by Brian Olsen
“That son of a bitch,” she said, no longer listening. “He’s buying all my employees! He can’t be offering each of them five thousand, that’s insane, he’d have to liquidate his whole company.”
“Well,” Alan said hesitantly, “he’s also removed any productivity targets, so you can play at your own pace and you don’t get any penalties if you go a few days without logging in.”
“But...but...” Dakota sputtered. “Without productivity targets how does he motivate his employees to do their best?”
“I can’t believe I, of all people, am saying this to you, Dakota, but it’s only a game. People get bored with it after a while, they want to be able to leave it for a day or a week or a month and come back without finding out you fired them for not meeting some imaginary quota.”
“Why wouldn’t I fire someone for not showing up?” she said. “That’s how the world works!”
“Games aren’t the world!”
Caitlin appeared at the bottom of the stairs, wearing baggy green sweatpants and a faded t-shirt from a college production of Godspell she had been in. Her blonde hair was frizzy and mussed, and her alabaster skin was somehow even paler than normal.
“Are you guys going to be fighting long?” she asked. “It’s interfering with my puking time.”
She stumbled into the kitchen and disappeared from their view as she ducked behind the breakfast bar that separated the two rooms. She popped up again, cooking spray in hand. “I’m going to fry something. Anybody hungry?”
“Jesus, no,” Alan said.
“I’m good,” Dakota added.
“What are you guys fighting about?”
“Nothing,” Dakota responded. “We’re not fighting. I’m being dumb about a game.”
“That game you were showing me last night?” Caitlin said to Alan. “I don’t get it. Why would you want to pretend to do the exact same thing you do every day in real life?”
“Didn’t you do a show where you played a twenty-something aspiring actor slash bartender from Rhode Island?” Dakota asked.
“I don’t think that’s the same thing, but thank you for changing the subject to me. I didn’t tell you guys about my audition yesterday.”
As Caitlin spoke, she pulled out every pot and pan in the apartment and began concocting a disturbing breakfast. The runny eggs and burnt toast were tolerable, but Dakota didn’t think she would be able to handle the fried bologna.
“Can you tell me later?” Dakota asked. “I think I need to lie down.”
“No, no, wait!” Caitlin called as she took the battery out of the smoke detector. “I auditioned for your company!”
“Amalgamated Synergy is producing an all-white Raisin in the Sun?”
“No, not that. Ugh, that audition went awful, I was all discombobulated after the weirdness. No, it was the other audition, the one I wasn’t going to go to. Turns out it was in the same building.”
“What was it for?” Dakota asked.
“They didn’t say. A commercial, maybe? They recorded me reciting the International Phonetic Alphabet and then sent me on my way.” She opened the door onto the deck overlooking the backyard and tried to fan away some of the bologna smoke. “The whole thing was bizarre. I didn’t want to bring up your job last night, but I was hoping you might know what it was all about.”
“No, sorry,” Dakota responded. “AmSyn is huge, could be anything. And since it involves actual work getting done, it’s clearly not my department. Was there anyone from an ad agency there?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Caitlin answered. “I think they were both with Amal...Alga...whatever it is.”
“You know what I just realized?” Alan said suddenly. “Besides the fact that your breakfast is fucking disgusting?”
“What?” Caitlin asked as she began plating her culinary monstrosity.
“We’ve all had weird run-ins with Dakota’s company in the last two days. Your audition, Dakota’s boss’ boss hitting on Mark, and I just got requested for a temp job there.”
“Someone hitting on Mark isn’t weird,” Caitlin countered as she settled at the table next to Dakota. “Someone not hitting on Mark would be weird.”
“Okay, but it’s still a pretty big coincidence that she works for Amalgamated Synergy.”
Dakota considered. It really did seem like an unlikely coincidence, all three of them being sought out, in one way or another, by AmSyn just at the time that Dakota started getting in trouble there. But no, she thought. Maybe Alan’s temp assignment could be connected somehow, but Caitlin got called in for her audition before Dakota met with Richard, and Mark got hit on at right around the same time. Besides, she didn’t think she could quite buy a vast conspiracy headed by a woman named Pickle.
