by Judy Baer
“I’m sure you can.” As he sighed and rolled his eyes, mine followed his gaze upward to the three-story waterfall and banks of glass elevators that glided whisper soft up and down. “No matter how long I work here, I don’t think I’ll get over all this wasted space. All of Simms could fit in here, with a floor left over.”
“It’s pretty impressive, though, don’t you think?” he asked.
“But is it good for anything? That’s the question.”
Randy stopped to stare at me. I caught a glimpse of my hair in the polished chrome base of the elevator as we waited for the cab to return for us. It was particularly unruly today, framing my face in a boisterous cloud. Sometimes I think my hair has more personality than I do. It certainly has a mind of its own.
Sometimes Ken accuses me of looking like a fall maple in full color. That’s one of his nicer compliments. Usually he compares me to something from his work orbit. “Cassia, you’re pretty as a new power saw,” “clever as a Swiss army knife” or “feisty as new sandpaper.” When I’ve really pleased him, he always says, “I’ve never had or sold a model home quite as fine as you.” When he and I don’t agree, it’s always, “Darlin,’ quit talking like your attic’s not finished yet.” Quite a romantic, that Ken.
“Does everything have to be useful for you to enjoy it, Cassia?” Randy asked, bringing me back to the present.
“Of course not, but it helps.”
“They must raise children differently where you come from.”
“Simms? Maybe they do. I know people who still make their children apologize to telemarketers before they hang up on them.” I paused to eyeball him for a change. “Tell me, Randy, what’s your story? You don’t get to hear mine without sharing a little of your own. I know you’re an accountant and that you go to church just a few blocks from here, but other than that…’
He shrugged his wide but bony shoulders beneath his jacket. “Not much to tell. I was born and raised in a middle-class suburb of the Twin Cities. Had a good education, went to the university, became a CPA and here I am, at Parker Bennett.”
“That’s a little dull, don’t you think? Surely there must be people in your life.”
“A younger brother and sister, two parents who are teachers. And a pack of first and second cousins that I see on holidays. I’m single because the right girl just hasn’t come along yet. And I have a cat named Franklin, after the stove in my parents’ cabin.”
“That’s what I was talking about! The people in your life, what you do for fun! That’s the best part of a person’s life, not what they own.”
“What is it with you, anyway? I’ve never met anyone as—” he searched for words “—as content as you are.” He scratched his sandy head in puzzlement. “You’ve come here every day for nearly a month in your old junker of a car, carrying a sack lunch and humming like a canary. The execs drive BMWs or Jags and go out for power lunches to grouse about how hard they have it. What’s your secret?”
He looked so sincere and cute and vulnerable standing there trying to puzzle me out that I wanted to give him a squeeze. I did, however, restrain my impulses.
“My secret? Randy, I’m the most transparent person on the planet. With me, what you see is what you get.”
“That’s what you say, but there’s something…” Randy looked so puzzled that I had to laugh.
“So you want my secret? Okay, I’ll give you my confidential formula. But it’s one I’m sure you already know.” I dug in my purse for a scrap of paper and came up with half a deposit slip from my checkbook. I scribbled down the information for which Randy was digging, then I slipped the scrap inside the little New Testament I always carry and pressed it into his palm. “Here you are.”
“I’ve already got a Bible, Cassia.”
I ignored him.
The elevator arrived as he looked at the packet in his hand. As we stepped inside, I asked. “What floor do you want? I’ll drive.”
“Sixth floor. I want to stop at the cafeteria and grab some coffee. I got up too late to make my own this morning.” Then he opened the little Testament and read what I’d scratched on the bit of paper. Hebrews 13:5, one of my favorites.
Keep your lives free from the love of money and be content with what you have, because God has said, “Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.”
He slipped the Testament into his pocket and stepped off the elevator on the sixth floor shaking his head.
