Boy Meets Girl (15 page)
I’m in trouble. BIG trouble.
Oh my God. Oh my God, I don’t understand any of this. Mitch says it’s nothing, but I think he’s just saying that to make me feel better. It’s not nothing. It’s clearly not nothing. I mean, my boss just accused me of being a liar. How can that be nothing?
And I can see how from her point of view it would be more beneficial forme to be perceived as a liar than, you know, her. Which is basically what she is. I mean, ONE of us is lying, and if it’s not me, it has to be her. Because I certainly never wrote that letter, and I certainly never had Mrs. Lopez sign it.
So who did?
At least I have Mrs. Lopez to back me up. She says she didn’t sign it either.
Except . . .
I’m sorry, Mrs. Lopez is very sweet, but she’s not the most reliable witness. I mean, she definitely has an agenda, which is getting her job back. Mine is apparently that I want to get back at AMY, but for what? I mean, it’s true I think she’s a big, shallow loser and it’s true we call her the T.O.D., but how did she find out? Jen’s going to freak when she hears Amy knows, and the last thing I want is to freak out Jen, she’s got enough problems as it is with the fertility thing and—
OH!!! I’ve got to get control of myself. Think about something other than Stuart Hertzog. Think about kittens and rainbows. Oh yuck, that won’t work. Think about the Travel Channel. Yes, the Travel Channel, teal blue seas and yawning blue sky overhead, little huts on stilts above the water, like in Bali . . .
Oh my God, I can’t believe my boss basically accused me of being a liar in front of Mitch Hertzog, the one person in the world I wanted to impress with my cool professionalism. So far I’ve blathered about chicken and garlic sauce to him, had my ex-boyfriend THROW chicken in garlic sauce on him, nearly gotten sick in front of him, had my ex sing ballads in front of him, and now my boss is calling me a liar in front of him. . . .
Mitch says all I have to do is go back to my office and find the e-mail Amy sent me—the one telling me to skip the written warning—and forward it to him. Also forward him the draft of the letter I was writing to Mrs. Lopez but never finished. He seems to think this will make everything all right.
But how will it make everything all right? Sure, it’ll prove I didn’t have anything to do with that letter. But it won’t help theJournalwin Mrs. Lopez’s case against it. And isn’t Mitch supposed to be on thepaper’s side, not Mrs. Lopez’s? I mean, isn’t theJournal paying his fees?
But it’s like . . . it’s like hewants Mrs. Lopez to win. Like he set up this whole thing to make Amy look like the big, fat liar she is.
Which is fine, except that . . .
Amy KNOWS we call her the T.O.D. She KNOWS.
I mean, that’s not going to make working with her slightly UNCOMFORTABLE or anything. . . .
Oh, WHY did we ever start calling her that? I mean, she IS a tyrannical office despot, but we ought to have kept it to ourselves. It isn’t nice to call people names, even if they deserve it. All human beings have worth and dignity, that’s what Professor Wingblade always said. All human beings have worth and dignity. Except maybe for Nazis. And Al-Qaeda. And tyrannical office despots. . . .
STOP IT! Amy is not as bad as Hitler! She hasn’t killed anyone.
THAT WE KNOW OF.
I will never call her the T.O.D. again. I will never call her the T.O.D. again. I will never call her the T.O.D. again. I will—
Oh, God, my cab is a block away from 216 W. 57th even as I write. Please God, don’t let Amy be there when I walk in. Please let me get to my desk and forward the e-mail and the draft and get my stuff and go home sick for the rest of the day. . . . Please please please please please . . .
$4.50, plus $1 tip for cab. Don’t forget to send the T.O.D. a reimbursement form!
Wait . . . Why is Carl Hopkins standing by the door?
Security Division
The New York Journal
216 W. 57th Street
New York, NY 10019
212-555-6890
MEMO
To: All Personnel
Fr: Security Administration
Re: Persona Non Grata
Persona Non Grata Notification
Please note that the below-named individual has been classified “persona non grata” in 216 W. 57th Street as of the date of this notification and will continue to remain so indefinitely. This individual is not to be allowed on the premises of 216 W. 57th Street at any time during the term of above sanction.
Name: Kathleen A. Mackenzie
ID#: 3164-000-6794
Description: (photo attached)
White female, 25 years of age
5 feet, 4 inches, 120130 lbs.
Blonde hair, blue eyes
Contact Security immediately upon sighting of above individual.
cc: Amy Jenkins, Director, Human Resources
Amy Denise Jenkins
Director
Human Resources
The New York Journal
216 W. 57th Street
New York, NY 10019
212-555-6890
Kathleen A. Mackenzie
Personnel Representative
Human Resources
The New York Journal
216 W. 57th Street
New York, NY 10019
This letter serves to inform you that as of today’s date, your employment at theNew York Journal has been terminated. Your belongings from your work station have been inventoried and packed. You are to be escorted from the premises by Security, and have been listed as Persona Non Grata at this location. Should you need to speak to anyone regarding the termination of your position at theNew York Journal, you will need to do so by telephone. Your initials below indicate receipt of this letter.