“It’s nothing,” she said. “There’s no connection besides AmSyn, and like I said, AmSyn is huge. A big coincidence is still just a coincidence.” She turned to Caitlin, who was peering over her shoulder, staring at her laptop and breathing fried bologna in her ear. “What are you looking at?”
“Another coincidence. How do you know my friend Derek?”
“What?” Dakota looked at the screen, which was showing a list of Dakota’s Work It employees, those who hadn’t yet defected. “Who?”
“Him.” Caitlin pointed at one of the screen names. “DJWallToWall. It’s Derek’s email address.”
“Oh. I don’t know him. That’s just a list of people who work for me in the game, I don’t actually know any of them. I’ve never spoken to him.”
“Not related to Amalgamated Synergy, then,” Alan said. “Doesn’t count as another coincidence.”
“I guess,” Caitlin said. “Ooh! Speaking of Derek – Alan, do you want to come to a party at his place with me tomorrow night?”
“Uh...”
“Theater people. You always have a good time at theater people parties. Lots of slightly crazy, very fit gay boys.”
“Okay. I guess. I have that date with the testicle guy, but I can ask him if we can meet early. It’ll give me a good excuse to leave if he’s awful. Will I know anyone there?”
“Probably. Tamsin will be there.”
“Is she that girl who looks exactly like you?” Dakota asked, reaching for her glass.
“Yes,” Caitlin said. “Oh, and Derek! Duh. You know Derek, he was in that show you did publicity for. Remember Derek Wallace?”
Dakota almost choked on her water. She swallowed hard, then turned to Caitlin, her eyes wide. “Did you say Derek Wallace?”
Caitlin looked at her, confused. “Yes...”
Dakota spoke very slowly as she pieced things together. “Derek Wallace is a friend of yours? You’re going to his party tomorrow night? And he was my employee in Work It without me realizing it?”
“Yes, yes, and I guess so. Why? What’s the matter?”
“Derek Wallace is my assistant at Amalgamated Synergy.”
Alan and Caitlin became very quiet. “So...” Alan started, “he’s who I’m filling in for on Monday?”
“I assume so.”
“Okay,” Caitlin said. “I’m with you on the weirdness now. That is super creeptastic. Is someone at your company fucking with us?”
“I don’t know,” Dakota replied. “But we’re going to find out.”
Chapter Nine
Alan dating
The next night, Alan stood on the corner of Avenue A and East Third Street awaiting his date’s arrival. The intersection was bustling and he kept having to step back and forth to avoid the eclectic East Village crowd. Everybody but him seemed to be on their way somewhere – the beautiful straight couple looking for a trendy restaurant with no name on the door, the tough-looking gay guys headed towards a neon-lit dive bar, the homeless skateboarding teen buying a forty at the nearby bodega.
The prospect of a real, grown-up date had filled him with greater and greater anxiety as Friday night had drawn closer. He had spent the bulk of the afternoon trying to figure out what to wear, feeling more and more
like a teenage girl the longer it took him. He wanted to look hot and appropriate for his date, but whatever he chose had to work for the party he was going to with Caitlin after, where he wanted to look hot and inappropriate. His roommates were no help at all with choosing an outfit – Mark suggested a tank top because that was what he wore on dates, Dakota was busy obsessing over what she was going to say to the Pickle woman at her party, and Caitlin kept trying to convince him to wear jorts. In the end he had settled on his dress shoes, black jeans, a dark dress shirt and a solid blue tie. He looked like he had just come from a job interview.
It hadn’t helped that Pete hadn’t told him where they were going. He knew it was somewhere in the East Village and dinner was involved, but that was it. As he stood on the corner, sweating slightly in the humid June weather, he questioned the wisdom of agreeing to this date in the first place. Alan had almost decided to text Pete and cancel when he heard his name.
“Alan?” came a voice from behind. Alan spun around.
“Hey!” Pete continued, a broad smile on his face. “You look just like your picture!”
