Temporary Insanity

by Leslie Carroll

  “Mr. Balzer, I’ve just been terminated by my boss and not only did she not give me notice, but she’s not permitting me to leave the premises with my own personal effects.”

  “Did she fire you for cause?” he asked me.

  “She thinks so,” I said into the phone.

  “Then she’s probably within her rights to terminate you at will. I wouldn’t contest that. But about your personal property, that she can’t do. Is she there? Put her on the line.”

  I knew he’d require no special urging. “One moment,” I said to him, and handed Ms. Hunt the receiver. “My attorney would like to speak with you,” I said, wishing there was an additional extension so I could listen in. There was no need for that, as it turned out. Uncle Erwin’s voice penetrated the phone line, and I could overhear most of his diatribe loud and clear. He was in full rant mode, quoting chapter and verse, statute and subsection of a half dozen laws governing labor and employment. Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was bluffing, banking on Ms. Hunt’s supposed ignorance of the intricacies of the legal process. In any event, the desired result was achieved. My uncle had thoroughly unnerved her.

  She handed me the phone. “Thank you very much, Mr. Balzer,” I said.

  “You owe me one, Alice,” he snarled.

  I ended the call and hung up the phone. While Ms. Hunt was on the line with my uncle, people had begun to arrive for the start of their workday. They tried to act as though they were minding their own business, but I’m sure they figured out what was going on. I wondered what Tony DiCarlo would think when he came in and found me gone for good. Would he feel regret or relief?

  “Just…just take your things and go,” Ms. Hunt said. I had heard Uncle Erwin threaten to sue her for every last dime she’d ever made in her life. “I’ll make sure that your final paycheck is mailed to you by the end of the week.”

  I took my time going through my desk, filling a big plastic shopping bag with my belongings. Then I stood, methodically pushed the chair close to the desk, and handed Ms. Hunt the keys. Any attempt at cordiality would have been ludicrous, so I walked past her, head held as high as I could manage.

  Well, I no longer work under the sign of ARMPIT, I thought, as I rode downstairs in the elevator.

  Now what?

  As long as I was in midtown with a whole day—well, the rest of my life—in front of me, I paid an unscheduled visit to Turbo Temps and asked to meet with Tina. She came out to greet me where I sat waiting for her in the reception area. Little had changed at the employment agency. The enormous floral displays, with no thought given to the Victorian connotations of their individual components, still dominated the room. The giant overhead TV screens were showing the Costner movie that Dorian, Izzy, and I had worked on months ago.

  Tina looked a bit uncomfortable. “Come back to my office,” she said, and motioned for me to follow her.

  I took a seat. “Hi, again,” I said cheerfully. “I’m back and looking for another situation.”

  Tina gave me an awkward look. “I need to talk to Wally and Stacie,” she said, then buzzed an extension. “Is he there?” she asked into the phone. Receiving a response, she nodded. “I see. Wally’s at the track,” she told me, hanging up the phone. She rang another extension. “Stacie, it’s T. Can you pop by for a sec? I’ve got Alice Finnegan here.”

  Tina replaced the receiver in its cradle and sat at her desk, looking at me uncomfortably. “Stacie’s coming,” was all she said.

  A few moments later, Stacie appeared, an attractive fortyish brunette with a baby on her hip. “Hi, Alice, I’m Stacie,” she said, extending her hand. “And this is Simone,” she added, indicating her totally adorable daughter. “Alice, I’ll come to the point,” Stacie continued, seating herself in the chair beside me and placing Simone on her lap. She and Tina exchanged glances. “We’re not going to be able to place you anymore.”

  It felt like a blow to the gut. “Why?” I asked, blindsided by her remark.