On the way down the hall to my office, I ran through the game I’d been playing every day since I joined Parker Bennett. It was one my mother always used to break the ice and help us kids remember each other’s names at vacation Bible school. Children would introduce themselves by giving their first names and an adjective that described them. I was always Curly Cassia and my sister Jolly Jane. Over the years our classes were filled with notables such as Mucky Matthew (something to do with the fact that he did barn chores before coming to church school), Blinking Bonnie, Running Ronnie, Silly Sarah and, my personal favorite, Daring Dan. The game got to be such a popular tradition that all the vacation Bible school classes used it, and it’s been my memory tool ever since. It’s come in particularly handy since I was hired at Parker Bennett. Every face is new, and I find myself applying adjectives to each person I meet. In my portion of the office alone are Stunning Stella, Paranoid Paula, Betting Bob, Thoughtful Thelma, Ego Ed, Jealous Jan and—even though it’s not playing the game right—Petty Betty. The only one I didn’t need to add a descriptive adjective to was someone with an already memorable name—Cricket.
Cricket is about my age, and while I’m tall and slender, she’s short and round and always has a glorious smile that can light up a room. Cricket told me immediately how she came to have her unusual name. Her much-in-love parents—Jim and Mimi—tried to give her a name that was a combination of their own two names. Unfortunately, all they could come up with was Jimini. It wasn’t long till everyone was calling the baby Jimini Cricket, and before long, Jimini had gone by the wayside and now she’s just Cricket. She’s forever fighting her weight, loves food, abhors exercise and thinks television reality shows are ridiculous. She also feels the need to watch every one of those shows just to make sure that someone doesn’t slip something relevant or enlightening into one of them. Cricket has been a real blessing in the office, not to mention a huge dose of comic relief.
That’s not to say my office mates aren’t all wonderful people—they are, and I like them all very much. But each does have a quirk or two that stand out above all others—Ed, for example.
Ed’s a nice guy. He’s friendly, cheerful and generous. He’s also got a mirror taped to the inside drawer of his desk so he can check his hair for a strand out of place and his teeth for an errant speck of spinach. If Ed lost his hair, he would run right out and buy a wardrobe of hairpieces—a rug for every room, so to speak. Paula and Betty (it figures) think Ed had something “done” around his eyes over his last vacation. Thelma says he just looked “rested,” but apparently Paula counts crow’s-feet and keeps a tally. Now they’re trying to work up the nerve to ask who his plastic surgeon was. I’ve warned them against it. If Ed hasn’t had a touch-up, he’ll be as upset as a woman who is asked when her baby is due six months after she’s delivered.
I hope they aren’t counting my wrinkles. I didn’t have many when I came to Parker Bennett, but they could be adding up quickly now. I’m not much for looking in the mirror. Just seeing myself full-length in a department-store window surprises me. Since all the mirrors in Simms are attached to dressers, I’d even forgotten how long my legs are. Now when I see them in a full-length mirror, I’m reminded of walking on stilts. Ken did tell me once, however, that his buddies thought I had great legs. It was one of the first and only times I’d wished that they’d stick to talking about trucks, power washers, construction materials and the like.
I’d had the most trouble finding an adjective for Thelma. I went back and forth between Thoughtful and Thrifty for
a few days before I settled on Thoughtful. She’s the dearest, kindest person in the office, always remembering to ask how Winslow is settling in, to compliment Stella on her new shoes or Jan on a different haircut. She also carries her lunch to work in the same paper bag all week, washes out Baggies so she can reuse them and insists that a teabag can be reused at least four or five times before it loses its punch.
I passed the office of my boss, Ned Lakestone, the man who’s in charge of the many smaller offices that make up the customer service department. His door is rarely open and I don’t think he likes people very much. Customer service is an odd place for a recluse to work, but Stella assures me that Ned’s the best kind of boss to have—one who never interrupts his employees’ workday with instructions or directives. According to Stella, that type is a real nuisance. Besides, if Mr. Lakestone got involved with us, she probably wouldn’t have time to change her nail polish every day.
