CHAPTER 1
Amelia
Mystery Man? I want details.
Need those reports in 30 minutes.
Forms must be completed by the close of business.
I plop down at my desk with the sandwich I picked up thirty minutes ago in the deli on the first floor of our building. It was warm when I got it, but after I bumped into Shawn from marketing in the elevator, who just wanted to show me “one thing real quick,” it’s now a soggy mess.
I missed my only solace for the workday, my fifteen minutes of sun during my lunch break. And now it looks like I’m going to miss lunch too. Eight dollars and fifty cents down the drain. My veggie delight isn’t looking so delightful.
I look at my computer screen and start to prioritize the instant messages that came in while I was gone. Amelia do this. Amelia we need that.
I’m upset about missing lunch, but even more disappointed about my date from last night. I click on Shari’s message and start replying.
Disaster. Don’t know why I went back to his place.
Still no big O?
Story of my life. Will go to my grave never knowing the pleasure.
A few more chat windows pop up along with some email about a new hire. I click back on Shari’s chat and stare at my sandwich.
I don’t go on break for another two hours, and the line at the vending machine will be too long then. Fifteen minutes to take the elevator down, wait in line, and try to make it back up isn’t enough. My boss is a stickler for time and one minute late is the same as one hour to her. I’m going to have to force some of this sandwich down or else I’ll be a zombie all afternoon.
I remove the plastic wrap and stare at it. I close my eyes and take a bite. Yeah, wet bread and cold, stale cheese tastes exactly how I expect it to taste.
Another screen pops up on my computer. Something about our 401K company matching will be reduced next quarter.
The whole reason I took this job was for the retirement and health benefits, and it seems like every quarter they are reducing one or the other. Time to dust off the resume.
I want details. I look at Shari’s message and can’t help but be a little jealous. Okay, a lot. The girl is one of those professional daters and is dining in some of Los Angeles’ finest restaurants at least three times a week. To add insult to injury I saw her sitting front row at the Lakers basketball game last week while I was sitting on my couch trying to toss popcorn up and catch it in my mouth.
Not only that, the girl was a multi-orgasmic machine. She told me stories that would make the naughty books I read seem like vanilla foreplay.
Not me. It was hard enough just getting a date, and when I did get a date the guy either wanted to split the check, “Netflix and chill,” or shoot pool in a dark, smoky pool hall in a sketchy part of town.
To make matters worse their attempts at sex were about as pleasing as their choice of date venues. And by pleasing I mean the exact opposite. No pleasure, and no climax. Never.
And last night was no exception. Shari had seen me out with Dov. Yes, the guy’s named after a bird. For some crazy reason I thought that might make him gentle and tender, but just like his name, which isn’t even the complete spelling of the bird that his parent’s seemed to admire, he couldn’t complete the job. Not even close.
A couple licks here, a strange bite there, and a few weak pumps there, and Dov was laying next to me in a sweaty mess. Come to think of it, he was a lot like this soggy, limp sandwich.
Trying to forget.
That bad? I’m sorry sweetie.
Thanks. I’ll be okay.
I chew the mess of a meal and realize things are not going to be okay.
I start clearing my chat windows, replying to as many as I can as I half bite into my food, not sure if I should spit it in the trash and risk someone seeing, or just power through and force it down. I go with the latter, but it’s not easy.
Did you see the new guy?
Don’t tell me you’re hunting him already.
Shari would do just that and she would get him too. Somehow I got the gene for always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, but not her. She can make spreadsheets and math sound sexy. And the men come running. Rich ones, athletes, guys who own helicopters. If he’s super successful and under thirty in L.A. Shari probably knows him, or has been with him. I need to hang around her more often so whatever she’s doing rubs off on me.
He’s the CFO, and you know what that means?
I close my eyes and take another bite of my sandwich. I leave my eyes closed the first few chews before opening them when I hear what sounds like an assault of chirps as my screen fills with new messages and replies.
CFO. You mean Can’t F’ing Orgasm. I’m not greedy. I just want one in this lifetime!
I chew my sandwich and realize it has suddenly become absolutely quiet. Usually it’s constant chaos comprised of people walking around, someone playing their music just a little too loud, and one of the sales guys from the other room yelling into his phone trying to “get this deal done.” Not now.
Hmmm? Is there a mandatory company meeting in the conference room or something?
I see the top of Tom’s head and then his eyes, just over the top of my cubicle wall. His eyes are practically bulging out of his head, before his head sinks back down behind the partition.
Then Lefty Larry, the left-handed guy who sits in the cubicle to my left does the same.
That’s odd.
I look at my screen and notice no more incoming messages. Finally, just give me a few minutes so I can get some of this sandwich eaten.
I continue chewing. It’s a relief to finally have a moment without constant interruptions.
My eyes look back up at the screen and my chewing slows. My mouth is moving in slow motion like a giraffe as my eyes dart from chat window to chat window.
No! No! This can’t be.
I hear my chewed sandwich splat onto the paperwork in front of me, as it falls from my mouth.
I didn’t reply to Shari’s chat window. I replied to HR’s chat window announcing our new CFO.
My hand starts to shake and suddenly I’m on my knees heaving into my trashcan. I’m a wreck.
Oh my god, I’m going to get fired. I’m never going to get a job again. There’s no way I’ll get a reference or be able to explain this one.
I stare into the bottom of my trashcan, and I literally feel my mind leave me as my eyes close.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Tom says, his eyes just above the cubicle again.
I hear his words, but they don’t register.
“Earth to Amelia, come in. Do you read me? Hello? Amelia!”
I shake my head quickly and open my eyes. I pull myself from off my knees and look at my phone. It’s the same phone that literally never rings. I don’t even know if it actually works or was just left there from the previous generation.
I look at the caller ID. Carson Cash, CFO.
I look at my plant, which I named Robert, sitting on my desk. I could have Robert Plant under my arm, and my purse around my shoulder and be in the elevator in less than sixty seconds. Maybe it’s even sitting on our floor. In that case I’m out of here in under thirty.
“Answer the damn phone!” Lefty Larry says from the cubicle next to me.
I extend my hand for the receiver, but stop just short. I can literally see my hand shaking uncontrollably as it approaches the receiver. Scratch that, my entire arm is shaking.
My thumb and forefinger grasp the phone delicately, like I might break it, even though I know I’m the one who’s about to be broken.
I slowly bend my elbow, bringing the phone to my ear.
“Amelia Perkins. Accounts Receivable.”
“Could you please come by my office?”
I begin to muster up a reply, but before I can I hear the dial tone. Apparently it wasn’t really a question.
I hear the phone bang on my desk as it drops from my hand before setting on the ground.
I look up and see the tops of heads and sets of eyes atop all the cubicles in the big room I work in. It’s like that arcade game Whack-A-Mole, but I’m the mole and I’m about to get whacked.