It didn’t take a genius to see Dan was making a bad impression.
“How would you describe your pain, sir?”
“About eight on a scale of one to ten.”
The nurse buzzed a security guard. “You’re the tenth person tonight to describe your pain that exact same way. I’m afraid I can’t help you in your quest for pills, sir. Next!”
Out on the street Darren commiserated. “Sorry, dude. Take two of mine.”
Dan grabbed them and chewed them like Mentos. Then he collapsed.
(13) Temp Does Ambulance Duty
I asked Darren to put Dan into the BMW’s back seat. “If we drive him back to Crown and dump him by the door, they’ll be forced to take pity on him.”
Darren rifled through the glove compartment. “Look! A BlackBerry Z10!” The BlackBerry then promptly rang (ringtone: “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas). “Hello?”
A woman squawked on the other end. I grabbed the phone. “Hello, who’s this?”
“It’s Chantelle, Dan’s wife. Who’s this?”
“I’m Shannon. I’m a temp at Dan’s office. He had an accident and we’re trying to take him to a hospital, but he doesn’t have his credit cards, so nobody wants him.”
“Come to our house and pick me up.”
“Aren’t you in Florida?”
“I found a card with a pile of unused frequent flyer miles, so I returned early.”
Chantelle was on the curb. Her lips were swollen like Donald Duck’s beak, and it was hard to not stare.
“I know I look strange but I never expected to get old, and then one day it happened and, as you can see, I’m not handling it well. I know I look ridiculous.”
On cue both Darren and I chimed, “No, you look great!”
Darren added, “I’m sure your lips will look terrific once they deflate, Chantelle.”
Chantelle was unruffled by the sight of Dan in the back and me at the wheel and Darren in the passenger seat, looking and smelling very streety. She climbed into the back seat and removed a fifth of vodka from her purse. “Any takers?”
Darren eagerly accepted, and we soon arrived at Crown Permanente. “You two lug him in,” she said. “I’ll handle the staff.”
“You’ve got your credit cards, then?”
“Cards, schmards. A well-dressed, well-nourished white woman with obvious cosmetic surgery is welcome in any hospital on the planet.”
Dang if she wasn’t right. The supermodel nurse beamed at her while another fetched her a cappuccino and asked which satellite music station she preferred. We dropped Danimal’s carcass inside the door and two hot guys who looked like Qantas flight attendants whisked him away. It couldn’t have been more pleasant.
“You two wait in the car. I’ll be out in a sec.”
Chantelle soon emerged and got into the back seat. “Shannon, take me home. Darren, you stay the night at my place. We can party and maybe you can take a shower later. Dan’s clothes will fit you. Shannon, you keep the car for a few days.”
“Seriously?”
“I may be aging gracelessly, but I’m no idiot like Kevin’s wife. Just promise me you won’t set fire to it.”
“It’s a promise.”
I feel like a bad person, but I was so excited to have a Beemer for a few days that I forgot to ask what was wrong with Dan.
(14) Temp Makes Lemonade from Lemons
Okay, the nice thing about being a temp is that if you screw up, you leave, but you were going to leave anyway, so it’s no big deal. I suppose this is true for anybody with a job, but for temps it’s just more out in the open.
After almost no sleep I arrived at work only to find gossip and fear-mongering. The worst gossip was that Danimal was in a coma, when in fact he was in a twenty-thousand-dollar-a-day hotel with a slightly collapsed left lung and an unhelpful feeling-sorry-for-himself attitude.
Sarah Number One walked up to my desk and said, “I guess we were all behaving badly yesterday.”
“I was doing no such thing! I was there just to listen to Dan vent about the warehouse fire! You’re the one who got a room.”
Sarah winked at me. “Have it your way. Here’s a pile of files that need alphabetizing.”
Ugh. I decided my day desperately needed some cheer, so I phoned my sister’s friend who breeds golden Labs. We had a quick chat, and just before lunchtime, she arrived with two blue plastic storage tubs filled with puppies. I ushered her into the admin area. In a loud, crisp voice, I shouted, “Oh no! There’s been an explosion!”
