Pink Slip Party (23 page)

Kyle lets out a small laugh.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” he says.

“I bet you won’t believe a lot of things about me,” I say.

“Tell me what you like,” he whispers in my ear, the first time a guy has been on the ball enough to actually ask.

“Do you like this?” he asks, kissing me hard on the lips, flipping me over on my back. I murmur a yes.

“And this?” Kyle’s fingers find me, and it seems like he’s got a few tricks of his own. He’s got me so worked up that I beg him not to stop, and he doesn’t, not until I’m so close I want to scream. That’s when he pushes inside, and it feels like it’s never felt. I can’t think of anything but how good it is. It’s the first time I don’t have to put on a show. Kyle is whispering in my ear about the things he wants to do to me. He only gets to the second before I’ve gone tumbling over the edge, a surprising rush so strong I can’t help but make noise. It’s the first time I’ve never had to fake it on the first go ’round.

Afterward, Kyle cradles me in his arms, holds me close in a protective spoon and runs his hands over my body like he’s trying to store up information, his hands memorizing the curves.

“I’ve had a crush on you since fifth grade.”

“You did not,” I say.

“I did. I thought you’d laugh at me if I told you.”

“I would have,” I say.

“I know,” he says. “I had to wait until your defenses were down. You are so rarely vulnerable.”

“I had a crush on you when I was ten,” I admit.

“You did?” Kyle sounds genuinely surprised.

“And if you liked me for so long, why didn’t you say something?”

“Well, you
always
had a boyfriend. I swear, you were always surrounded by boys.”

“I hardly think so. You were the one who always had a girlfriend,” I say.

“The point being, there was a serious lack of opportunity.”

“So your plan of seduction was flaunting your old girlfriend and then almost getting me fired from my temp job?”

“I wouldn’t call it a plan, exactly,” he tells me, kissing my nose.

“You’re lucky I’m easily impressed,” I say.

I fall asleep in Kyle’s giant king-size bed, and he cradles me and strokes my hair, and I feel funny and weird, and it’s been so long it takes me awhile to remember contentment.

I come awake to the feeling of Kyle squeezing me close, and for the first time in months, I don’t seem to care about my joblessness. I don’t come awake seized with that familiar sense of doom. I feel, for once, optimistic. Maybe it’s the fact that Kyle’s kissing me, courageously unconcerned about morning breath. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m kissing him back, and I know where this is headed, and it isn’t to awkward goodbyes and the avoidance of eye contact.

Kyle sits up and stretches.

“I’m going to make us coffee,” he says. I watch him as he pulls up his boxers and pads softly to the front of his apartment. Yawning, I get up, taking most of the sheet with me.

*   *   *

Kyle insists on driving me to work, where I arrive wearing pretty much the same clothes (with a different shirt — one of Kyle’s) that I wore yesterday. And for once, I’m not worried that Kyle won’t call, or that someone at the office will talk about me.

But the tranquil, lazy feeling of satisfaction doesn’t last.

Waiting in my email inbox, like a land mine, is an email from Steph. Attached is an article from the
Chicago Tribune.

“Prank Gone Bad?” it reads. “Officials Investigating Break-In at Major Office Supplier.”

I skim the article in a kind of panic.

I see the words “vandalism,” “break-in,” and “police” and I nearly stop breathing. It says:

Prank Gone Bad?

Police believe two or more disgruntled employees of Maximum Office broke in, ransacked the employee files, and broke into the company’s email system.

Several vice-presidents and other high-ranking managers of the company received email notices that claimed they had been fired. At least two weeks of high-ranking managerial pay, totaling somewhere in the neighborhood of $55,000, has been diverted from payroll and is currently missing.

I can’t seem to breathe properly.

Did Missy steal the payroll money?

Of course she did.

This whole prank was probably just an excuse for her to get into the system and then blame it on one of us.

I keep reading.

The break-in comes several months after a significant round of layoffs of nearly 1,000 employees, none of whom were in high-level managerial positions.

