Temporarily Employed

by Vicki Batman

  No one would ever say I was a great cook. I didn’t like to. In desperation, I could follow a recipe with minimum, but edible, results. My best culinary skills extended to making tuna sandwiches, adding chocolate chips and pecans to a brownie box mix, and ordering pizza. After such a rotten day, I decided only one thing would cure everything—a soda and peanut M&Ms.

  Jenny, who wasn’t a good cook either, pulled out bags from our hidden stash and passed me one.

  Because today could be labeled a red letter, never-forget-me kind of day, I needed a double dose.

  Chapter Three

  At last. Another fun day had passed, and Thank God in Heaven, I was home. I took in cleansing breaths, exorcising the workday blues. A couple of days ago, I’d pressed forward with Plan B by calling my girlfriend, Trixie, at Jobs Inc. for a meeting.

  She’d tossed her shoulder-length, dark hair while flashing her round, blue eyes. A petite woman and conservative dresser, she had a calming influence and always a practical solution for her clients. “Someone with your experience will be an easy placement in a temporary position, however, probably not in your preferred field of retail.”

  Pivoting away to stare out her office window, I’d barely mumbled, “Darn.”

  I didn’t want to work temporary jobs. Sitting while typing in a stuffy office all day long sounded bo-ring. I wanted to be at market and writing orders for the latest and greatest merchandise. Or zipping around town in my fun car, visiting the stores.

  Temporary jobs seemed…ordinary.

  But I had no choice, especially when I’d balanced my checkbook yesterday and found the sum of $150.53. Anxiety to be gainfully employed, even if temporarily, had taken root inside me and bloomed to catastrophic proportions.

  I’d bitten my lip to hide my disappointment while half-listening to Trixie describe a position in the claims department of Buy Rite Automobile Insurance Company, where I’d be employed as a data-entry specialist and all-around gofer. My hiring would replace a long-time employee who had died quite unexpectedly several months prior.

  With a flick of her hand, she’d said, “Hattie, your skills are up to speed for this particular job. It entails entering data into the computer, copying, filing, answering phone calls, and other relevant office tasks.”

  She’d quizzed me on other areas of expertise, and suddenly, I possessed all kinds of new talents I didn’t know existed, such as processing outgoing mail or inventorying paper stock for the copier and printers.

  She must have seen the reluctance shaping my frown because she’d said, “Remember, Hattie. It isn’t forever. You can leave the position if it becomes unbearable.”

  I’d left Trixie, storing her life raft of advice forefront in my mind as I drove to the interview.

  ****

  Buy Rite’s offices were situated near the intersection of two major highways which bisected Sommerville. The building had been wrapped in a copper glass skin with a decorative limestone archway highlighting the façade. Stoneware planters filled with pink and purple petunias and white begonias were prettily positioned near the entrance. Live oak trees had been planted next to the building’s sidewalk, and larger ones had been scattered randomly amongst a few islands in the parking lot to provide needed shade.

  To say Buy Rite’s offices were on the cutting edge of interior design would be wrong. Two areas divided the space. The metal boxy furniture resembled what I called Early Dental, a style of primary-colored, vinyl and chrome furnishings popular in offices decades ago. The Berber carpet in oatmeal off-gassed a smell of formaldehyde, and—I sniffed—something like cat urine? Ick.

  The area to the right belonged to Opal Brown, Executive Assistant, soon-to-be my supervisor. The bigger office behind Opal’s belonged to Lester Johnson, B.R.A. Branch Owner. Off to the left, the section, which resembled a hefty closet without doors, housed the copier and filing cabinets. The desk in front of the filing space would belong to me.

  Trixie had said Lester and Opal requested a “little visit” before I began my short-term position—most likely, them checking me out for the weirdness factor. However, when seated across from Lester and adjacent to Opal, I wondered if I should be the one doing the checking.

  For the most part, Opal conducted the interview. While perusing my resume, she glanced over the top rim of her bifocals. “Hattie, I take it, is short for Harriette?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “I prefer whole names, not nicknames.”

