Greetings from the Flipside (12 page)

“That's him. You got this?”

“I got this.”

Weirdly, I believe her. The girl seems in total control.

I'm about to give her some specific directions, some “what if” scenarios, but she is gone. I watch her walk straight into his office and plop down in his chair. I thought I'd have to strain to hear the conversation, but it turns out they are easily heard.

I glance around, pretty sure I'm safe since I'm near the dead-as-a-doornail Humor Department that doesn't seem to be frequented by anybody.

“Mister Heaven Sent,” she says, boldly and charmingly, reaching to shake his hand, “it's such an honor to meet you. Thank you for carving this block out of your hectic,
hectic
schedule.”

He's simultaneously reaching for his Blackberry, his desk calendar, his phone, trying to be cordial but he is thoroughly confused.

“Do we have an appointment?”

“It's not very often important company men, such as yourself, care about the opinions of my generation.”

He freezes, right as he's about to dial his assistant, I'm assuming. Awkward. Now he has to care or he looks like a jerk. She's kind of playing this like a genius. He slowly puts the phone down, trying to engage. It's making me laugh.

“And my opinion is, you'd be making a huge mistake if you didn't hire the woman who made this card.” She hands him the card across the desk. “She's talented
and
available.”

I roll my eyes. She didn't have to add that.

I watch as Jake reads it. He isn't smiling. Mikaela clears her throat. “Get it? Will you pick me—I can't say no because God said so.”

He's still not smiling. Mikaela acknowledges this by saying, “You're not smiling.”

“Who wrote this card?”

“Room Eleven.” Mikaela pauses. “I'm sorry, I don't even know her real name. Did I mention she's available?”

Jake stands. I quickly duck behind the cubicle wall.

“For work, I mean.”

I hear footsteps. I squeeze my eyes shut, like that will help.

And then, I hear him breathing. I glance up and he's standing over me, arms folded.

Behind him Mikaela stands, looking apologetic.

I slowly rise, stretching a professional smile across my face. I'm about to offer my hand like this is some kind of usual job interview when he says, “So. Using your daughter to get a job. How avant-garde.”

“She's not my—”

“—daughter,” Mikaela finishes.

Jake raises a suspicious eyebrow as he glances back and forth at us.

“But if it means I can have the job, then yes, she's my daughter.”

“And Mom here,” Mikaela says, “she needs to spring for a new pair of ice skates. You'd be doing us both a favor. You look like a guy who likes to do favors. Except you're not smiling.”

He doesn't look the least bit happy. “I'm sorry. To you and your Rent-A-Kid. I can't hire you, Landon.”

“Landon! Cool name!” Mikaela says.

Jake then turns to Mikaela. “But I'll buy you ice skates if you need them.”

Guilt slaps me. The guy seems genuinely concerned about our fake scenario. Ugh.

Sobs, louder and heavier, come from the area where the woman was crying earlier.

Mikaela leans in to me and whispers, “Are you sure you want to work here?”

I look at Jake. “Is she okay?”

Jake looks reluctant to spill the beans, but the wailing is not boding well for a company that writes greeting cards. “My cousin. She's just gone through a broken engagement.”

“I've written many cards for her. I'm an unfortunate expert on broken things.”

“You are?” Mikaela looks completely dumbfounded. “I'm always the last to know.” She sighs.

I slide closer to Jake. I pitch a thumb over my shoulder. “Listen. Your humor department. It's looking code blue. I could revive it with my line of break-up cards and my shining wittiness.”

He eyes me. “Landon, the cards we write here use the Bible to
encourage
people.”

I slump the way your mom always told you not to. “I guess I can give that a try.”

“We do it because we believe it.”

“It's so important to believe what you write. My cards also come from the heart. Please. Don't say no.”

“But—”

“Don't say no. I need you, Jake.”

He bites his lip. I get it, instantly . . . he can't resist helping people. I meant to say “I need this, Jake,” but you know, I guess we're just rolling with it. I look as desperate as I know how without test-driving the expression in a mirror first.