“So do you!” Alan said, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
“Oh, right,” Pete laughed. “So...hello!”
“Hi,” Alan responded, and realized Pete was leaning in for a hug. Alan opened his arms up and leaned in as well, then saw that Pete was actually extending one hand for a handshake and a bro hug. It was too late for Alan to change course completely, so he ended up crushing Pete’s hand against his stomach as their torsos met. He managed to stop his arms from going around Pete’s back and instead patted him on both shoulders. He broke the non-embrace and stepped back, trying to pretend like he greeted everyone he met with a chest-bump and a firm shoulder-clasp.
“That was interesting,” Pete said, his smile never faltering.
Alan looked at his date. He could see why Mark had trouble pinning down his age – Pete was definitely older than them, but Alan couldn’t quite tell how much older. He admitted to himself that, age difference aside, Pete was exactly his type – Alan liked muscles, and Pete had them going spare. He was a couple of inches shorter than Alan, and Alan wasn’t exactly a giant at five foot nine. Fireplug was a word Alan might use to describe Pete. Barrel-chested was another. Even his neck was muscular – Alan was tempted to point to something across the street just to see if Pete could turn his head or if he’d have to pivot his entire body to look. He was handsome, too. Distinguished and manly, with short dark hair and chiseled features – Italian-American, Alan guessed. And all the smiling showed off his perfect, blindingly white teeth.
Pete had dressed quite a bit more casually than Alan had, wearing a button-down shirt over shorts and sandals. Alan felt overdressed, which, added to his disastrous semi-hug, his nervousness about dating in general, and his growing physical attraction to this guy, made his anxiety level skyrocket. He hoped he didn’t have visible pit stains.
“So,” he said, reaching for something to say, “it’s great to meet you in person.”
“Yeah!” Pete said with enthusiasm. “You too! You seemed really funny on the phone, I’m glad this worked out. Are you hungry?”
“Starved,” Alan replied. “I skipped lunch.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t skip a meal,” Pete said. “Let’s get some food in you. This way, it’s down on Third.” Pete took off at a brisk pace down the street, and Alan hurried to catch up with him. “I hope you like where we’re going, it’s kind of a quirky place. A friend of mine is working tonight and I said I’d come see him. I was going to do that first and then meet you after, but then you texted me that you wanted to meet earlier so I thought I’d kill two birds. I hope that’s okay.”
“Tweet tweet.”
Pete stopped. “What?”
“Uh...” Alan wished in vain for the sidewalk to swallow him whole. “I was...tweeting. Like a bird. You said kill two birds, so I...”
“Oh! Hah. Sure, birds, tweet, that’s good.”
Alan burned red with embarrassment. “I’m not even sure there’s an actual joke there. Sorry. I say stupid things when I’m nervous.”
“Don’t apologize. It was cute.”
He continued on down the block, and this time Alan had to run to catch up. Pete moved fast considering how short his legs were. Just as Alan caught up, Pete stopped short, and Alan narrowly missed running into his back.
“Here we are!” Pete announced. “Have you ever been here before?”
Alan had not, but he had heard of it. They were standing in front of Tuck In, a drag queen-themed restaurant. The waitresses were all in drag, and they performed while the customers ate.
Dinner theater, Alan thought. He’s taking me to drag queen dinner theater.
“No,” he said finally. “I’ve never been, but I’ve been curious to try it out.”
“Now’s your chance! After you.” Pete held the door open, and Alan stepped inside.
The restaurant was dimly lit, like a bar, and had a medium-sized raised stage at the far end. In most other aspects it was decked out like a typical New York City diner, albeit one with an eclectically kitschy decor. The walls were painted a deep red, splattered with silver glitter and covered with framed pictures of stills from old television shows. It was early for a New York dinner crowd, but the place was packed with what looked to Alan like an odd mix of Williamsburg hipsters, old school East Village eccentrics, and slumming wealthy Upper East Siders.