  Tina gave Stacie a quick nod, as though it were the responsibility of the agency’s co-owner to play bad cop. “I understand there were some…problems…with your employment at Newter & Spade,” Stacie began, “and that you became aware of and then disseminated some classified and confidential information, which caused the firm some embarrassment. I’m sure you’ve got your version of events, and things may not have transpired exactly as Ramona Marlboro reported them to me; however, it puts Turbo Temps in an awkward position. Newter & Spade is our client and we can’t afford to, well, piss them off. We have a number of other clients at that level and have to be very careful about whom we send them, since, I’m sure you’d agree, every applicant we submit is a reflection on our agency.” Stacie didn’t give me the chance to respond. “I hate to put it this way, but you’ve got a reputation as a troublemaker, Alice. And as a whistle-blower.” Stacie rose from her chair and adjusted Simone on her shoulder, as if to burp her. “So I’m sorry to have to tell you that we’re unable to recommend you anymore.”

  I began to tear up. “That’s not very fair. I mean—”

  “As I said, you no doubt have your own characterization of what happened at Newter & Spade, and you may be right on some levels, but…that’s just the way it is. I’m sorry,” she added softly, “but we have a business to run.”

  Stacie turned to leave Tina’s office. I got up from my chair. “Thanks for nothing,” I said morosely.

  The June sunlight was blinding for midmorning. I sat on the steps of the public library, flanked by the great stone lions Patience and Fortitude, and pondered my fate. It stunk being rejected. On the other hand, I’d really been given an opportunity to make the most of the situation. Why did I need to return to temping? At least right away.

  You’re an actress, Alice. I know you’re planning to produce your own show with your friends, but before you become the toast of the town—in the meantime—go to every audition you can find and get an acting job. Take a leaf from Dorian’s book.

  My cell phone rang and I answered it. Speaking of the devil…“Dorian! What’s up?” I listened to his surprising reply. “Holy shit! You’re where?! Oh, Jesus Christ. Well, my uncle’s a lawyer, but he doesn’t do criminal work. He may know someone, though. Do you want me to call him?” Dorian readily assented. “Look, I’ll do what I can,” I assured him. “But I have no way of reaching you, do I? I’ll come to the arraignment. If I can get hold of someone for you before then, he or she will be there, too. If not, they’re supposed to appoint someone from Legal Aid to represent you. Hang tight, Dorian.”

  I hung up the phone. For the second time in a single morning, I found myself asking for a legal favor from Uncle Earwax. I got him on the line and explained the situation as best as I could understand it from what Dorian had told me. “Uncle Erwin, a good friend of mine needs a criminal lawyer…no, I don’t associate with criminals on a regular basis! I’m sure it’s probably a mistake…He’s an actor…you know, my friend Dorian Mueller…He got arrested for loitering on a film set where he wasn’t employed and stealing food…He spent the night at Rikers Island and then they transferred him to the Tombs because the arraignment is set for this afternoon at 100 Centre Street…so do you know anyone who does criminal work?…No…I’m sure he doesn’t have any money…Yeah, I know, he’s an actor…so of course he doesn’t have a pot to piss in…”

  “That’s twice you’ll owe me,” my uncle growled. “I’ll see what I can do. Let me get right on it. I’ll meet you at the Tombs in an hour.”

  “I really appreciate it,” I started to say, but he’d already disconnected the call.

  I took the subway down to the courthouse district and sought out Dorian. It was surreal seeing him behind bars. “Help is on the way—I hope,” I told him.

  “Well, I can’t say that I haven’t met some interesting people,” he said with forced cheer. “So I told myself they were character studies. And I’m getting a lot of reading done!” He held up a book titled Twenty-six Steps to Improving Your Vocabulary
. “I had it in my pocket yesterday, so I figured I’d put my hard time to good use. I’ve gotten all the way through the A-t’s. I just passed atrophy. But I knew that one already. So what’s up with you?”

  I told him about my double whammy morning, getting fired from ARMPIT followed by the people at Turbo Temps declaring me a pariah. “So I think it’s really true about my bad luck working for insane, short-haired women with small boobs and desiccated souls.”

  “From everything you’ve ever told me about Claire Hunt and Ramona Marlboro, it would seem that they both suffer from the same illness,” Dorian said.

  “Illness?” I gave Dorian a confused look.

  He nodded emphatically. “Illness. They’ve got anhedonia.”

  “An-what?”

  Dorian tapped his vocabulary volume. “Anhedonia. I’ve got the new words memorized—that was the point of the exercise. Anhedonia means ‘without pleasure.’”