“Why do you want to work in the greeting card industry?”

“Do you know the impact that just one card can have on a person?”

“Yes. It's why I do what I do every day of my life. In two lines, I affect people. When I sit down and words come to me, I never know in what way those words will change someone's life.”

“My dad always liked my cards.”

“That's your credential?”

“I'm just saying, we have something in common, with this family business of yours. Just give me a chance.”

Another wail, long and high-pitched, causes each of us to snap our attention toward the sound.

Jake clears his throat. “I think my cousin will be needing some time off. How would you feel being my assistant until she comes back?”

“Your assistant.”

“Is that a problem? I need someone I can trust, someone who's here to help me.”

I nod. “You can count on me.”

“Stop by H.R. It's that way. Fill out the paperwork.”

“Thank you. We'll leave you alone now—” I glance around, don't see Mikaela. “Seen my Rent-A-Kid?”

But Jake walks off. I'm left there standing alone. I walk toward where he pointed and find the H.R. department. Did I seriously just get a job? Things like this don't happen to me.

I spot the Human Resources sign. As I take a step toward it, that same sharp shooting pain in the bottom of my foot causes me to yelp. That's more like it—I get a job and a heel spur all at the same time.

I regain my balance and turn the corner into the office. A woman, dressed from head to toe in Pepto-Bismol, smiles as wide as her collagen lips will let her. She's got a tiny, squeaky voice as she introduces herself as Candy. “Jake just called over to let me know you were coming. Welcome to the team.”

“Thank you.”

“How are your startle reflexes today?”

I sit down, slip off my shoe, rub the bottom of my foot. I was assuming we'd start with my Social Security number. “Um, I don't know . . . but it feels like someone is sticking needles in my foot.”

She giggles like I'm making some metaphorical joke.

I wish I were.

* * * *

My mind is reeling. Really reeling.
Assistant
is doable, but I want more. I've got to get his attention, snap him out of this idea that these sappy cards are what everyone wants. It's what everyone buys because that's all there is. I mean, think of his cousin, right? What kind of card do you send when someone breaks your heart? Something about a deer panting for water? I don't think so.

I'm juggling groceries and my key as I make my way down the hallway at the YMCA, my cell phone pressed to my ear.

“Gertie . . . no . . . Gertie, can you hear me? Turn your hearing aid on . . . no, in the other ear . . . no, turn it the other way, you're . . . what? . . . Okay. Yes! Now, can you hear me?”

“I hear you, Hope. Now what were you saying? Something about Heaven?”

I get to my room. There is a colored piece of paper that is cut in the shape of a W. It's taped to my door. “I've got to convince Heaven Sent, the greeting card company, there's a new way to write cards. Do you think you can get the ladies to write letters to them? Tell them you want a new kind of card?”

I take the
W
off, then fumble with the key to my room three times before I get the door open. Inside, I drop the sack of groceries to the desk and collapse into the chair.

“Oooh, like complaint mail. You think they'll send us free cards if we complain? I love their cards.”

I roll my eyes. I think Gertie is missing the point. “Just ask them to acknowledge people's real pain. That's all I want, Gertie. But tell the girls not to be too mean because the writer, well, he's not the worst guy in the world.”

“Oh! A man's involved. You didn't tell me that. Then we must help you out!”

I notice just then that the bride and groom that I know I tossed in the trash can is back on my desk. I take it fully into my hand, stare at it for a moment, squeeze it like I'm juicing a lemon, and then throw it into the trash can with a good measure of annoyance.

“Tell the ladies to send at least ten of them.”

“Send one?”

“Ten! Ten, Miss Gertie.”

I start unpacking my groceries, stuffing them in the tiny closet in my room. The refrigerated stuff has to go in the community fridge. Ugh. I cradle the phone between my ear and shoulder. “Suggest they use humor to help people deal with pain, like breakups. Deaths. Ask them to be more real.”

“Muriel? Honey, she died years ago.”

“More real! More. Real.”

“The proper term is realer.”