  Well, goody for her. My mind raced over variations on her name—Op, Oppee, O-pull, or O-Pal. Perhaps, her odd mind-set aimed to intimidate me, but instead, put me off. Considering her attitude, and because I didn’t really fancy a temporary job and could care less about the interview’s outcome, I took a different stance from my normal shy one. “I prefer Hattie,” I answered with a firm tone. However, my shaky hands were clenched in my lap. If her intent was to not hire me because of my name, now would be the best time to know.

  “Humpf.”

  She made this funny addendum, sounding like punctuation, which I soon discovered she used frequently.

  “Tell us about your professional experiences.”

  “As you can see from my resume, which Trixie at Jobs Inc. provided”—I pointed to the papers Opal held—“Tuckers Department Store recruited me upon college graduation. I rose through the ranks, until recently.”

  “And?” she asked, lifting her black penciled brow.

  “I was laid off due to department reorganization in an economic downturn.”

  “Humpf.” She stuck her head back in my file. “I didn’t know a Bachelor of Science in Fashion Merchandising degree existed.”

  I mentally rolled my eyes. You and my mom. “I also took lots of business courses like Economics, Accounting—”

  “And why would you want to work for Buy Rite?”

  Her brusque manner sounded...rude. Why should I brown-nose them in order to get this position? “You need a temporary and I need a job.” Which was true. The sooner this freak show-slash-interview hit the road, the better. “I’m a fast learner and a hard worker. You won’t be disappointed. So, what’s the decision? Am I hired?”

  “Why, yes, Hattie.” Lester hadn’t said much during Opal’s grilling. He hoisted forward his large frame, spilling his enormous belly over the desk’s top. “This is just to get us acquainted with each other. Right, Opal?”

  He didn’t see her shoot me the wicked squint.

  “Yes, Lester.”

  “Do you have any questions?” Lester’s bratwurst-sized lips spread into a grin.

  “I’d like an idea of employee guidelines.”

  Opal handed me a piece of paper. “I just happen to have a copy.”

  Not a big shocker here. Obviously, she’d prepared for every scenario.

  BUY RITE

  AUTOMOBILE INSURANCE COMPANY

  Employee Guidelines

  Compiled by Opal Brown

  1) Be on time. Our working hours are from eight to five.

  2) No gossiping. Make personal phone calls only during lunch hour.

  3) Show initiative. Do your work and do it well.

  4) Dress professionally. No short skirts.

  5) Lunch is one hour. Other breaks as needed.

  6) Report to the Executive Assistant.

  (all rules strictly enforced)

  As I listened to Ms. Just-so-Perfect recite the guidelines aloud, I scrutinized the handout which documented Buy Rite’s rules to exactness. And hey, if she wanted to fire me over any of these rules, fine by me. If Trixie could place me here, she could elsewhere.

  “Any questions?” she asked.

  I would have to be as dumb as a doorknob not to understand. “No questions. Everything seems crystal clear—”

  “Yes, well, if that’s all, Opal...” Lester interrupted, “Hattie, welcome to the Buy Rite family.”

  I took his proffered paw and shook it, taking in his sweaty palm. Euew. Without him noticing, I slid my hand over my thigh to wipe
it dry. After a cursory glance around the office, I determined the place seemed clean and uncluttered. The salary didn’t turn me off, approximately the same earnings I’d made with the assistant buying job, but with normal working hours. My gaze cut to Opal whose glare bored into me. “Thanks. When shall I start?”

  He tilted forward, placing his hands on his desk. “How about tomorrow?”

  Opal crossed her arms and shifted back in her chair. “Humpf.”

  ****

  Once home, I made my way to the kitchen in search of something to squash the growing hunger pains gnawing my insides. As I mulled over my limited dinner choices, I heard the doorbell chime which struck me odd. I hadn’t spoken with anyone all day and didn’t expect drop-bys.

