Fade In (7 page)

I watch through the glass wall that frames my door as Neil saunters over to their side of the pit and leans over the half-wall. I see one fat head and one skinny head poke up and look directly at my office. They catch me staring that way. So I raise my hand, wave them here, and mouth, “Now.”

I wait until they are in earshot and shout, “Come on! Pick it up, guys! I don't have all day!” My phone rings. I can see that it's Winnie. I grab it quick. “Yeah.”

“Did you hear about the pot plant the janitor found on the roof?” Winnie whisper-shouts into the receiver. I can see straight into her office from mine. She's mimicking puffing on a joint and passing it to me.

“A pot plant?” I can't help myself.

“Yeah, you know, like weed, the chronic, dope...” She could go on forever, and I don't have enough time for her to recite every slang term for cannabis right now.

I cut her off. “I know what the fuck weed is, you moron. Never mind that. Keep going.”

“Right.” She giggles. “Okay. I heard the Devons talking about it. Let them think they are in trouble about it and leave me on speakerphone. I'll call you if I think of something. This is gonna be so fun!”

You've guessed it. Winnie is just as big of a troublemaker as I am.

“Okay. Shut up. You're on,” I say to Winnie and twist my most serious face on tight. “Shut the door, little Devon. Guys, take a seat.” Then I sit back and just stare at them for a good minute.

They look back at me, waiting, and then look at each other. To add to the drama, I begin clicking my pen in and out.

Click-click.
I look at big Devon.

Click-click.
I turn my head to the skinny one.

“So, fellas… Winnie, Wes, and I had a little talk about you this morning. They brought some interesting things to light that I wasn't aware of. Care to tell me firsthand?”

They are sweating.

Keep it together, Tatum. Don't crack.

“Uh, is this about the water cooler? We can explain. We bet Cynthia that Devon here” —little Devon gestures to Big-D and—”could drink a whole water jug by lunch. We put a bucket under our desks and just kept pouring the water in there. She didn't even ask what she'd have to do if she lost.” He looks to his partner-in-crime with wide eyes and then back to me. “She might be gullible, but she was pretty sure that he couldn't do it. So he emptied the cooler a cup at a time.” The poor man's leg is pumping up and down nervously. “We knew she'd take the bet on Wednesday, so we hid a jug and colored it to look like piss the night before.”

It's killing me. I want to laugh so bad that my eye is beginning to twitch.

The big Devon offers the excuse of, “We don't get out much.” Then he punctuates it with, “Fuck.”

Little Devon runs his fingers up and down his pants like he's trying to start a fire and burn the office down. “The idea was to make her think that Devon filled it back up...with his piss...and that her losing wage was that she'd have to drink it or empty it out or move it or whatever. She just had to get rid of it. Of course she said no and was really stressed out about it being there.”

“Yeah she was,” the bigger Devon confirms, more elated than remorseful. “We told a couple of the other guys what we were doing and they decided to play along, too.”

Watching him tell this is almost funnier than the story itself. His fat ass is up on the edge of his seat.

“You should have seen her face when Charley from editing turned his head and talked to her the whole time he filled up his cup. It was priceless. Then she got up and tried to stop him. Apparently she couldn't even get the words out!” That fat bastard can barely keep from losing his shit. His smile is so wide and his ninety-degree bent arms are holding tightened fists on both sides, joy and vigor radiating off of him. He doesn't care that it's quite possible they are in deep trouble.

Keep it together, Tatum.

I look to my phone and notice that Winnie has already hung up. Amateur.

Big Devon carries on. “This is where it got bad. Charley takes a drink and tells her it's a little warm, but it tastes really good today!” He howls. “It was so perfect!” His laughter echoes through the office.

A few people seated close to my door even turn to see what's happening in here.

Big Devon is laughing and trying to keep his part of the story going through what is morphing into hilarious sobs. “She turned, like, fucking green and shit. I think her eyes rolled in the back of her head! Then she started to fall. Like pass the hell out.”

“Don't worry, Tatum. I caught her,” the small one hurriedly adds. “She didn't even hit the floor. So really I saved her. If you think about it.”

Little Devon is on the edge of his seat now too. That's the performers in them shining. They can't just tell a story. They have to live it.

“Yeah! Who knew bird legs over here was so nimble? He caught her and laid her down and she was only out for like a second.” He looks to his friend perceptively. “Then she woke up and I thought they were going to make love right there on the Berber. I think that chick has Stockholm syndrome or something,” said the biggest Devon.

“No, she doesn't. It wasn't like that,” little Devon says to his partner-in-crime. Then he turns to say to me, “She was a little out of it, so I drove her home after work. I felt bad. Shit! She passed the fuck out...from comedy. That's serious.”

My leg is shaking. It makes me miss being in the cubicles back at The Up Late Show. I don't know how I'm holding this together still.

“So then what?” I question.

“What, like after we got to her place? Uh, we watched Dexter and ordered a pizza. She's pretty cool actually.”

“Did you apologize?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.” big Devon makes sure that I see that he did, too.

“Well, this isn't about that? Anything else you want to tell me about?” I say towards big Devon to see if he has anything to offer as confession.

“There was a pot plant found on the roof,” says the bigger half.

“And?”

“And what? My pot is at home. That's it. Not ours.”

“That's it? Not yours?”

“Not ours. Is that what you wanted to talk to us about? I mean, we are really busy and it's about lunchtime. You know how crazy I get before lunch. I gotta eat. I'm a big guy.” The lardass grabs his stomach with both hands and shakes it at me. Like, literally shakes his belly. It's both totally disturbing and funny.

