Car Pool (5 page)

She told herself to start thinking positively. Maybe she was entering a lucky period. Lord knew she was due. Maybe this week she would find out that someone else who worked at the refinery wanted to car pool from the East Bay.

And maybe today was the last time she’d think about Lois. The bitch.

Shay yanked her heel out of the grate and swore.

It was a choice phrase she’d picked up from a wildcatter. There was no one around, which was fortunate. Tottering on one leg, she examined her damaged shoe.

The leather on the back of the pump had been scraped up the heel. The cover had come off completely, leaving the bare nail exposed. They were the last dress shoes — had been the last pair — she owned that were wearable. She couldn’t afford a cobbler, much less a new pair, much less the time to take shoes to a repair shop anyway. It did not improve her humor at all that she usually wouldn’t be caught dead in heels.

What had possessed her to take this job? Why hadn’t she just moved out of the area? She must have been in shock to have agreed. Why hadn’t she followed up periodically with the people she knew at EPA — like Joan Lewis? Joan would have helped her. Why hadn’t she sent her resume to the big environmental engineering firms? Even though EPA was on everyone’s unpopular list, it was better than private industry. So the engineering firms were completely male dominated and mostly in cahoots with the corporations — conditions slightly better than this hell hole. And this hell hole was a corporation. She put her shoe back on and stomped on across the asphalt of the vast parking lot. With every step she added another word to the litany that began, “Patriarchal, fascist, sexist… .”

As she reached the other side and went through the double doors into the hallway she winced at the loud click her bare heel made on the echoing floor. She sounded like a one-legged tap dancer. And she blamed the car pool services department and good ol’

NOC-U. It had only taken three months for her to feel an incredible level of contempt for it — she felt like Living Dead.

She could have used inter-refinery mail to forward the paperwork to join a car pool, but instead she was hand carrying the stupid form around. If she let CPS do it, it would take another month. Car pool services, what a laugh — a two-person department run by a fossil who looked as if he’d become a puddle of crude oil the moment he was buried, and his secretary, who looked as if she did all the work. Shay would have liked to have dipped Mr. Whal-We‘11-Get-To-It-As-Soon-As-We-Kin-Missy in the Effluent Ponds and watched him dissolve. But then NOC-U would have taken six months to fill his job with another dinosaur and she still wouldn’t have a car pool.

The other potential car poolees were both in the Exec Building. A trip to Executive meant changing out of her usual field clothes into the stupid heels. Well, she’d start with this Anthea Rossignole — what a name, she thought — and if she wasn’t there, she’d track down Lois Myers.

She got directions to Rossignole’s cube from the finance unit receptionist. -Who, she noted with a more than a twinge of bitterness, had a nice, quiet space all her own, a computer with about ten times the speed and capacity of the one Shay used, and two perfectly lovely shoes. Heels did look wonderful on some women, but she supposed thinking so was not politically correct. The slender, chocolate brown legs that fit into the shoes were quite nice as well, but Shay was in no mood to linger appreciatively. She didn’t have energy to spare for lust.

Shay minced down the aisle between the rows of cubicles, trying to keep her heel from tapping. It was pointless. She felt gauche in the extreme when, to her amazement, she found herself in front of the plate that read Anthea Rossignole. The cubicle was larger than the one she and Harold shared and apparently had only one occupant.

Inside the cube, Shay could only see two dove-gray shoes (she wondered if she was entering a period of shoe envy), matching hose leading up to a rose-gray skirt that covered a shapely behind. For a moment Shay was distracted with the overall niceness of the view. She caught herself just before … well, almost before … she officially ogled the unsuspecting woman. The rest of the woman’s body was hidden under her workstation and Shay heard a sound she knew too well — a cable sliding just out of reach. The computer monitor flickered out.

“Excuse me,” Shay said hesitantly.

“Damn it!” the woman in the cubicle said as the back of her head hit the underside of the workstation. She clambered to her feet, one cable dangling from her hand.

“I’m sorry,” Shay said automatically, and then she froze — French Braid! Shay hadn’t thought about her since she’d filled in the last square of her time survey sheet. She wondered if French Braid — alias Anthea Rossignole — had found it good reading.

“What —are you from RTS?” Anthea asked, a genuine smile breaking up the angry frown.

