CHAPTER FOUR
“Boss man,” Mathews says, feverishly shaking Mason’s hand. He’s an obvious ass kisser and I’m half curious to know if the skills translate into bed. “Just getting Rivera caught up on what he missed,” he says.
“Sorry to hear about your cat,” Mason says. “I had a dog once who was dying a slow and painful death.” He looks off, possibly touched by the memory. “My father and I finally took it out back and shot it. Sometimes things have to die,” he says.
“Circle of life,” Matthews says, in ass kissing agreement.
“Remind me not to let either of you cat sit,” I say.
Cuddles is dead, of course, but were she still alive…
“Probably a good idea,” Mason says. “Though it sounds like a problem you may not have much longer.”
“I wouldn’t count her out,” I say. “She’s a fighter.” I look at Matthews. “She’s been known to scratch your eyes out or claw at your throat.” I look back at Mason. “Wouldn’t have been her brains bloodying the backyard.”
Mason smiles. “I do like a fighter,” he says. “Speaking of,” he starts, “I’m looking for you,” he says to Matthews. “Love the strategy. Have you gotten a team together?”
“Recruiting now,” Matthews says.
“Oh?” Mason looks at me. “Rivera or Cuddles?” He asks. “Sounds like Cuddles is the fighter.”
“Is Cuddles available?” Matthews jokes. “And can she close?”
They laugh while I fight the urge to grab the stapler from my desk and bash it into either of their skulls.
“Anyway,” Matthews says, “this is the man we need. We on-boarded together,” he says looking at me. “He’s tough.”
Mason looks at me like he doesn’t believe me. He should be giving that incredulous look to Matthews, who barely made it through the process.
On-boarding is brutal. About 100 or so graduates are invited to compete for three places. It’s a brutal seven-day process that left most crying and a few broken with nervous breakdowns. There were barely 10 of us left in the end.
Rachel and I survived, placing second and third in the assessment; Mathews was sixth, if I remember correctly.
“I’m in,” I say.
“Awesome,” he says. His eyes widen for a moment as if he’s had an idea. “Team Awesome?” he says with excitement.
“Great name,” Mason says. “I like it. Esprit de corps,” he says, whatever that means.
I wait for Mathews to give me credit for the idea. He doesn’t.
Mason looks at his watch. “Keep putting the team together,” he tells Matthews, “we’ll make the official announcement at the end of the day,” he says.
“Closing Time,” Matthews says, “sounds good, Bossman.”
“In the meantime, it’s almost 10,” says Mason. “Time to stir up the troops.”
It’s obvious that Mason doesn’t like these meetings.
“Listen up,” he says, during ours, “I’m not gonna waste your time with one of these bullshit meetings. If you’re here you’re not working, am I right?”
There’s a combination of nervous smiles and laughter.
“Raise your hand if you think you’re doing a phenomenal job.”
No one dares.
“Good, because you’re not. None of you are. If you were, you wouldn’t be here.”
He slaps a stack of packets down on the table. “Abraham, Hughes, Bariccino…” he continues on calling names, throwing packets corresponding to the names across the table, in any direction that seems his fancy. “…Rivera,” he says and gives me a dirty look before throwing my packet across the table in the opposite direction.
I get up along with the others to get my packet. The move infuriates Mason.
“Sit the fuck down!”
For a moment I have a brief flashback of the short time spent under the roof of my father.
“Sit down you fucking fuckups, no wonder you can’t close, you can’t even find a way to do this right. Sit the fuck down!”
Definitely like good old dad. Maybe he’s also been drinking.
“If there’s a packet in front of you pick it up and slide it to the person it belongs to. All together now.”
Packets slide across the table, quickly finding their correct owners.
“See how easy that was, boys and girls? The problem is your technique. You’ve got the skills, otherwise you wouldn’t be here—speaking of,” he holds up his hand, interrupting himself, “if you don’t have a packet in your hand, stand up.”
A little more than half of the room gets up.
“A round of applause,” he says. “Now get the fuck out.”
There’s a tepid applause then petrified silence.
Mason looks at the rest of us. “Close!”
Back at my desk, I go through the packet as my hands shake with stress. I take a few deep breaths and read through what’s inside. It’s an old lead that I never closed. I go to do research on it but remember I don’t have my phone.