Everyone looked stunned…
“That’s right: an explosion of cute! Hilda, release the hounds!”
Ahhh, the puppy bomb—is there any greater experience in life? Eighteen chubby bundles of YouTubeable romping joy demanding nothing except unconditional love—and snacks. Everybody got down on the floor, and it took only a minute for people to learn that the person with the most food is the one who gets the most puppies, so in came the lunch bags. I was proud to have brought even the smallest dab of joy to the otherwise dreary lives of the soon-to-be-fired full-time staff. Yes, I was proud of myself for firmly turning the day around.
The icing on the cake? Outside the building there was a zombie walk, with about two hundred kids dressed in their finest living dead, headed to a political protest starting outside AmQex next door.
And that’s when two things happened: a massive bus, like Bon Jovi on tour, pulled into the parking lot and fifty Chinese people emerged, holding measuring tapes, string and clipboards. Then, half a minute later, about twenty cops arrived to shut down the AmQex protest.
“They make engine parts for drones,” whispered Sarah.
The Chinese delegation’s leader said, “I am most curious to see how protesters are handled in your country.”
(15) Temp Recalls the Zombie Walk
I think the AmQex protest got so much press because the zombies that the cops handcuffed and dragged away left behind a wicked trail of slime and body parts.
Andy Kimura was looking at YouTube over my shoulder and said, “Bodily remains really look great online.” Andy was still woozy from jet lag after being quarantined for bird flu at the Beijing airport.
“Mr. Kimura, shouldn’t you be showing the Chinese folks around while they measure stuff?”
“Not me. I’m Japanese.”
“Genetically, maybe.”
“But my name certainly is, and the Chinese aren’t so hot on Japan.”
I said, “Hey, check this out—Sarah from Marketing got fifteen seconds with the Channel Three roving reporter.” To be honest, I’ve no idea what Sarah said. All I remember is her trademarked casual hair flip as she smiled, while behind her lay a left leg covered in red corn syrup and vinyl blackflies.
“Poor Sarah,” said Andy. “Today’s her last day.”
Oh God. “Seriously?”
“That’s life, Shannon. As we speak, our new Chinese owners are measuring the staff lunchroom with a laser level. We are not a company that is in need of a head of Marketing.”
“Oh, Sarah, I barely knew ye. Does she know it yet?”
“After lunch.”
“Life sucks.”
It was weird to have every single surface of the building measured by quiet, methodical people speaking a mystery language. What made it especially odd was how they didn’t really seem to notice or interact with the people in the building. It was like they were taking measurements inside a photograph, not a real building. Two guys in the meeting room were assembling a 3D model of the building, using data brought in by the measurers.
I found myself missing Mr. Shoeman terribly. I decided to phone him in Beijing—seeing country code 86 on my desktop phone put me in a better mood. I hoped he hadn’t forgotten our plans for the future.
“Hello, Mr. Xu?”
“Hi, hello, yes, whatever—whoever this is, I’m getting a reflexology treatment right now and need to focus my qi energy.”
“Mr. Shoeman, it’s me, Shannon.”
>
“Ah. Sweetest lily of decadent Western imperialism.”
“Shoeman, I miss you. When are you coming back?”
“Me so sorry—not understand.”
I giggled. “You’re still such a dick.”
“Hang in there, sweetheart.”
“What about our secret plan?”
“Our secret plan goes into operation within a few days.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.” I hung up the phone and turned around to find Andy Kimura and the two remaining Sarahs. “Secret plan?” said Andy. “So Dan wasn’t just being paranoid.”
“Imagine that,” said Sarah Number One with as much righteousness as she could muster. “A traitor right here within.”
Andy said, “I think you’d better leave, Shannon.”
(16) Temp Gets Fired
Here’s the thing: I’ve been fired before and couldn’t have cared less, but getting fired from TWK stung.