  “Hm!” I looked at him, impressed. “That certainly would seem to be the case, wouldn’t it? Gee, I wonder if it’s terminal or if there’s any hope for the two of them. Maybe if they got laid, it would act as an antidote to anhedonia.” I was trying to keep things light, sensing that Dorian needed as much cheering up as possible.

  “Speaking of getting laid,” he said, “they’re not going to toss me back in here, are they?” He looked genuinely terrified. “This isn’t how I hoped to snag a boyfriend,” he added, injecting a touch of gallows humor.

  The guard came over and told Dorian his attorneys had arrived. I looked up and saw Uncle Erwin and another man, roughly about the same age, but dressed in a much nattier fashion, with a gleaming pinky ring that reflected a captured ray of light into Dorian’s face.

  “This is Sy Davidoff. He’s a pit bull in the courtroom,” my uncle said, presenting his colleague, whom I then introduced to Dorian. Uncle Erwin drew me aside to better allow Mr. Davidoff to consult with his new client. “I called in a marker on this one, Alice,” he told me, reducing his voice to a low rumble. “Literally. He was into me for about three grand after our last poker night, so I agreed to call it even if he came down here this afternoon.”

  For the first time in my life, I gave my uncle a hug.

  “I know Dorian is a good friend of yours, and he’s probably an essentially decent guy, although that’s never been Sy’s criterion for taking on a client—”

  “Will he get Dorian off?” I asked, interrupting.

  “Sy’ll take care of it; don’t worry. One of those putzes from Legal Aid would probably fuck up something this simple, so I didn’t trust the system to work for your friend. Look, what’s his big transgression—allegedly? That he stole some food? This isn’t Communist Russia and it isn’t Les Misérables.” He clapped a broad hand on my shoulder. “So, you had a lousy time working for that lunatic woman in the marketing business.”

  I shook him off. “Was working for.” I came clean, even though admitting failure to Uncle Earwax was the last thing on my to-do list for the day.

  “So take tomorrow off to relax and I’ll see you in my office on Wednesday,” he declared, as though it were the conclusion of a done deal. When I started to reply, he raised his hand to interrupt me. “My idiot secretary just walked out on me without notice. On Friday afternoon. Claimed I gave her a nervous breakdown or something. If she hadn’t been on the phone all the time with her girlfriends and listening to some noisy, thumping crap masquerading as music instead of the Dictaphone, she might have had time to do the work without feeling so overwhelmed. I’ve got a lot piled up, Alice, and you’re the fastest secretary I ever had. Sure, you can be a real flake, but at least I never ended up facing charges of malpractice. I found out that this last girl had buried a whole batch of trial calendar papers because she didn’t know how to do them, so a half a dozen cases got dismissed, and I’ve got clients screaming foul in my ear and threatening to go to the Bar Association.”

  My uncle placed his hand on my shoulder and leaned toward me. His breath smelled of cream cheese and lox on an onion bagel. “If you want to, you can look at it this way, Alice. I’m calling in another marker.”

  Chapter 15

  Uncle Earwax’s office was as nuts as I had remembered it. In fact—if it was possible—things had gotten worse.

  “Hey, where’s Hilda?” I asked Louise when I returned to my old job and didn’t see Mr. Price’s secretary at her desk.

  “Oh, she went home to Puerto Rico,” Louise said cheerily.

  “Forever?”

  Louise nodded. “Her mother is sick.”

  “Hilda is the sick one!” Mr. Price boomed, entering the secretarial area. “She’s like you, Alice; she’s got terminally bad taste in boyfriends. Her current one started stalking her so she ran away from him.”

  Louise felt compelled to defend the absent Hilda. “Mr. Price, she said her mother was sick. If her boyfriend was stalking her, she wouldn’t leave the country when she could just get an order of protection against him, right?”

  “An order of protection is a license to kill,” my uncle said, coming in to join the discussion. “Or it might as well be.”

  “Hilda left because she’s got man trouble,” Mr. Price insisted.

  “But she told me her mother—”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass what she told you, Louise! You think she’s going to tell you she’s a fuck-up in the romance department?!”

