orders.”
Walter laughed, a cue for me to join in and say I was joking. I kept quiet. He stopped laughing. “We can’t sue a guy for not being dead.”
“Can we sue the doctor who told me he’d croak, then?”
He stared at me for a moment, sizing me up, an unsure smile tugging at his face. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.”
He tapped his pencil on his legal pad. I looked at my watch, raised my hand, and summoned the waitress.
He leaned forward. “Look, you’re upset, and I understand, but you asked me for advice and here it is. You can’t sue four people at the same time.”
“Why not? Is there a law against it?”
He shrugged reluctant acquiescence. “No, but...”
“Then I can do it.”
He sighed. “Let me rephrase. It’s not in your best interest to sue four people at the same time. And I’m also pretty sure that your ex-husband’s being alive is not an infringement of your basic civil rights.”
I crossed my arms and leaned back in my seat, sizing Walter up.
“I don’t get you,” I said finally. “You’re a lawyer. The more people I sue, the more money you make. So what’s your problem?”
“Maybe I’m not about the money”
“Everybody’s about the money,” I said, raising a cynical eyebrow at him. “Especially lawyers.”
His face darkened a bit. “Don’t get me wrong. I cash my checks like everybody else. But sometimes...” He leaned forward and smiled slightly, though the gesture didn’t mask the irritation behind his eyes. “Sometimes it’s about undoing things that were done wrong. And there are one or two lawyers left who still believe that.”
He sat back, looking a little too self-satisfied for my taste. I jerked my chin toward him, careful to maintain the smirk on my face lest he think his little speech got to me. “And I take it you’re the one or two, Mr. Do-Right?”
“I’ll let you figure that on your own,” he said. “You seem the type who likes to do her own thinking.”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “You weren’t this tough when we first met, Mr. Briggs.”
“I adapt to my surroundings, Ms. Lane.” His eyes were smiling now, sending me the clear message that he had my number. He didn’t seem like your standard ambulance chaser, and I had to admit I was intrigued. I felt a lurch in my gut that had historically led to nothing but trouble, and in an instant I found myself smiling at Walter Briggs.
The waitress arrived, her hip jutted out as though she’d been born waiting on tables. Her hair was so thick with Aqua Net that if a nuclear bomb were to hit Hastings, Tennessee, there would be nothing left but the militia shelters and a floating platinum-blonde tumbleweed. Grateful for the distraction from the enigmatic Walter Briggs, I turned my smile on her.
“Could you get me a Scotch and water on ice, please? Need a little hair of the dog, if you know what I mean.”
She smiled. She knew. “I would, honey,” she said, her drawl lingering, “but we don’t serve alcohol before noon.”
I grinned and held up my watch for her. She glanced at it, then looked up and squinted at the clock. “Well, I’ll be damned.” She turned and headed to the bar, hips jutting all over the place.
“I like her,” I said, turning back to Walter. “If they get air-conditioning here, I might even come back. So what do you say, Counselor?”
“About the diner?” he asked, looking around. “It’s okay.”
“No, about my lawsuits.”
“Ah. Yes.” He sat back in his seat and looked at me. There was a long moment of silence, and a slight smile on his lips that projected an air of confidence and security despite his sticky dress shirt. I was beginning to feel like the playground bully who’d just met her match. “I think you might have a case. Maybe two.”
“Okay. Where do we start?”
“You’ve got a decent complaint against Channel 8 for wrongful termination, but the payoff isn’t great for all the time and money that go into it. My understanding is the station isn’t doing all that well.” The waitress brought my drink and I took it, but my eyes never left Walter. He glanced up briefly to ensure that he had my attention, and continued.
“I think suing the city of Hastings for negligence is your best bet. It’s a lot of work, but it’s likely they’ll settle just to keep it out of the papers.” He scribbled on his legal pad. He was left-handed. It may be dextrist of me, but I think left-handed people are more trustworthy. I myself am right-handed. “As for Hastings General Hospital... what’s wrong with you exactly?”
“I hear music.”
He gave that bobbing nod people gave you when they had no idea what you were talking about. “You hear music.”
“Phantom
music. Ever since the injury.” I held my hands up, requesting silence. Walter leaned forward, as though he were listening for the music in my head. I sat back. “I can’t hear it at the moment. It comes and goes.”
He sat back as well. “Okay.”
“And I’m not crazy.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“But you were thinking it.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking.”
“Oh, please. If you told me you were hearing phantom music no one else could hear, I’d think you were crazy.”
“Good thing you’re not me, then.”
Well, shut me up. I took another sip of my Scotch.
“Where are you from?” I asked. “Not from around here.”
“No.” He looked at me, his enjoyment of my irritation clear in his eyes.
“Well?”
“Well, what?” He smiled. He knew damn well what.
“You’re from up East, aren’t you?”
His smile broadened. “How’d you know?”
“Because conversationally, you’re a pain in the ass.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
I huffed. “Fine. Chappaqua, New York.”
He nodded. “Newton, Massachusetts.”
I took another drink. I’d earned it. Walter’s smile played on his lips a moment longer before he spoke again.
“Phantom music,” he said, looking at me. He’d put down his legal pad. “And how is that the hospital’s fault?”
“It’s not.” I took a sip of my Scotch. The drink was still mighty foul, but I was beginning to appreciate its effects. And I’d found that the more I drank, the less I disliked it. “It’s just that they didn’t do anything about it. Basically, they flashed a light in my ears, said it wasn’t tinnitus, gave me a bill, and booted me out. I can sue for that, can’t I?”
Walter tapped his pencil against the table but kept his eyes locked on me. “I don’t think so.”
Time Off for Good Behavior Page 3