“No, I—”

“Oh, wait, haven’t we met?” Anthea ran a hand over her hair and smoothed her skirt. Shay wondered why it was that some women could look as

if they had just stepped out of a magazine — no one would suspect that Anthea had just been on all fours crawling under her desk.

Shay felt a distinct twinge of contempt as she said, “We met at the GPG trailers.”

“Oh, the time survey. You gave me a lift back.” Something in her tone told Shay she hadn’t forgotten about the dirty truck.

Well, they were off to an amicable start. “I’ve come about the car pool.” Her statement came out as a question somehow.

“You need a car pool? You wouldn’t lie about a thing like that, would you?”

“Yes. I mean no. Yes, I need a car pool.”

“Would you like some coffee or a Coke?” Anthea’s slight frown disappeared completely. The top of Shay’s head reached to about the height of Anthea’s earlobes. As usual, Shay tipped her head back to carry on the conversation — she’d forgotten that Anthea had seemed tall to her.

“Thanks, but I’m going to be late back from my break,” Shay said. It looked like she was going to spend every morning and evening with someone who was moody, even if she was attractive. As if that had anything to do with the ability to drive a car, she told herself. Gutter brain. I’m not responsible, she thought. It’s sleep deprivation.

“Oh. You know, I never caught your name.”

Shay felt herself flush as she remembered how she had deliberately not introduced herself. She hoped it didn’t show. Okay, she had been rude, but she still felt a little justified. It was so cloistered and sanitary in the Exec Building. This woman probably had no idea what products and toxic

by-products were produced here. “Shay Sumoto. I live in Berkeley, just below campus.”

“I’m up near Tilden. Behind the Claremont, but north a bit,” Anthea offered. “Do you have the form? I can’t wait to sign the thing.”

Shay handed it over. It would be lovely to live up above the Berkeley flats in a place that had lots of windows. She saw Anthea’s eyes flick over her without a change in her expression, but nevertheless Shay wished she had ironed her skirt. It was worse for wear from being kept in a file cabinet, and it didn’t help her mood that it was the skirt she’d bought to wear to her father’s funeral — the only skirt she had worn in about ten years.

“Well, we can’t get across the Dumbarton for free, but we can sure use the car pool lanes. I’ll send this over in the inter-refinery mail,” Anthea offered as she put the form down on her desk.

“There’s also a Lois Myers who wants to join a car pool, too. We could get out of the bridge toll that way.”

Anthea’s head jerked up. “I — I’ve found it’s a little harder to coordinate with three people. We can skip the toll by driving through San Jose in the morning and taking the bridge home. A big circle. With the car pool lanes it’s a little faster in the morning to take the long way,” Anthea said, all in a rush.

Shay saw a red flush creep up Anthea’s throat. What brought that on, she wondered. “Okay. Well, we’ll see how it goes.”

“We should get the pass in about three weeks … unless the idiot who runs CPS is on vacation.” Anthea rolled her eyes and the flush receded.

Shay nodded knowingly. “I know just what you mean. Um, well, even without the pass, we could still drive together, couldn’t we? And park in the remote lot. I brought it over so that — could we start as soon as possible, like tomorrow?”

“I’d love to. Commuting alone has been hell. I’ve been so tempted to risk the hundred-dollar ticket and use the car pool lanes anyway.”

“You’re sure it’s faster to go all the way around in the morning?”

Anthea smiled. Shay remembered the charming expression, but hadn’t seen the added nuance of… well, something like glee. “Believe me, I’ve tried all the options.” Anthea wriggled her eyebrows knowingly.

Shay swallowed hard. Good lord, her mind was getting soft if she thought this woman was flirting with her. She probably flirted with everyone. “You’ll have to show me,” Shay said lightly.

“I’ll be glad to,” Anthea said, her voice returning to its pleasant professional tone. “Where would be the most convenient place to pick you up?”

“Corner of Milvia and University? In front of Luciano’s Pizza?”

“Sure, I know where that is. Well,” Anthea said briskly, “I should pick you up around six-twenty to be here at half-past seven. That’ll give us each time to catch the parking lot shuttle. Oh, here, write down your number on this.”