  Humiliated, Louise colored a shade of mortified pink and lowered her eyes, as though Mr. Price had beaten her into submission. I thought she might cry.

  “After ten years, she leaves me high and dry. Just like that!” Mr. Price ranted, taking just enough of a break to light up a cigar. “How am I supposed to talk to all my Hispanic clients? I don’t know what the hell they’re saying half the time.”

  “I’m sure they don’t understand you, either,” I muttered, waving a thick puff of smoke away from my face, but my uncle’s law partner, who wore two hearing aids, missed my remark.

  “Well, we’ve got to replace her or I can’t get my work out.”

  “Alice can help you,” Uncle Earwax volunteered, “when she’s through with the three Dictaphone tapes my lunatic secretary left piled up when she walked out the door.”

  “Why don’t you try one of the temp agencies?” Louise suggested helpfully. “Alice got a job through one of them a while back. Maybe she can call and see if they’ll send someone down.”

  Mr. Price looked at me expectantly. I hesitated before speaking. “I don’t think my phoning that agency is such a great idea.”

  “They don’t want to deal with her,” my uncle chimed in. “She’s a whistle-blower.”

  In what seemed like a classic comedic delayed reaction, we watched the light dawn in Louise’s brain as she assembled, then processed this new information. “Oh, like that Russell Crowe movie,” she said. “He was wonderful in that, wasn’t he?” The two men stared at her, their gazes making her uncomfortable after a moment or two of silence. “Well…maybe you could call one of the other temporary employment agencies. There are some very good ones that advertise in the Law Journal.”

  “All temps are certifiable,” my uncle said.

  “Thanks very much!” I shot back.

  “What I meant was that all the temps who don’t really want to be performing artists are nuts. Never had one who wasn’t,” Uncle Earwax insisted. “Their brains are all screwed up. They’re not high-functioning individuals. That’s why they’re temps. They can’t get permanent employment anywhere because after a week or two on the job, they start acting like outpatients from Bellevue.” He looked straight at me. “And the artists…well, they’re artists!” he sneered, as though the word itself were simultaneously synonymous with “loser” and “flake.”

  I gave him an evil stare.

  “All those actors and musicians and writers are smart and college-educated, but they don’t want to work,” Uncle Earwax continued, plummeting further down the Alice Finnegan respect-your-uncle meter. “
No loyalty whatsoever. They’re ready to walk out the minute they get a job.”

  “Umm. Uncle Erwin? That’s why we temp instead of taking a permanent job somewhere. So we’ve got the flexibility to pursue our artistic careers, and the capability of leaving the survival job when something hits.” I didn’t need to educate him. My uncle knew the drill. He was just getting on my case for some reason, knowing exactly which buttons to push. Not a good idea, since it was my first day back on the job. I was now an inch away from walking out the door again, marker or no marker for Dorian’s run-in with the law.

  Louise came to the rescue before my relative and I came to blows. “Mr. Price? We haven’t solved the problem of getting you a new secretary who speaks Spanish, and you don’t want to go to an agency, so what should we do?”

  “You don’t speak Spanish, do you?” Mr. Price asked Louise.

  She shook her head. The poor woman had enough trouble just transcribing simple phone messages in her native English.

  “Do either of you have any Latino clients with secretarial skills?” I asked the two lawyers. They exchanged shrugs.

  Louise took the initiative and began to comb through the Rolodex cards on her desk. This would be a good place to note that the law offices of Balzer and Price had been dragged, kicking and screaming, into the twenty-first century. Neither attorney had the slightest clue how to use a computer. They came out of an era where men didn’t learn to type, wore hats to work, and believed that one of the keys to winning a lawsuit was establishing a literal paper trail. The office was crammed with secondhand putty-colored filing cabinets stuffed to the gills.

  Louise stuck her finger in the Rolodex, creating a gap between two cards. “Mr. Balzer, your client Mercedes Santiago has a sister who was a secretary for a while.” Louise may be dumb as paint, but she’s got three outstanding virtues. She’s loyal, sweet as hell, and she happens to have a photographic memory. “Shall I call her for you? Mercedes, I mean?” she asked Mr. Price.