“Kyle! That is so incredibly ever-so-slightly racist—and even if I was, what’s it to you?”
“Just curious. What do you guys talk about—terracotta warriors? Gong Li movies?”
“Kyle, this conversation is over.”
“So there is something going on.”
I sighed. “We’re, um, working on a project together.”
“A project.”
“You make it sound dirty. We’re working on a platonic business venture. He is a nice conservative Chinese guy.”
“Okay, don’t tell me then.”
“When do you find out if you got your refinery job?”
“Maybe this week.”
“Is that a delivery for TWK you’re holding?”
“It is.”
I took it from him. “Thank you.” I sauntered into the building, purposefully whistling like someone trying to be mysterious. I found Sarah Number One inside the door, waiting for me. What a way to start the week.
“Hello, Sarah.”
“Hello, Shannon.”
I remembered my pledge to be nicer to the office’s remaining Sarahs. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Shannon, can I take you out to lunch today?”
Talk about a surprise. “Seriously?”
“Yes. Seriously.”
Life is strange. “Okay.”
“See you here at noon.”
“Deal.”
(7) Temp Is Slightly Shocked by Lunch Query
We settled on Saipan, a Japanese lunch place run by a noisy Belarusian family. It’s a quick walk if you cut through the next-door parking lot of AmQex, a defence contractor, and trek over brown grass berms forested with CCTV cameras atop white poles.
We quickly ordered two bento boxes and sat down by a window.
“How’s temping?” asked Sarah.
“I get used to feeling disposable.”
“You know about the warehouse fire, don’t you?”
“Know what?”
“Kevin Taylor’s wife started it.”
“No!”
“Yes. They caught her on the AmQex cameras.”
I played dumb. “Holy moly.”
“Nobody else knows. The Danimal told me.”
“Huh.”
Our boxes arrived and we quickly ate. Sarah had yet to tell me why we were there—and then she did: “So, are you and Kyle a, um, couple?”
For once I got to roll my eyes. “No! And I keep on feeling like we’re two pandas in a Chinese zoo and everyone’s waiting for us to mate.” I remembered my pledge to be nice. “Why are you asking?”
“Because I thought maybe he and I…”
“Sarah, you’re forty!”
“So?”
“I’m sorry, I just blurted that out. But really, Sarah, you’re forty and he’s maybe twenty-five.”
“All the better.”
I sucked in a breath. “Well, he’s all yours to win, and he may be getting a job at the refineries, so he’s ready to settle down, too.”
“You think I’m a perv?”
“No. I say go for it and good luck. He can get you discounts on skateboard equipment, too.”
“Meow.”
“Just wrapping my brain around this.”
We ate the remains of some oily tempura. Then I realized something: “It was very nice of you to ask me first. For real.”
“I’m not a monster. And I’m not just another Sarah unit around the office.”
“I guess you aren’t.”
Walking back, we approached two older guys begging with cardboard signs at the stoplights, one an Afghan war vet, the other guy just old and sad. Sarah and I looked at each other. “What are we going to do?” I asked.
“I always give the old guys something because, I mean, what are they going to do, become Walmart greeters? The young guys…if I think it’s going on drugs, I don’t give. But the Afghan guy doesn’t look druggy.”
“He just looks so lost and forgotten.”
We ended up giving each of them twenty bucks, and Sarah did a cool thing: she asked them each their name, and they were so glad just to be able to say it to someone and then hear it said back to them—like the world remembered them again. The old guy was Kurt, the younger guy was Darren.
When we got back to the office, there were six police cruisers in the lot, cherries flaring. Uh-oh. And vans. And a K9 unit.
(8) Temp Stumbles upon a Shootout
“Get back!” A policeman standing in front of the yellow-taped-off parking lot barked at us to move. We saw police snipers on the roof.
Sarah Number Three was close by, and we asked what was happening.
“Kevin Taylor is bunkered inside the remains of the warehouse.”
“And?”