  At the door, my self-defense training automatically rolled into operation:

  Can of wasp spray by the door? Check

  Umbrella with pointy tip on peg rack? Check

  I opened the vintage door viewer and found Officer Whatshisname?, aka Detective Wellborn, aka Allan Charles Wellborn, standing on the threshold. Since when do policemen make house calls?

  Taking a longer peek—yep, I’d guessed right. I grinned. He was the same Allan Wellborn, Sarah Anne’s brother. The same Allan Wellborn who did no wrong. The same Allan Wellborn my mom yammered about with her “What a Nice Boy” talk.

  Rising to the tips of my toes for a better look, I noted how his jeans enhanced his long legs. A navy-and-white-striped Polo shirt showed off broad shoulders, and the same sunglasses continued to give off the mysterious and sexy impression. He appeared to be freshly laundered and shaved.

  Okay, the truth. Probably, I’d looked harder than I wanted to admit.

  After work, I’d changed into a floral-splattered sundress in shades of pink with ribbon straps of fuchsia and a matching belt. I glanced in the strategically hung mirror by the front door. Leaning closer to view possible imperfections, I ran a finger under the shoulder strap and did an adjustment. “Not bad.” I plumped the hair and did a quick finger spit wipe-up under the eyes and squinted again. “Better.”

  The doorbell sounded a second time.

  Having had no prior experience with a policeman at my front door, I hesitated, a slight paranoia overtaking my thoughts. Why is he here? What if he’s evolved into a stalker? Or a murderer? Or a rapist? I would have to use my good judgment, which for years now, Dad jokingly claimed I didn’t possess. Suspicious of his motives, I followed the self-defense training and carefully turned the knob. The hooked safety chain prevented the door from opening more than four inches.

  “Howdy!” I said with levity through the slit.

  A. Wellborn shifted around. “Hi! Do you remember I pulled you over the other day for a taillight out citation?”

  “Are you going to frisk…” a little wariness crept in my voice, “and arrest me after all?”

  “No frisking. No arrests.” He chuckled. “Sorry I didn’t call first. I’ve something to show you.”

  He sounded slightly official. However, the frisking and arresting talk made me nervous. Remembering the cops and robbers television programs, I wondered where his questioning was headed. “Is this legitimate police business? Are you sure you didn’t come here to cart me off to jail?”

  He shook his head. “Not official police business. No handcuffs. Trust me. I have something for you in my truck.”

  No frisking and no arrests were—so far, in my book—a good thing. Knowing he was Sarah Anne’s older brother, I found eliminating him from the stalker, murderer, and rapist categories easy. The something in the truck line sounded similar to approaches used in past dating experiences. For instance:

  “Want to come up and look at my etchings?”

  Translated: A roll in the hay.

  Or the ever popular “Would you like to meet Mr. Lizard?”

  Translated: Mr. Wiggly Worm.

  “How about coming to my place for a drink?”

  Translated: To ply me with multiple drinks and the requisite roll in the hay.

  I hadn’t fallen for those then and wouldn’t be a sucker now.

  He stuck his hands on his hips. “I know what you’re thinking. I’m not a stalker, murderer, or rapist.”

  Apparently, he could read minds. “Just a minute.” I closed the door enough to release the chain, then re-opened it. “Why can’t you just tell me whatever it is?”

  “No. I want to show you—”

  “Not a Picasso?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Not an iguana?”

  A perplexed expression crossed his face. “A what?”

  “Not your pet worm?”

  “What pet worm?”

  “Not—”

  “Look, I don’t know what you’re thinking. The only worms I know about are for fishing. I have something stashed in my truck. I think you’ll be surprised.”

  I drummed my fingers on the door frame. Oh, why not? He can’t be that scary. I slipped my feet into my favorite pink sandals, snatched my keys, and just in case, the can of wasp spray because in this day and age, a girl couldn’t be too careful. After locking my door behind me, I trailed A. Wellborn who strode with determination toward a Toyota 4-Runner painted granite.

  I paused briefly to admire his gleaming truck. What a cool ride.

  “Dammit.” He roared this frustration after reaching the rear of his vehicle.