I sigh. “Let me just give you the address.”

I articulate it slowly as I grab my grocery sack and go to the fridge. As Gertie writes down the address on the other end of the phone, I peer into the community fridge in the kitchen down the hallway from me. There are various paper bags labeled with room numbers. Nice and organized, but what's going to keep someone from stealing my stuff?

“Okay, got it,” Gertie said.

“Also, don't tell them how old you are. In fact, it will help if they think you're young. So don't use the nursing home address.” I grab a Sharpie on the counter and start labeling my bag of food. I write
Room Eleven!!!
four different times. Should I try to draw the Hazardous Material sign on it? Couldn't hurt.

“The nursing home address. Okay. So, our Hope found a man?”

I say my good-byes to Gertie and turn in for the night. I sleep fitfully, barely able to contain all my ideas, going through mock conversations with Jake to try to convince him of the direction he needs to go with his cards.

The next morning, my food is still in the fridge in the community kitchen. I guess that hazardous waste symbol worked. I grab some yogurt and head in to work. I definitely don't want to be late for my first day. But just as I'm entering the building, my cell phone rings. It's Mom—spilling out a dozen questions before I even have a chance to respond. When she takes a breath, I say, “It's so great here. I found this awesome new apartment. So chic. I mean, you wouldn't believe this place. And I landed a job too.”

“Have you found a man?”

“Is he lost?”

“You lost him already?”

I sigh. My mom doesn't really catch humor. “No, Mom.”

“I've had seven calls responding to my ad in the paper.”

“Mom, I got the job at the greeting card company.”

There is a pause. I am on the elevators.

“Mom? Hello? You there?”

“They actually hired you to write greeting cards?”

The doors
ding
open on the third floor. I grin like there is a crowd awaiting as I step out. First, a trip to the bathroom is in order, to check my hair and makeup. I walk in, still with the phone to my ear, and stand in front of the mirror. “Not exactly writing cards yet. But I will. I'm going to show them how their sappy cards can be so much better.”

I fluff my bangs and turn—and smack into a wall. No, wait. Not a wall. Solid, definitely. But it's a man . . . in the women's bathroom. I drop the phone from my ear and am about to scream for help when I glance over at the . . . urinals. Oh . . . no . . .

I can hear my mom from my phone. “Hope? Hope?”

This is the part that's a little unclear, but in my horror and embarrassment, I shriek and run, only glimpsing a part of his face. Somewhere in there I say it out loud: “Sam?”

I stand, heaving against the wall outside the bathroom. It couldn't have been. But he looked just like Sam. At least the chin and the nostrils. That's about all I saw.

The door to the men's bathroom opens and Sam walks out. Except . . . it's not Sam. Very similar, though. It's just, this guy couldn't be a musician. He's far too clean-cut. He's tall. Solid, as I said before. And dressed kind of casual. But in a way that makes me think he understands fashion.

“I'm Everett. Do you want me to be Sam?” He's grinning at me. It's the kind of grin that melts you right on the spot. In my new life mantra, I'm determined not to be melted by anything a man does, so I stand a little taller, less melty-ish.

“No. Um, no. Really.”

“You can call me Sam. Sam's a nice name.” He reaches for a handshake, but it's not the kind that business people do to seal a deal. It's the kind where a guy pretends he's shaking your hand, but then he holds it a little longer than necessary. I retrieve my hand quickly.

“Sorry. You just remind me of this guy I knew.”

“Is this a good reminder?”

I take a breath. “Let's start over. I'm Landon. New employee.”

“In the ‘sap' department?”

Oh dear. He heard that. Okay, damage control time. I turn on my best flirtatious smile. And listen, I'm not claiming it's got any power. I haven't really tried one in a long time. But I give it my best shot. “Could you forget you heard that? I wouldn't want my new boss . . . you know . . .”

“No worries,” he says smoothly. I am getting a sense about this guy—he's the kind that flirts with everyone but makes you feel you're the only one. Currently, it's working. “I heard this place is going down anyway.”