“He says he’s going to kill himself.”
“Oh god. Any hostages?”
“They don’t think so.”
Talk about drama. Just then, the Shoeman and his father, Xu Senior, pulled up across the street and came over. We filled them in. Xu Senior went in pursuit of more info while, as per our agreement, Shoeman pretended to speak English as though he’d been taught at the People’s Glorious Education Facility No. 43,607: “This episode with gun create many unglorious feng shui problems. May jeopardize once benevolent deal to buy company.”
The Sarahs both saw their buyout stake evaporating, panicked and went to hunt for Mel from Payroll.
Shoeman reached into a Whole Foods paper bag for a snack. Once the Sarahs were out of earshot, I asked him what he was eating.
“Two hundred bucks’ worth of raw unfarmed British Columbia salmon. Nothing like it for marathon training. Want some?”
“Ick, no thanks. Would a shooting really kill the sale of the company?”
“My dad’s totally old school. He can’t buy a building someone’s died in. I couldn’t care less, but I think we have to fly back to China tonight and discuss this with the family.”
“Really?”
“Yup. Which also upsets my training schedule, because yesterday I found this perfect running track nearby—an elementary school they closed because of tax cuts. The soft, unmown grass is perfect for my feet.”
I grew worried. “What about…what about our secret plan?”
He winked at me. “One day at a time, Shannon. By the way, I was a guest at a poker night and I found out what they make at the defence contractor next door.”
“What?”
“In-dash beverage caddies for drones.”
“My sister would love that—hey, wait—drones are unmanned!”
“Gotcha.”
Then shots rang out. Holy crap! We ran and ducked behind a pickup. It was like in the movies: guys in black running across the roof, with more guys closing in from all sides. I was really frightened that Kevin would get killed. He’s a nice guy, but life simply hasn’t been too kind to him lately.
There was some silence and then we heard squeaking wheels, like a child’s toy wagon. A moving dolly rolled out of the open double-wide doors of the warehouse. Duct-taped on top of it was a poorly made effigy of Kevin from the waist up. It was holding a broomstick as a rifle and was shot through with bullets.
“Uh-oh.”
(9) Temp Ineligible for Trauma Disability Pay
“Good afternoon. Taylor, Wagner & Kimura Filter Systems, a proud, patriotic company since 1899. I’m sorry, Mr. Taylor isn’t here right now. Is there a message?”
You’d think, after a great big glamorous shootout, we’d all get the day off, but no. I, the disposable temp, was forced to man the front desk while everyone else went home to Google grief counsellors so that they could file PTSD disability claims. Still, it was an hour before the bomb sweep was finished and we got the okay to go in.
The Danimal returned me to desk duty with brazen emotional manipulation. “Sorry, Shannon. You have to be the strong one here today.” This meant brushing off press inquiries and telling freaked-out loved ones that everything was okay, which actually gets
dull very quickly. The calls died down by four o’clock, so I went online to look at Shoeman’s specialty website, Undeadbutnotunmown.com—nothing but screen snaps of well-mown lawns in the backgrounds of zombie apocalypse movies. He is so deep.
At a quarter after four the door opened and I looked up. It was Kyle, dressed head to toe in oil refinery gear. “Guess where I just got hired!”
“Kyle, you look like a Village Person. And thanks for being relieved I’m alive.”
“Of course I care. The shootout—it’s all over the radio. What happened?”
“Kevin went nuts and holed up in the warehouse, threatening to shoot himself. You know why.”
“What then?”
“Then there were maybe fifty shots fired and everyone thought he was dead, but then he wheeled this creepy scarecrow effigy out the doors—and walked out with his hands on top of his head.”
“Did they arrest him?”
“I don’t know. Is threatening to kill yourself a crime?”
“I wonder. And what would a guy like Kevin do in jail all day—shop for boats online?”
“Kevin is now officially declassified.”
“Declassified?”