  My curiosity instantly perked. With widened eyes, I peered around the truck’s fender. “What’s wrong? Where’s the surprise?”

  I sensed A. Wellborn’s glare from behind the sunglasses. His hand flung outwards in a hard, angry gesture toward the truck. “It’s gone.”

  “What is gone?” Clueless, I crept closer to the bed and took a small peek. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Pretty observant for a girl.”

  His words and tone sounded mean, upset, but I seemed to be the only person who didn’t know why. “What’s so all-fired important that’s causing you to have a tizzy fit?”

  “I wanted to help.” His head dropped in a hang-dog manner. He waved his hand toward the truck again. “Your taillights and your bumper are gone.”

  I peeked again and found he was right. Nothing. I considered in some strange, odd way his bestowing a girl with recovered car parts could be construed as romantic. But what seemed more remarkable was how did A. Wellborn get my taillights and bumper? Very interesting, indeed.

  I took a few steps backwards to regroup, my grip tightening on the spray can.

  His hand reached toward me. “Hey, it’s okay. Don’t go. I’ll explain. I felt crappy about pulling you over the other day.”

  My head cocked as I overlapped my arms. I leveled a questioning eye on him. “I don’t see any taillights and bumper. And why would you have my car parts? They were stolen, remember?”

  “I made a call to a friend, who has a friend, who called...uh, somebody—I didn’t ask—to locate a bumper from a Jeep Wrangler. And guess what?”

  I had no clue where this was headed. “What?”

  “He found it.”

  “That’s great!” I narrowed my brows. “But how did you know it was my missing bumper?”

  “When the part was described, I assumed it was yours from the sticker plastered on it. Didn’t you work at Amazing Adventureland during your senior year?”

  “Yeah...” All of the sudden, I truly had a major revelation. I stabbed my finger right at his chest. “Wait a minute. You did know it was me when you stopped me the other day. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I did.”

  “Nuh uh.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  He shrugged. “Remember? I said maybe you do.”

  Men! The great communicators. Heaven forbid he would use more than his manly two thousand daily word allotment.

  I tossed my head ever-so lightly. “Well, your remark confused me. I remembered you”—I pointed at him—“when I read your name on the citation.” I lifted my ch
in and threw back my shoulders. “And FYI, I put the sticker on my bumper ’cause it looked cool.”

  “I’m sure it did.”

  I had to admit possibly the bumper sticker had looked cool…when put on our cars in high school.

  To christen my new ride, Maggie had gifted me with a basket containing the sticker, a memento every Adventureland guest received upon parking, local and state maps, a cup of tissues for the cup holder, a clip-on visor mirror, and glass and leather wipes. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings by not using the sticker and stuck it on the bumper instantly.

  “Some people get rather upset when they’re acquainted with a cop who gives them a ticket,” he said. “I didn’t want to embarrass you anymore. You looked wiped out. You’d said you’d had a really bad day.”

  I nodded, recalling a red letter, never-forget-me kind of one, and how today had gone as well. The very same. “So, where are the taillights and bumper now?”

  “I don’t know.” A. Wellborn paced a parking space. Disgust oozed with each step. His fingers shot through his short dark hair.

  Instantly, I was entranced. What a sexy move—Sexy?

  “I had the tailgate down to haul the parts, which anyone could have seen while I drove around town. Someone stole the stuff while I was at your door.” He slapped the truck’s fender. He yanked off the sunglasses, revealing chocolate brown eyes. “Dammit. I knew better.”

  And when did he get such gorgeous eyes the color of my favorite food group and long eyelashes? Girls paid good money to acquire those, which reminded me I should buy the new, lash-lengthening mascara I saw advertised last night on a cable shopping show.

  “You need to call the police again,” he said with authority. “You did report the theft?”

  I was not liking where this whole exchange was going, the whole passing the responsibility thingy. I fisted my hands defiantly on hips. “You know I did, De-tec-tive. When you checked your voice mail, you would have heard the messages I left the very same day you ticketed me. And just so you’ll know, I called my insurance company, too. The adjuster said the check will soon be in the mail.”