For some strange reason, as I neared the office, the fine hairs on the back of my neck began to tingle. It reminded me of Boosters, Ken’s dog, when he senses some change in the air or nearly imperceptible hint that something’s not quite as it should be. Then the fur on Boosters’s neck stands up and he puts his nose to the ground because something is very suspicious. Looking back, I realized that if I’d known what was coming, every hair on my head would have stood up and taken notice.
I pushed my way through the throng of people who’d crowded the hallway in front of the customer service department and wondered what on earth was going on in my office. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have suspected they were having a rummage and bake sale inside and everyone was gathering for a first look at the merchandise. Now, that tells me I’ve spent far too much time in Simms.
So for the second time in not so very many days, I forged ahead. “Excuse me, sorry, I didn’t mean to step on your foot, excuse me…” The door was shut, so, not knowing what I’d find on the other side, I opened it, slid in sideways through the crack and shut it again.
“What’s going on here…?” My voice drifted away as I stared in wonderment at the sight before me. Ego Ed was standing on, of all places, the top of his desk. Everything on the desk had been swept to one side and he was poised there, foam coffee cup in one hand, holding his arms in the air in a victor’s triumphant V. When I came in, he glanced at me and yelled, “Yee-haw!”
And he was the sanest one in the pack.
Petty Betty was going in circles—literally, as if one foot had been nailed to the floor and she kept circling around it, getting nowhere fast. Her hands were flapping like pathetic little bird wings and her eyes were wild.
Stella was dumping nail polish bottles into her purse and ignoring her telephone which rang incessantly.
Betting Bob was on the phone in loud conversation with what sounded like his bookie. “Flytail in the second! Flytail in the second!” I’d been at work only three weeks, so I’m not fluent in what Stella calls Bob’s “gamble speak,” but I was pretty sure that was the language he was talking.
Cricket and Thelma were in intense conversation, and Paranoid Paula was blatantly eavesdropping. Paula had her purse clutched to her chest and kept muttering over and over to the other two, who were ignoring her, “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched. You might be sorry. Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched!”
The filing cabinets appeared to have ruptured and hemorrhaged all over the floor, and the rest of the room was in equal disarray. It was as if someone had gleefully run through the place overturning garbage cans and pushing things off desks.
Stella, despite the fact that she was carrying on a private conversation with herself punctuated by words like “shoes,” “diamonds” and “I’ll show them,” seemed to be one of the calmer of the lot.
I neared her desk cautiously, wary of flying emery boards and cuticle clippers. “Stella, what’s going on in here?”
Her head shot up and she stared at me. “You don’t know?”
“I realize that I didn’t get in as early today as I usually do, but I’m still on time. What’s everyone else doing here so early?”
“I called Thelma,” she explained mysteriously. “And she called Paula and Jan. They were supposed to tell Bob, Ed, Betty, Cricket and you. Maybe they didn’t have your home phone number.”
“Call me for what?” Alice, when she fell through the looking glass, had nothing on me.
“To tell you that we won!”
‘“Wee one’? Who had a baby? I didn’t realize anyone was due. It didn’t say who was expecting on your collection envelope.”
“No, we w-o-n. Us. These people here.” Ed made a gesture around the room. “We. Us. You!”
Cricket tossed a pile of papers into the air like confetti and let them fall to the floor.
What was she, nuts?
“Won? Won what?” I couldn’t think of any contests other than Parker Bennett’s employee of the month award, and that wasn’t all that big a deal. Most of the employee photos they hung on the lobby wall looked like mug shots anyway.
“The lottery, of course!”
“The lottery?” I echoed, feeling more stupid by the second.
By then Cricket was in a world of her own doing some sort of silly dance step around the perimeter of the room singing “New York, New York.” Cricket is a terrible singer, but I did figure out that she was chirping about the Big Apple. She stopped long enough to grab my hands and twirl me around in a circle. “The Power-ball! Cassia, haven’t you been watching the billboards or listening to the radio?”