The hostess, an elegant queen dressed somewhat like Glinda the Good Witch, greeted them as they entered. Pete asked for a table with a good view of the stage and she led them to a table in the back. The table was découpaged in Golden Girls publicity photos. The hostess left them menus and flounced back to her station.
“Awesome!” Pete remarked as they sat. “I loved The Golden Girls. Did you watch that show when you were a kid?”
“No, not really,” Alan said, avoiding mentioning that he wasn’t yet born when the show premiered. “I caught it in reruns on cable when I was in college, though.”
“Hysterical. Hysterical,” Pete replied. “I watched it with my Mom religiously, I don’t know how she didn’t figure out the gay thing.”
“Hello, my children!” A brunette queen decked out in fifties housewife realness bounced up to their table. She smoothed out her apron as she spoke. “Welcome to Tuck In! My name is Betty Cocker and I’ll be your server this evening. Can I start you off with a cocktail?”
“I’ll have a vodka tonic,” Alan replied.
Pete hesitated. “I guess I’ll have the same.”
“All right! You boys are getting the evening off to a good start. The show’s going to begin in a few minutes, I want to be sure to get your orders in before it does, so you take a look at those menus and I’ll be right back with your drinks, okay? For our special tonight, like every night, we’re serving fish.” She winked at them, then swept off towards the bar.
“I guess we should look at our menus,” Alan said.
“I guess so,” Pete said, laughing. “We don’t want to disappoint Betty.”
The menu was made up of standard diner fare, for the most part, but with names matching the theme – the Breastplate of Chicken looked a little heavy to Alan, but the Tur-KiKi Sandwich looked good. Or maybe just a Sickeningly Tossed Salad, he thought, so he’d look like a healthy eater. He looked up at Pete, who was scanning his options with that same broad smile on his face. He looked like he was reading birthday cards.
“Any ideas?” Alan asked.
“Chicken-Drag Steak, I think. You?”
“Just a salad, probably.”
“Awesome! Salad’s awesome,” Pete said, smiling.
He seemed serious about how awesome he thought salad was, which Alan thought he should find ridiculous but instead found somewhat charming, in a dopey kind of way.
“So...” Pete continued.
Here it comes, Alan thought. The question he always dreaded, the one he could never avoid, the one which came his way
early every first date and inevitably led to there never being a second.
“...what do you do?” Pete finished.
That was it. That was a big reason why he preferred to meet guys at bars when both of them were already drunk – nobody asked about your career path at the sidewalk sale outside of Oomph at three forty-five in the morning.
“Oh, you know,” Alan stalled. He was about to launch into his usual bullshit spiel about searching for a satisfying career with a forward-thinking company which would allow him to utilize his creativity and maximize his personal growth, then stopped himself. He stared at the simple smiling face staring back at him and found that he didn’t want to bullshit. If he thinks me ordering salad is awesome, Alan thought, let’s see what he does with this.
“Nothing. Honestly, I don’t really do anything. I drift from job to job, but they’re all just ways to pay the bills and I don’t stay with any one of them for long. I have absolutely no idea what I want to do with my life, so until I figure it out I’m mostly spending my time hanging out, drinking with my friends, playing video games and generally enjoying myself as much as my meager bank account will let me.”
Pete’s smile got even broader, which Alan wouldn’t have thought possible. “That’s fantastic! You really know yourself. That’s so much more than most people can say.”
Alan was stunned. “But I don’t know myself! That’s my point! I’m twenty-six and I don’t have the vaguest idea how I want to spend the rest of my life. I don’t even know where to look!”
“Yes, but you know that you don’t know. How many people waste their lives chasing something they only think they want because they’re afraid they’ll be wasting their lives even more if they don’t chase anything at all? I spent years doing corporate tax law before I realized I wanted to be in a courtroom. I woke up one day and figured out I had spent five years doing something I hated because I thought it was what I was supposed to do. I wish I had spent those five years chilling out with friends and just going with the flow. I probably would have found myself sooner; I’d definitely have some better memories.” He paused. His smile didn’t drop completely, but it did slip a little. “Sorry, did you say twenty-six?”