Police say they have no suspects at this time, but are currently reviewing the roster of recently laid-off employees who may have had access to the company’s buildings.

So far, officials say they don’t think the break-in will affect the planned merger with the number-two giant office supplier, Office Online, Inc.

The police are probably at this moment figuring out that of all the disgruntled employees, I am the most disgruntled. I imagine they have already sent out a herd of black-suited federal agents, who at this very moment are probably interviewing Bob the Landlord, who will be telling them how he always suspected I was into something illegal, given my inability to pay the rent on time. I imagine Steph being interviewed, spewing expletives, and being carted off to jail in the backseat of an unmarked police car.

I call Steph.

“WHERE have you been?” she breathes at me.

“Booking a one-way ticket to Mexico City,” I say.

“Don’t even joke about that,” Steph says.

“What are we going to do?”

“Just stick to the alibi Missy said to use.”

“What’s that?”

“You know, we were at home. We watched
Office Space.”

“I haven’t seen
Office Space,”
I say.

“Who hasn’t seen
Office Space?”
she asks me.

I ignore that. “Well, can you at least tell me what it’s about?”

“Well, these guys get laid off and then they decide to steal from the company,” Steph says.

I am silent for a beat or two. “You don’t see the irony there?”

“What?” she asks.

“Never mind,” I say. “What if that doesn’t work?”

“I’d say we both need a good attorney, then,” she says.

I call my own apartment, figuring that while Missy is probably still gone, I can at least tell Ron that there may be police coming to my apartment. That might entice him to leave and take his muses with him.

Vishnu answers.

“Is Ron there?” I ask her.

There’s a clatter and the sound of grunting (she’s probably doing Downward Dog naked), and then Ron comes on the phone.

“Yo,” he says.

“Ron, it’s Jane. Listen to me very closely.”

“Jane — DUDE, you won’t believe what’s happened.”

“Are the police there?” I cry, panicking.

“Police? No, no, no. Sink Gunk, DUDE. We’ve got our own single out. Like, we’re on the RADIO.”

“Great, Ron. That’s just great. But I have something important to tell you.”

“We’re going to be on the
Crash and Burn
soundtrack or something. It’s going to be wild.”

“Ron. I have something important to tell you, OK? Let me talk for a second.”

I finish explaining about the news article, and Ron doesn’t say anything for several long seconds. Then, he says, “Hey, on your way home can you pick up some nitrate-free lunch meat? We are like totally out of sandwich filler, dude.”

“Ron. Did you hear a word I said?”

“Ganesha wants turkey, but I’ll take ham or roast beef.”

There’s no use trying to talk seriously to Ron about anything.

When the police aren’t waiting for me when I get home, I manage to relax a little. Maybe they
won’t
find me. Maybe I’m so far down the list of the hundreds of disgruntled Maximum Office employees that they’ll give up interviewing people before they even reach me. Besides, Missy said it is a misdemeanor. I think about Mike’s file under my bed, but I still don’t know what I want to do with it, if anything.

Because rationalization always has been one of my talents, I decide that maybe, for once, God will not punish me for wrong-doings.

There’s a commotion on the stairwell, and I realize it’s Mrs. Slatter, because I can hear her lapdog yipping. I open up my door and peer down the stairwell in time to see Mrs. Slatter, wearing a nylon jogging suit made entirely of silver sequins.

“How’d you do in Vegas?” I shout down at her. She looks up at me and squints through giant plastic sunglasses.

She shrugs. “You win some, you lose some,” is all she says. I notice, however, that her dog is wearing a rhinestone collar, and mini star-shaped doggie sunglasses.

Kyle calls around six, proving that he’s after more than a one-night stand.

“I thought guys like you were supposed to wait three days before calling,” I say.

“That’s far too predictable. I like to keep my women guessing.”

“The sign of a true player,” I say.

“Are you free tonight? Can I buy you dinner?”