“I’ve been doing a lot around the apartment,” I admitted. “Winslow and I have had a lot of walks….”
She finally stopped what she was doing and looked straight into my eyes. “Cassia, remember those tickets we bought? One of them was the winning number. We’re all millionaires.”
“I didn’t buy any tickets!”
Grandpa would do backflips in his grave if he thought I’d been involved in any kind of gambling. Oh, Grandpa wouldn’t have liked this at all.
“Of course you bought tickets. What do you think you put five dollars into the envelope in my desk for?”
“Somebody was having a baby or a birthday or…”
Stella’s face registered astonishment. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“About what?”
Cricket’s eyes grew large. “She really doesn’t know! Tell her about the pool, Stella.”
“The last Friday of every month we all put five bucks into the pool, and I buy lottery tickets for the Powerball. We’ve been doing it for ages. It’s been just for fun, but this weekend…” Stella could hardly continue. “We won!” Understanding dawned in Stella’s beautiful blue eyes. “And you thought you were putting money toward a baby gift?”
I nodded dumbly. I had a very bad feeling rising in my chest.
“No one had a baby, Cassia. The money you put in the envelope on Friday was for lottery tickets.”
“But it’s always for someone’s retirement or wedding or…”
“Except on the last Friday of every month.”
“But I’ve never been here on a ‘last Friday.’”
“That’s why you didn’t know. That’s the day we buy lottery tickets.”
“I wouldn’t have put money in that envelope if I’d known it was for that.” I could see Grandpa, at warp speed, spinning in his grave.
“Too late now,” Stella said. “It’s yours.” She reached for a sheet of paper and thrust it into my hands. “On Saturday morning I pick up the money and buy the tickets. I photocopied all the tickets onto a sheet for you, just like I do for everyone else. I faxed them to you. Everyone knows to check on their numbers. And Saturday night we won!”
“But I didn’t do anything,” I protested. Including hooking up the fax machine that annoys me so much. “This is all a misunderstanding.”
“Of course you did something. Everyone who puts money into the kitty shares equally in the win.”
“Well, I can’t take it. The rest of you can split it. Have a nice dinner or something. On me.” Cricket’s eyes grew so round I thought they would pop right out of her head. Frantically she gave me the signal to zip my mouth.
“It isn’t going to work that way.”
“I don’t want it. Give me my five dollars back and we’ll pretend this never happened.” I felt panic rising in my gut. I was an innocent babe where money was concerned. Grandpa had seen to that.
“Are you nuts?” Stella’s ice-blue eyes were wide with astonishment. “This is the deal, Cassia. Anybody who puts money in the pot shares in the winnings. I suppose we never really thought anything big would come of this, but now that it has, rules are rules. You have to take it.”
“She’s in shock—pay no attention to her,” Cricket babbled. “You can’t expect to get anything sensible out of her right now. Give her some time to get used to this.”
“I don’t need time,” I pleaded, my stomach sick. “You take it. Giving money to me is like shipping snow to Antarctica! I don’t need it!”
“Where do you live, Cassia?” Stella demanded. “An apartment somewhere, right?”
“Yes, but…”
“How many bedrooms do you have? One or two?”
“One, but it’s what I can afford….” I snapped my mouth shut, seeing the point Stella was trying to make and not wanting to help her make it.
“And what about that dog?”
“Winslow? What about him?”
“Does he get to be outside and play?”
“When I can take him. We go to the park.”
“Wouldn’t you like a fenced-in yard for him?”
“Of course, but…”
“And another bedroom or two so you could move around?”
“Yes, but…”
“And where do you give your money?”
“Tithing, mostly. The rest I live on.”
“Tithing, huh? Isn’t that like ten percent of your income? And didn’t you say something about going back to school to finish a master’s program?”