“You let yourself get attached, Shanny,” said my sister, Amy. “The number one law of temping: never bond.” She was helping me self-medicate with grape Popsicles and a Kate Winslet marathon. I was in pyjamas at four in the afternoon and my life had devolved into the third panel of a Cathy cartoon, where she stares into the void and emotionally implodes. “The only reason anyone hires anyone is to help them make money. The moment you can’t do that, they’ll chew your face off and toss the remains into a Dumpster.”
“That’s not true. I liked it at TWK.”
“Have you tried calling Mr. Shoeman?”
“He’s on an energy retreat in the countryside.”
“China has a countryside?”
“You’re right. He’s probably at World Extreme Cagefighting.”
“What about Kyle?”
“He showed up to take Sarah to lunch just as I was leaving. I couldn’t talk to him. God only knows what Sarah told him about me.”
“Shannon, how do you think Kate Winslet manages to always lose weight?” Amy’s attention span is limited. Discussion of my temping was over.
The doorbell rang. I live in a basement suite and it’s not the easiest place to find, so for someone to locate me takes work. I opened the door. It was Sarah Number One, so I closed the door, but she started banging on it. “Let me in! Shannon, I was horrible! I deserve this! Let me explain!”
I opened the door. “Explain what?”
“I just got fired.”
“So what? I’m waiting for whatever it is you’re going to explain.”
“Let me come in?”
“Oh God, all right. Shoes off. Would you like a grape Popsicle?”
She came into the TV area and I introduced her to Amy. “We’re having a Kate Winslet marathon.” Amy hit pause.
Sarah looked at the frozen frame. “How does that woman always manage to lose the weight for every role?”
“Excuse me, Sarah…my explanation?”
“There is no explanation. I came here because I couldn’t think of anyone else to visit. I have no friends. They all got married and this would just make them happy about their decision to do so.”
“So you came to me because I’m a failure and won’t judge you harshly?”
“To be honest, sort of. Yeah. You seem like your head’s screwed on right. I like the way you never took crap from anyone at TWK—and your random fact of the day was always funny. And yesterday I got to see the human side of you.”
“I’m deeply flattered.” The three of us sat there in silence, and then I figured it out. “Wait—you just want to know what my secret plan is so that you can get in on it.”
“Well, yeahhh!”
I paused a second. “Okay.”
(17) Temp Learns Some Secrets
After Sarah left, I tried watching more TV, but the thing about a Kate Winslet marathon is that after about 1.75 movies, your brain says, I can’t do this anymore! and forces you to get out of the beanbag chair and do something out in the real world. So I drove to the hospital to visit the Danimal. In the Beemer I felt like I’d barely squeaked through their visitor parking lot’s quality-control filter—thank God the car had been recently washed. Once inside the building, a tastefully clad male escort took me up to the third floor as though I were a guest on David Letterman.
Danimal was in bed, looking woeful. “Shannon!”
“Hi, Dan.”
“Thanks for saving my life.”
“I did no such thing. I just took you to the hospital. How is your ever-so-slightly collapsed left lung?”
I could tell Dan wanted to dramatize his condition but couldn’t. “Oh, you know.”
“I certainly do. I looked it up online. You’ll be 100 percent healed in one week. You should get out of this luxury hotel as soon as you can, too. It’ll bankrupt you.”
“Too late. I’m already bankrupt.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Why do you think we’re dumping the company? I’m going to enjoy this country club lifestyle as long as I can on the insurance company’s dollar.”
I saw the remains of lunch. “What’s the food like here?”
“Insane. Lunch was a wild mushroom risotto with shaved Parmesan. How’s your Chinese boyfriend and your evil plan?”
“Dan, I’m assuming it’s the painkillers making you stupid, but the fact of the matter is, yes, he and I do have a plan.”
“I knew it.”
I looked around the gorgeous room (a Warhol print of an eagle was on the south wall) and waited for him to say something.
“Well, what is it? What’s your plan?”
“I knew you’d ask. I knew you’d crumble.”