Amy Jenkins
Director, Human Resources
Well, it’s happened. I’m fired. I’m actually fired.
I’ve never been fired before. Even when I was the salad-bar attendant at Rax Roast Beef back in Luxor, and my manager, Peggy Ann, said I was the worst salad-bar attendant they’d ever had, because I picked the cauliflower out of the dressing canisters instead of stirring it to the bottom, I still never got fired for it.
Until now.
How could this have happened? I don’t understand how any of this could be happening. This morning I had a job. This morning I had no boyfriend, or place of my own to live. But I still had a job. I had a job that I even sort of liked.
And now I have no job. I have no boyfriend, I have no place to live, and I have no job.
Oh my God. I’M HOMELESS!
It’s true! Except for the fact that I’m sitting in a penthouse suite (that doesn’t actually belong to me), I have become a statistic—one of New York’s many unemployed homeless.
Oh God! Soon I’ll be living in a cardboard box! In Alphabet City (except Alphabet City has become totally gentrified—I bet even a cardboard box there costs $1200 a month . . . and they probably want first and last and a security deposit on it, too).
What am I going to do? I mean, seriously. I have no job to go to, no place to live. . . . WHAT AM I GOING TO DO????
I guess I could ask Dale for a loan. He just came into millions. Or however much they pay members of bands that have just been signed to a major label.
But if I ask Dale for a loan, I’ll actually have to talk to him. And I don’t want to talk to him. Not after the chicken-with-garlic-sauce incident. Plus he’ll just feel all superior—Oh, she couldn’t make it without me.
Ditto Mom. I mean, she isn’t about to touch a penny of what Dad left her when he died . . . not the principal, anyway. And besides, she’ll just tell me to go back to Dale again. I swear, she’d be prouder of me if I followed Dale and the band around wearing nothing but a hand-knitted poncho than she’ll ever be over my having a job or my own place to live.
Jen? No, I can’t to go to Jen, she has her own problems. I can’t keep running to Jen every time I suffer a financial or emotional setback.
Mitch? Mitch? How can I even think about going to Mitch? I mean, this is all his fault, anyway! He KNEW Amy forged that letter! He knew she forged it, and he wanted Mrs. Lopez’s lawyer to see that, because for some reason Mitch is on Mrs. Lopez’s side and not the paper’s. Which is all well and good, since Mrs. Lopez is a sweet lady and all, and none of this is her fault, anyway.
EXCEPT THAT NOW I HAVE NO JOB!!!!!!!!!! Is that what he wanted? For me to get fired????
No wait. Mitch is a reasonable person. A decent person, even. A reasonable, decent person would never get a girl fired because her ex threw chicken on his pants.
I should have have just quit my stupid job in the first place in protest over what happened to Mrs. Lopez. Seriously, this is like karma, or something. Because I didn’t quit my job, as I knew I morally should have, my job has been taken away from me.
And hey, don’t I get severance pay? Or at least unemployment? I should AT LEAST get unemployment. Why didn’t I read the personnel handbook more closely? Let’s see, I’m administration, not staff, so that means I get . . . two weeks pay as severance? Or is it four weeks? WHY couldn’t I have been union? Then the T.O.D. wouldn’t have dared fire me without issuing both a verbal and written warning first. . . .
Let’s see . . . unemployment for someone who was making $40,000 a year is . . .
Oh God. Skiboy just walked in. He says Dolly told him to meet her here after work. They’re going to some benefit dinner, or something. Doesn’t Skiboy look nice in a tux? Yum. Not as nice as Mitch Hertzog, but . . .
OH MY GOD, I CAN’T BELIEVE I WROTE THAT!!!! I am never thinking another kind thought about Mitch Hertzog again. THAT GUY GOT ME FIRED!!!!!!!!!
Skiboy just asked me what I’m doing here in the middle of the day. I told him that I was fired on account of standing up for my convictions at work. He seems impressed. He says this calls for a celebration.
And really, if you think about it, I SHOULD celebrate. I am free of the oppressive rule of the tyrannical office despot! I don’t know where I’m going to find a new job, let alone scrounge up first and last month’s rent, plus a security deposit for a place of my own while living on unemployment checks, but I’m free! Liberated! Why shouldn’t I celebrate by drinking a vodka and tonic in the middle of the day?
“Yes, we SHOULD celebrate,” I just told Skiboy. And he is breaking out the Grey Goose now.
Really, things aren’t SO bad, are they? Yes, I have no job, no life, no place to live, etc. And I can’t even move back home with my parents, because my father is dead and my mother is driving cross-country in an RV the size of Dolly’s terrace.