“Declassified. Like me. No longer a part of the class spectrum, and with no hope of re-entering. Not poor, not middle-class, not blue-collar or white-collar. Blank-collar—spending the rest of his life shopping in jail.”
This was when Sarah Number One, who’d been gone all day, magically appeared at the front door, wearing slutty heels and a push-up bra. “Hello, Shannon. Oh, hello, Kyle.”
“Umm…” Kyle was stun-gunned by Sarah Number One’s getup.
I mouthed the words cradle robber to Sarah.
She winked at me. “Kyle, can you help me with my car? It won’t start.”
Shameless. Just shameless. They left for the parking lot.
(10) Temp Enjoys Cocktails with the Danimal
It was after five and I was getting ready to call a cab when a flower delivery arrived—a jumbo tropical parade float that brought rum drinks to mind. The Danimal passed through as I was opening the envelope. “Who’s that for?” he asked.
I opened it and we both read it at once: “To most beautiful temp for glorious Mcfunburry dinner. return from china very soonly.”
I wasn’t sure how to play this.
“Shannon, is there something I should know?”
“Huh?” God, not the mating panda thing again. “No!”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
“I saw you and Xu Junior yakking it up in the parking lot. Don’t think I believe the fortune-cookie English thing for a minute.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh.”
I tried casually to put on my jacket. Danimal said, “Come for drinks with me. It’s not a pickup. Yes, my wife’s in Florida, getting her lips done, but you know that. I just don’t want to go home yet, not after today.”
“Where’s Andy Kimura?”
“I don’t care where he is. We hate each other. It’s one of the reasons we’re selling.”
A mother lode of potential office gossip was too big to ignore. “Okay, but I don’t go with married guys. Period.”
“It’s not about that. Let’s hit that bar beside McFunbury’s.”
“The Executive Privilege Short-Term Corporate Lodging Good-Time Experience?”
“That’s the place. The Priv. We have a deal with them.”
Drinks at the Priv started badly. Danimal guzzled a double Scotch and I got stupid on a rum punch. He got philosophical about cars, the way guys do. “Kevin’s Shelby depressed the crap out of me. I looked at it and all I thought about was how it’s too late to fix whatever bit of the economy is left after having shipped it all to China. Think of Michigan: ten million primates needing 2,500 calories a day, sitting on a cold rock in the middle of the North American continent, with nothing to do all day. A recipe for disaster. Bartender!”
More drinks. More philosophy. “Shannon, Detroit is our existential bogeyman. Detroit forces us to ponder the meaning of being alive: we wake up, we do something, we go to sleep, we repeat it about 22,000 more times, and then we die.”
I looked across the bar. Sarah and Kyle were coming in and they’d obviously just been…frisky with each other.
Danimal was being maudlin. “I don’t care if you’re spying on TWK for the Chinese. I just want the old system back.”
Dan and Sarah locked eyes. So did Kyle and I.
“Sarah?” said Danimal. “This place is our place. You brought someone else here?”
“What about you, Romeo?”
Kyle looked at me. “Shannon?”
“It’s not what you th—” I turned to Danimal. “Spying for the Chinese? Are you nuts?”
Caramba, what a mess.
(11) Temp Enters a Universe of Pain
It was a Quentin Tarantino standoff, where everyone holds a gun on everyone else, except there weren’t guns, just words and emotions.
The Danimal looked at Kyle and then at Sarah and hissed, “You cradle robber.”
Sarah shot back, “What about you, Dan?” (Referring to moi.)
“I’m here with Shannon only to talk business.”
“Yeah, right, cowboy.”
Danimal got up and that’s when Kyle slugged him in the gut—well, more like where your gut touches your rib cage. It sounded like a kettledrum, and Danimal fell to the floor, shouting astonishingly unprintable things at Kyle and Sarah, who up and left.
“What is wrong with that kid?” shouted Dan. “Oh my god, the pain!”
“Thanks for accusing me of spying,” I said.
He coughed. “Shannon, take me to Emergency. I think I’m going to die.”