This is getting dire, as I can’t get into the database to do any work without it. I check my email for the minutes from Matthews. Maybe they have something about the deal. But instead I see a message from Rachel that sends me rushing to her office.
“I found him,” she says. She turns her screen around.
I expect to see the man of my dreams, but instead I see a tiny green dot.
“He must have plugged it in,” she says.
I think of him plugging something else in but quickly refocus. “Queens,” I say, looking at the map. “Must be him. I’m going there now.”
“You sure about that?”
“Why not?”
“It’s the middle of the workday. Maybe he’s also at work.”
“It’s Friday,” I say.
“Yeah, like people don’t work on Fridays,” she says. She motions with her hands, drawing attention to the fact that we’re in an office.
“I can wait for him.”
“Yeah, that’s nice. The drunk you saved is now sitting on your doorstep like an alley cat.”
“He must know I’m coming back. My phone is there. And it’s not like he doesn’t know it’s there, he plugged it in.”
“And what are you going to tell Matthews and Mason?”
“You’re right,” I tell her, remembering that we have to meet.
“How about this: instead of showing up like an impulsive, crazy person, maybe you should activate the lost phone feature and send a message with your work number. That way he can call you, and you guys can arrange the phone pickup like normal sane people.”
She’s brilliant. “What would I do without you?” I say.
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
“Nope,” I say as I run out of her office.
I go online to my cloud account and start to send a message to my phone. I wonder for a moment what to write. Rachel is right, I should probably not come off as the hot mess he probably already thinks I am. I decide on a professional message, rather than something funny or flirtatious.
THANK YOU TO WHOEVER FOUND MY PHONE. PLEASE CALL ME AT 212-917-5555 TO ARRANGE PICKUP AND REWARD.
I send the message to my phone and wait for my work line to ring. It doesn’t.
After a few more minutes it finally rings. I pick it up and put it to my ear so fast the receiver ends up slapping me in the face. I fumble with it for a second or two.
“It’s only me,” Rachel says laughing. “I’m guessing he hasn’t called you yet.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I thought you were him,” I say. “Can we Guano Chat, I don’t want to tie up the line.”
“I already tried you there, you’re not logged on.”
“Dammit,” I say. “I hate that they changed that.”
Guano Chat is the interoffice chat system we use to communicate. It used to come on automatically when you logged on. Now it doesn’t, and they won’t allow the program to run automatically on start up. So I regularly forget to log on. I do so now. “I’m on,” I say.
“Ok, I’ll talk there,” she says, “though you do realize you have more than one phone line.”
WHATEVER, I type into the chat. WHY HASN’T HE CALLED BACK?
I wait by the phone until the day has crept by and it’s time for the Closing Time meeting.
At 4:50 we assemble in the conference room. The 4:50 meeting makes everyone nervous, as they do all the firings at 4:50, usually on a Friday, 10 minutes before closing time. It works something like this: Escorted by security, you have all of 10 minutes to get your stuff and get out.
It’s company policy that everyone you pass is obliged to clap as you pass them by. It’s supposedly a roaring send off, like a military gun salute, but in reality it’s the ultimate walk of shame. Public humiliation applauds your professional failure.
The room is already much emptier after this morning’s culling. We all share wide eyed looks, like cows concerned about their shared fate at the slaughter house.
“I won’t waste your time with these bullshit meetings,” Mason says. “Team Awesome, I’ll ask you to stand.”
I stand reluctantly, watching Matthews do the same. I look around for any other brave members, but none materialize.
“A round of applause, gentlemen.”
The room starts clapping as the color drains from my face.
“Those seated and clapping,” he says, “get the hell out of my building.”
I stand there frozen as the room empties of the now unemployed.
“Deadweight,” Mason says, not even waiting for the last person to leave. “So, Team Awesome, still up for the challenge?”
“Absolutely,” Matthews and I say simultaneously.
“Good,” Mason says then leaves the room.
I look at Matthews, who has the confidence of someone who actually knows what the hell is going on.
Matthews gives me a fist bump, which I hate. “Look out world, Team Awesome coming for ya,” he says. He pulls out his phone and starts typing. “Gotta bolt,” he says. “Just sent you what I put together. Let’s go over it Monday and plan it all out next week. We fly out in a couple of weeks.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, though at this point I have no idea what that plan is.