“Only if it’s incredibly expensive and you expect sex afterward.”

“Naturally,” Kyle says, and I can tell he’s smiling.

Citibank Financial Offices
Customer Service
Wilmington, Delaware 19801

Jane McGregor
3335 Kenmore Ave.
Chicago, IL 60657

May 6, 2002

Dear Ms. McGregor,

We are writing to inform you that you have exceeded your MasterCard credit limit by $338.09. Per the written agreement you signed with us, we will charge you $50 for exceeding your balance and another $50 in late fees.

Please call our customer service line immediately to address your outstanding balance and late minimum payment. Failure to do so will require us to turn over your account to a collection agency.

Sincerely,
Jen Keith
Citibank Customer Services Manager

P.S. Per your inquiry, we are unable to accept the following in payment: human organs, sexual services, or indentured servitude.

16

W
hat I feared would be a one-night stand with Kyle has turned into a month-long relationship. I have kept my temp job, miraculously, and a boyfriend for longer than four weeks. For the first time, I feel like my luck is changing. Either that, or I’m in the eye of the bad luck storm. It’s the latter, I discover, during a night when we’re eating pizza at Kyle’s and watching CNN, and a story about the Maximum Office break-in airs. Since when did misdemeanor trespassing merit national news coverage?

“Oh yeah, I heard about that break-in,” Kyle says. “You know anything about that, Jane?”

“Are you saying I did it? Because, I didn’t do it.”

“I didn’t imply that you did.” Kyle looks at me strangely.

“I mean, I wouldn’t do something like that,” I say.

“What’s your problem?”

“Nothing,” I say, too quickly.

*   *   *

“Calm down,” Steph commands after I call her the next morning. “First, nobody has even come looking for us, so I really doubt that they have any clue about who did this.”

“We should all get our stories straight, just to be sure,” I say.

The next afternoon, Ferguson, Steph, and I meet covertly away from any of our neighborhoods, in the Ennui coffee shop in Rogers Park. I take elaborate measures to make sure I’m not followed, including circling around the block twice because of a car parked out front that looks like a federal agent’s. I shouldn’t have bothered, because when I walk in, I see that Steph and Ferguson are sitting in a front-window seat.

“Don’t you guys want to sit somewhere a little less obvious?” I ask.

“Calm down,” Steph says. “Who’s going to see us?”

When I protest more, Steph sighs dramatically and agrees to move.

Of the three of us, I am most worried about Ferguson caving under police interrogation because he tends to bow easily to peer pressure.

Ferguson is looking less nerdy than usual. He’s got on a regular Gap shirt and jeans and is looking slim, like he’s almost back to his pre-pot-smoking weight. And instead of his boxy glasses, he’s wearing contacts. If I didn’t know any better, I’d suspect he has a girlfriend.

“Ferguson, you’re the only one they can tie into this mess because we used your keycard,” I say.

“I told them I lost my keycard,” Ferguson tells us.

“They interviewed you?” I nearly choke on my coffee. “Why didn’t you call us?”

“I called Steph,” Ferguson says, then blushes a deep red.

Steph, who is trying to look anywhere but at me, stares intently at the discarded coffee stirrers piled in the middle of the table. I look at Steph, then back at Ferguson.

“You guys hooked up,” I accuse.

“Well, you know what they say about adrenaline-causing situations and sex,” Steph says.

I really don’t want to hear any more of this.

“Then it grew into something more,” Ferguson says, clasping Steph’s hand on the table. “I’m so lucky. Don’t you think she’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen?”

“Isn’t he soooo sweet?” Steph says, interlacing her fingers in his. I decide that maybe I should start charging admission to my apartment. It has more successful love stories than Match.com.

It is hard to make a plan sitting across the table from Ferguson and Steph, who — now that they’re outed — can’t seem to keep their hands off one another. I’m the victim when their game of footsy goes awry and Ferguson accidentally kicks me in the shin.