I helped him to his BMW, where he curled into a ball in the passenger seat while I drove.
I said, “I really shouldn’t be doing this. You’re mean.”
“Just take me to Crown Permanente.”
“Oh, going to the rich people’s hospital, are we?”
“Please just drive.”
We arrived and Danimal hobbled out of the seat and into Emerg, an oasis of calm with tastefully matched fabrics and gentle lighting. There was a copy of Modern Symphony magazine on the walnut-inlaid coffee table. We went to the desk, where a supermodel was moonlighting as a nurse on duty.
Dan groaned, “I need an X-ray. Quick.”
“Of course, sir. I’ll need to take an imprint of a credit card. We accept all major cards.”
Danimal looked in his pockets. “Oh jeez, it’s in the pocket of the jacket that went out for dry-cleaning today. Just let me in. I’ll bring it tomorrow. I’m totally insured.”
I could see that our supermodel had been through this many a time.
“I’m sorry, sir, but without an imprint of a valid card with the appropriate credit limit, I’m afraid there’s nothing further we can do.”
“I—” He was speechless.
“Welcome to my world,” I said. “Get back in the car. I’ll take you to Saint Eustace.”
“That’s in the worst part of town.”
“And your point?”
So we drove off to Saint Eustace. “It’s just a slug in the gut, Dan. How bad can it be?”
“He broke something. Or damaged my heart. I can tell. Oh my god, the pain!”
We pulled up to Saint Eustace, which resembled the battle-ravaged Vietnamese village remains in part three of Full Metal Jacket. A conga line of sick and wounded people stretched out the front door and into the street. One quick wardrobe change and you’d have Les Misérables.
“I can’t go in there,” Danimal said.
“It’s either that or nothing. Want me to take you home?”
“No!”
“Okay, then join the line.”
(12) Temp Witnesses the Class Divide
Had there not been stab wounds and vomit everywhere, the hospital lineup could have been fun in a tailgate-party kind of w
ay. Our surprise neighbour was Darren, the vet I’d given twenty bucks to after lunch. He was holding a T-shirt to a wound on his forearm.
“What happened?”
“I got into a fight with a raccoon over half a bucket of KFC I found beside the check-cashing mart.”
“Who won?”
“He did.”
“Here, have a stick of gum.” I am nothing if not fresh.
Danimal was being a downer. “How hard can it be to get some painkillers?”
“Dan, there are many people here in far worse shape than you. Just wait your turn.”
Darren advised, “If you’re looking to score painkillers, man, don’t overplay it.”
“But I’m in genuine pain.”
“Sure, sure. Half the people in this lineup are here just to score some oxy, but if you overdo it, they’ll tell you to scram.”
Dan is practical. “What do I need to know?”
“Tell them your pain is about eight on a scale of one to ten. It hurts but you’ve felt worse. And don’t scream or make moaning sounds. It irritates them, and they’re relieved when they don’t have to watch someone aiming for an Oscar.”
“Good to know.”
“And now we stand and wait.”
And wait we did. About two hours in, Dan asked, “Shannon, have you been here before?”
“No. But I did break my arm Rollerblading in Boston four years ago—go, Red Sox! Cost me nineteen thousand dollars and I’ll be in debt until I’m forty. It’s why I can’t do what I really want to in life. But I do have a Saint Eustace loyalty card you can borrow if you want.”
“Was the emergency area as crowded as this four years ago?”
“Worse. There was a full moon that night.”
Finally, it was our turn. Once we hit the front, Dan took a step and something inside him went sideways—he bellowed like a pirate, scaring even me.
“Sir!” said the intake nurse. “This is a hospital. I’ll politely ask you to lower your voice.”
“My stomach—God, it’s like a tractor’s driving over it.”
“You’re in a great deal of pain, are you?”
“Yes. Some idiot slugged me in the sternum.”
“Where did this happen?”
“In a bar.”
Bit Rot Page 28