“Okay.” Shay scrawled her extension and home phone on the piece of paper Anthea proffered. “This is terrific. See you in the morning.” She hurried away, aware of her heel’s click, but more concerned with getting back to the field trailers before someone

noticed how long she’d been gone. Maybe here no one watched breaks and lunchtime, but the powers that be at their site cared passionately about such things. The fact that she had gotten off on the wrong foot with Anthea, and that she seemed as changeable as helium isotopes, bothered Shay, but not nearly as much as the mere thought of one of Scott’s “punctuality is our friend” speeches.

Anthea listened to the dwindling clip-click of Shay’s footsteps. Well, well, well, she thought. So we won’t be bosom buddies. But at least I have a car pool again. She permitted herself a smile that felt deliriously evil. And Lois doesn’t. It had been two months, so she supposed she shouldn’t still feel vindictive, but she did. The personnel registry said that Celia no longer worked for NOC-U. Which meant Lois was driving by herself.

She sighed happily, then turned back to her computer. The good feelings seeped away as she resisted the urge to hit it. Taking a deep breath, she got back under the desk and managed to shimmy the cable up between the cube wall and the desktop. It wouldn’t work. RTS and their stupid advice. Changing the cabling had nothing to do with the DOS error she was getting.

She flipped the computer on again. After an interminable amount of disk grinding the operating system launched and she gingerly typed in a request for a disk directory.

PARITY.CHECK.50000, the computer said.

The orange cursor went right on blinking in its predictable and perfectly timed way. With each blink of the cursor the machine counted down: 50000 blink 49999 blink 49998 blink. Supposedly, several centuries from now when it reached 00000 blink, the computer would be fine. Anthea knew better. She resisted the temptation to use her keyboard to forcibly reconfigure her C drive. Instead she applied a little more force than necessary to the keyboard combination she pressed to warm boot the computer.

Without a disk directory there was no MASTERDB.123, and no report for the boss’s boss by two p.m. on the third-quarter operation cost centers. And Martin’s boss didn’t believe in computer problems. He was convinced that all the accountants had very straightforward computers that didn’t break, or could be fixed by inserting a couple of diskettes. He wouldn’t know a computer if one gave him a haircut.

Methodically, as was her trademark, Anthea began down the list of her options. She didn’t care what RTS’s advice was.

She replaced the COMMAND.COM file. PARITY.CHECK.50000. 49999. 49998. She warm-booted to try something else.

She replaced the AUTOEXEC.BAT file. PARITY.CHECK.50000. 49999. 49998. Warm boot.

She replaced her major software packages, hoping she didn’t wipe out any vital subdirectories. PARITY.CHECK.50000. 49999. 49998. Warm boot again. A cigarette would have really helped her think, but smoking was only permitted in private offices. Smoking in the cubes was not permitted.

Anthea understood why, of course, but she still wished she had a cigarette.

Finally, just short of calling refinery technical support again, she rapped the side of the drive with her ruler and said one of the words she used frequently to describe other drivers during her commute.

“I hear heavy sighs,” Adrian said from the other side of the barrier. He sounded sympathetic, but she wasn’t fooled. Adrian delighted in the misfortunes of others with an across-the-board-everybody’s-equal malice. His total lack of sympathy during her breakup with Lois had probably saved her sanity because, if nothing else, he made her laugh.

“I’m getting a parity check on the C drive. And of course the very next thing I was going to do after this stupid project —”

“— was backup,” Adrian said, his voice unmistakably gleeful.

“I spent all of last week on the new data formatting,” she admitted. She might as well let him enjoy the whole mess.

“And you didn’t do backup? They’re paying you too much,” Adrian said.

Anthea frowned. “If you have any helpful suggestions, make them. Otherwise,” she said, her voice getting snappy, “get back to work.”

“Well, if you’ve already tried the ruler method, I’m no help at all,” Adrian said. “Call RTS,” was his parting shot. Translated, he meant, “Go screw yourself.”

She called RTS again, this time to request service. They were available with their usual

rapid-fire response time — six working days. She pleaded for even a trainee to no avail. Technology that had nothing to do with the conversion of crude oil into petroleum products and by-products was a distinct second priority. Besides, everybody knew that computer nerds — Anthea had bitten her tongue when Martin’s boss had called her that — could fix their own machines.