So I told the Danimal the plan, and after that I drove over to his place to check up on Chantelle. I rang the doorbell (also “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas—these people are thorough) and a much cleaner and studlier-looking Darren opened the door, in a housecoat, holding a vodka tonic. “Chantelle! It’s Florence Nightingale!”
“Ask her to come in.”
Dan’s house truly rocked—everything you’d expect from the gated-community lifestyle. The firepit alone was the size of my bedroom.
“Hi, sweetie, have a drink. Darren, make our guest a greyhound. There’s fresh grapefruit juice in the fridge.”
“Will do.”
“So,” asked Chantelle, “how’s Dan?”
“He’s looking good. Have you gone to see him yet?”
“Maybe tonight. I have to, um, pull myself together.”
I said, “I’ll drive you.”
“That’s sweet, but I’ll cab it. How are you doing?”
“I got fired this morning.”
“Really? Well, sit right down next to me and tell Chantelle everything.”
(18) Temp Empathizes with Ducklings
I stayed for a while at Chantelle’s but declined her vodka, as I still had to drive—to the oil refinery to meet with Kyle, who had answered a meet-for-coffee text with: “blue gate, refinery north road, 7:45 look for billboard with photo of happy mallard duck family.”
Indeed, I found the duck family portrait with the banner caption about always putting the environment first. It stood in front of a crude oil fracking facility, straight out of a sci-fi film in which mutants on a slave planet convert poor people into snacks for the master species.
“Isn’t this place great?” asked Kyle, coming in from the parking lot and wearing his still brand-new journeyman’s outfit. “I start on the 8:00 night shift. I’m totally stoked.”
“Kyle, this place is freaky, and who knows what toxins there are in there.”
“Shannon, for a guy with no degree, this is a good foot in the door. If I play my cards right, I can be a supervisor in a few years.”
My heart felt like one of those little ducklings—one onto which a massive Acme cartoon anvil had fallen from a mile up. “Where’s Mr. Burns’s office?”
“Admin’s about a mile thataway. Why are you so bummed out? I’ve got a real grown-up job. You should
be happy for me.”
I was silent.
“And look, I can maybe go work in Libya or Abu Dhabi and make crazy money. That’s where the action is. Six months in the Emirates—business-class ticket each way—live in a walled compound with satellite TV and well-stocked fridges—the sky’s the limit.”
I sighed.
“You’re always looking for fun facts. Did you know that one barrel of oil—forty-two gallons—yields forty-four gallons of petroleum products?”
“I didn’t.”
“It’s because when crude oil is converted, it increases in volume. Roughly half of each barrel of crude oil is turned into gasoline for transportation.”
When had Kyle drunk the New Kyle Kool-Aid? I never saw this coming.
He asked, “Shannon, why did you want to see me, anyway? Trying to get me involved in your evil plot with the Chinese?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“I don’t think I’m the espionage type.”
“It’s not espionage.”
“Look, now’s not the time for this. I’m going to be late on my first day if I don’t get in right now.” He started edging backwards toward the entryway. “Besides, this is where I’m at in my life right now. I’m an oil guy.”
“Promise me you’ll call if you change your mind?”
“Gotta go, Shannon. Bye.”
I waved goodbye and got back into Danimal’s BMW. I turned on the radio. “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas was playing, and I promptly began bawling.
(19) Temp Hits an All-time Low
Do you have a special place you go to when you’re at an all-time low? Some people have a place, but me, I just drive and drive, past the strip malls, past the light industrial zones and past the fallow fields. After watching Kyle enter the refinery, I began thinking about the world and how it’s changed, even in my short life. Countries like Greece, which used to be normal countries, now gutted of their middle class and turned overnight into something new and nameless, a land with no economy but with pretty good coffee and smoking-hot Wi-Fi. I got to thinking about bubbles—how all we do these days is lurch from bubble to bubble. Are we in a new bubble? Is the bubble about to burst? I’m afraid of bubbles and I’m sick of bubbles—and yet I’m addicted to bubbles. Go figure.
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