“Well, since you claim the pot isn't yours and you apologized, then my opinion of you two hasn't really changed from when I asked you in here.” I sit back in my chair, cracking my pretend boss-like performance. “I don't give a shit about what you guys do as long as your work keeps being top notch like it is right now.

“Winnie, Wes, and I decided to give you two the office on the corner by reception. You guys are loud and out of control sometimes. No one has ever complained, but it only makes sense since you're getting your segs on and you work great together. So, after lunch, if you are all caught up, then you can start moving the random show shit out of there and your stuff in. We all think you guys are going a great job.”

I finally smile at them, and their reaction is so worth all this torture.

Their faces are priceless. Not much beats your boss telling you that, since you've mastered fucking off at work, your reward is a corner office. I can remember my first real move up, and it was like snapping that rogue puzzle piece into place. It felt like all that flipping and changing angles had paid off and that somehow I had just fit in. It's a gut-check moment.

Their guts are checked. Well, big Devon’s is probably triple-checked. Big Devon's arm rise into the victory V, but little Devon stays board-still.

“Are you messing with us? Like we did Cynthia?” the tinier one asks. That's a valid inquiry.

“No. It is real. Just don't make us regret it. Really, do me a solid and don't do anything too crazy in there, huh? No running hos. No porn making. No major renovations. Just move your desks in there and work.”

“Okay, what about a foosball table?” asked big Devon.

“If it fits, sure.” I can appreciate the talking things out that playing a game like that offers. Hell with it. I am buying that ‘#1 Boss’ mug I saw on Amazon.

“Okay, can we have a refrigerator?” Big Devon really has some big ideas for his new work environment.

I start to shuffle my papers around, faking their importance—and mine. I really just want them to get the hell out so I can go to lunch too.

I break it down. “As long as you're not drunk on our clock, okay. Guys, really? Nut up. If you think it will get you into trouble, then don't do it. If you are too stupid and need reassurance of that stupidity, just go ask Winnie. You are her favorite dummies. Go! Go to lunch.”

I watch them walk out the door with a new bounce in their steps. Not more than five paces outside my door, the bigger Devon picks up the smaller one under his arms and holds him high in the air, showing him to the office like that old monkey does in The Lion King to baby Simba.

“We get our own office everyone! We will drink all the beers after work. Little Devon here is buying!”

The pit erupts in shouts and claps. The pair strut back to their cubbies, Big-D kicking his trash can over like it's too vile for his kinglike presence.

A few minutes later, I'm staring off into the large open office in front of me, reminiscing, when Neil comes in to gather me for lunch. “You ready? I want sushi.”

“Yeah, that sounds good. Let's get out of here.” I grab only the necessary things and let him lead me out.

Winnie meets up with us at the elevator. It turns out that Neil went into her office and listened in to the beginning of the action in my office. After my dear friend couldn't hold her gumption together, he invited her to lunch with us.

“So, Ms. Elliot, I'm dying over here. Tell me about this breakup.” We aren't even to the ground floor—or even in the privacy of our own company. With no less than four other riders, he asked like it was everyone's business.

“Just a minute.” I pinch his arm to shush him.

“Ouch! No. I've been waiting too long for this to happen. I have to know what happened now. Did you catch him bumping it with his secretary, er...administrative assistant?” He corrects his faux pas and states, “They don't want to be called secretaries anymore. Did you know that?”

Taking the temporary way out of his first topic of conversation, I offer, “It sounds demeaning and debasing. There are many male admin assistants and they probably are not fond of that dated term. You of all people should understand labels, Neil.”

“What are you getting at?” The elevator doors open up to the lobby and we start for the doors that lead to the bustling New York streets. “Am I gay? Yes. Am I a personal assistant? Yes. But if I were a garbage man, I wouldn't insist we queer-up the title. What would that be exactly?” He looks at me like I know the answer.

Winnie chimes in with, “Can packer. Dumpster Diva. Sanitation Queen.”

We continue laughing at ourselves and making up silly names for homosexual garbage men all the way to the restaurant.

We love this place. It's a hip little sushi bar named The Best Bite, and we come here all the time. The walls are lined with the pictures you'd expect—fish and vegetables with large Japanese words on them. It never smells awful like the sushi place on 32
nd
, and the line always moves fast. Plus, they have the best plum iced teas.

After getting our orders, we find a table that's tucked out of sight a little for Winnie's sake. She signs everything and then never gets to eat. That bitch deserves lunch, too.

We make small talk about this week's show, and I decide to get the other business talk out of the way about the assistant I needed to interview. “So did you find me any babysitters?”

“Yes, actually. I did. When can you see them? Some have current positions, so we might need to start in the afternoon one day this week and continue into the evening so the ones who have jobs can make it too?” he says and asks at the same time.

“Cooper told me about your list. I personally think it's genius! I want a PA. If Neil finds you a good one, I'm gonna have him do me next,” Winnie says to me and winks at Neil, clapping her hands.

“I'd like to get it moving. So tomorrow works.” I know that, for work purposes, having a show crisis at the beginning of the week is way more manageable than at the end. At least this will be out of the way in the event that the Devons really do slack off.

He accepts with, “Okay. So we'll take off tomorrow. I'll be there at about eleven to help you prepare. I have five, possibly six, applicants that I think sound like people I wouldn't want to kill.”

Winnie picks now to resurface the other subject of interest in the current events of my life. “Why don't you go ahead tell our man here how you broke up with Kurt on your birthday?”

“You didn't? Birthday Slut?” Neil bounces up and down in his seat, and just as fan comes over for a signature, Neil locks his mouth up, rushes Winnie through her autograph, and dismisses the fan-girl quickly with his ‘shoo-fly’ flapping wrist as to get us right back into the conversation.