But I have what few are given—ooooh, Skiboy makes strong drinks—I have what you called the greatest gift of all: the opportunity to make a whole new start in life. Really, I could be anything. I could be a doctor—well, if I could get money for med school. And if the sight of blood didn’t make me feel all sweaty. I could be a politician—really, I’d be very good at that, you know, because I know what it feels like to be trod upon and broken, like the people of Jersey City or wherever. I could be a lawyer—
Oh, no, blecch, a lawyer, never! I never want to be like Stuart Hertzog. I HATE him. As much as I hate Amy Jenkins. The two of them deserve each other. I hope they both enjoy their country-club wedding and their Sandals honeymoon and their house in Westchester and their 2.1 kids and no dog because of the kids’ allergies and their gas-guzzling, environment-destroying—Yes, thank you, Skiboy, a refill would be lovely—SUV, and their two weeks in Aspen and their summer on the Cape and their JP Tods and their Tse cashmere sweaters on their two-year-old, and preschools that cost ten grand a year for two mornings a week and then the right elementary school because God forbid Junior doesn’t get into the right college so he can get the right job so he doesn’t end up like ME, A BIG FAT HOMELESS UNEMPLOYED FREAK THAT NO ONE LOVES AND WHO IS GOING TO DIE PENNILESS, BITTER, AND ALONE. . . .
Okay, one more drinkie, then I have to hite the pavement, becauge I am woman hear me rihatibgrmvn
To: Dolly Vargas
Fr: Jen Sadler
Re: Kate
Dolly, something AWFUL has happened. Kate’s been fired! Amy gave her the old heave-ho right before lunch. I don’t know what went down at the meeting they went to this morning, but Amy came tearing in here with SECURITY, cleaned out Kate’s desk, confiscated her computer, and that was that. I haven’t been able to reach Kate—I don’t even know where she is. She left a message a little before noon, but since then. . . .
Dolly, you’ve GOT to talk to Peter about this. Kate is a GOOD employee. If she’s been fired—and like this—it must be a mistake. It probably has to do with Mrs. Lopez. PLEASE PLEASE ask Peter to look into it.
And if she shows up at your place, can you ask her to call me? I’m really worried about her.
Jen
To: Jen Sadler
Fr: Dolly Vargas
Re: Kate
Darling, don’t worry. I just called home, and Kate’s safe with Skiboy. He says he’s taking good care of her.
Of COURSE I’ll talk to Peter, only you know he flew to San Francisco this morning to check on his vineyard. I mean, I’m happy to see if I can do anything to help our poor little Miss Moppett, but I’m not sure Peter’s going to be able to be of any help until he gets back.
Tell you what, though, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll call Mitch Hertzog. He’ll know what to do. After all, from what I hear from Kate—and it’s hard to tell, with all the slurring—he’s the one who got her fired. He can damn well get her hired back.
Got to run—so many new designs, so few adjectives to describe them. . . .
XXXOOO
Dolly
Hola, darling! It’s me, Dolly! I’m not home at the moment—or possibly I am, but I’m . . . indisposed. Anyway, leave a message, and I’ll get back to you just the second I can. Ciao!
(Tone)
Kate? Kate, it’s me, Jen. Dolly says you’re home. How come you’re not picking up? Kate, come on, pick up. I know you’re upset—hell, I would be, too. But this is not over, okay? Dolly and I are going to get your job back, don’t you worry. We’re not going to let that fucking T.O.D. win. We’re all in this together, Kate, and we’re going to get your job back. Did you hear me? Well, call me as soon as you get this message. I’m really worried about you, Kate.
(Click)
Hola, darling! It’s me, Dolly! I’m not home at the moment—or possibly I am, but I’m . . . indisposed. Anyway, leave a message, and I’ll get back to you just the second I can. Ciao!
(Tone)
Kate? This is Mitch Hertzog. I just heard. Look, I am so—I don’t even know how to begin to say how sorry I am. I had no idea—I mean, I suspected she was up to something, but I never in a million years thought that she’d stoop to—Listen, I am not going to let them do this to you. All I need is that e-mail Amy sent you and a draft of that letter you wrote, and we have them, okay? I’ll get your job back in no time. If you can just get one of your coworkers to forward those documents from your computer, we’re golden. Kate? Are you there? If you’re there, pick up. If not . . . well, call me as soon as you can. You have my numbers. Just . . . God, I can’t believe she did this. I’m so sorry. Call me.
(Click)
To: Stuart Hertzog
Fr: Mitchell Hertzog
Re: Kate Mackenzie
Well, I hope you’re satisfied. Your fiancée, obviously acting under your instructions, just dug her own grave. That’s right, Stu. Because I am going to bury Amy for this. Bury her. I hope this won’t interfere with your wedding plans too much. Don’t worry, she’ll probably still marry you, since she’s going to NEED to change her name by the time I get through with her. She won’t be able to get on a guestlist in town with the name Jenkins.
Oh, and tell her from me—she doesn’t know the meaning of the wordfucker. But she will, shortly.
Mitch
To: Dolly Vargas
Fr: Mitch Hertzog
Re: Kate
What do you mean, “Not to worry, she’s home safe with Skiboy”? What the hell is a Skiboy?
Mitch
