Category Archives: Short Short Stories

Short Fiction for Guests of the WordFeeder
Sunday, October 4, 2009

Jack knew that Oliver would be coming through the office kitchen door at 3 PM, plus or minus a couple of minutes. Oliver was trying really hard to lose weight, maybe 20, 25 pounds, and had promised himself he wouldn’t eat lunch before 12, or have an afternoon snack before 3. It wasn’t easy, but the routine was working for him, and Allison – second in command of his five person future projects analysis team, and the woman of his dreams – was beginning to notice.

Jack knew Oliver would be coming through the door, turning right, going directly to the refrigerator, opening the freezer and removing the last of the box of 4 Nestlé Drumsticks which he would proceed to eat right down to the tip, slowly enough to enjoy every bite, fast enough to avoid dripping any of it on the perfect ties he wore every day.

(Oliver preferred the “Classic Vanilla” Drumstick, delicious chocolate and peanut topped vanilla ice cream in a chocolate-lined sugar cone, believing that the newer models with the fudge or caramel core or chocolate ice cream were examples of major corporations tampering with perfection. By far and away, the worst example in this category, as Oliver had pointed out on occasion, was when Coca Cola tried unsuccessfully in 1985 to change the formula of what subsequently became known as “Classic” Coke. Oliver knew his stack foods. FYI, the Drumstick is the modern version of a discontinued product called the “Nutty Buddy,” invented years ago by its namesake, Buddy Seymourian – not to be confused with the men’s athletic cup of the same name whose slogan, “Protecting the boys,” pretty much tells you everything you need to know about that product.)

Oliver would be focused on the refrigerator, thinking about the analysis he was doing on a property his company was considering developing, and wouldn’t notice Jack leaning against the counter to his left behind the open door. Jack would wait, wait for Oliver to close the door to the freezer compartment, drop the empty box in the trash can, peel off the top of the Drumstick wrapper and turn to leave while contemplating his first bite. The first bite had to be carefully considered, like a diamond cutter making sure his first strike wouldn’t ruin what could be the perfect stone, or the way a Mohel thinks twice, even three times before he circumcises a baby boy. There was no room for error.

“Thanks!” Jack pulled off the surprise and snatched the Drumstick from Oliver’s hand. “That was way too easy,” he gloated.

Oliver said nothing, just staring at his last Drumstick, wondering what Jack and he would do next, and then raised his eyes to look up, from under his eyebrows, directly into Jack’s.

It was the moment Jack had been waiting for. Shoving the Drumstick toward his mouth, he took a huge bite which crumbled the peanut studded chocolate shell, a large piece of it falling to the tile floor. Jack laughed a bit while his free hand salvaged a bit of ice cream that was lingering precariously at the corner of his mouth. “Hey,” he said mockingly, “these are good.”

Oliver thought for a moment, watching yet another piece of chocolate and nuts fall to the floor. Was it worth it for him, he thought, to shove what was left of his Drumstick into the face of the asshole in front of him? Technically, Jack was senior to him, having graduated and joined the firm two years ahead of Oliver. Intellectually, and in every other respect, he was a poor excuse for everything he pretended to be, a coworker whose principal job seemed to be taking credit for everyone else’s work which made him the darling of the mid-level management to whom they all reported. Picking on Oliver, the only analyst in their division Jack worried about, had become a regular part of Jack’s daily routine.

“Here,” Jack extended the ruined cone as if it was a microphone, pretending to offer Oliver a chance to share.

Oliver thought for a moment, deciding instead to be as polite as he could, actually managing a slight, if insincere smile. “No thanks. ..You seem to be enjoying it even more than I would have.” And then, looking down at the floor and back up at Jack. “Be sure to clean up before you leave. Company policy.” Walking around his nemesis, Oliver headed out of the kitchen at a measured pace, not fast enough to avoid hearing the sound of his Drumstick hitting the inside of the trash can, the image of his wasted delight melting at the bottom with coffee cups and a banana peel swirling around his mind. In all relationships, business and personal, pleasant and adversarial, there are tipping points. However petty – it was, after all, nothing more than a snack – this was one of them. Oliver knew it, and the anticipation of his getting back at Jack once and for all made him feel strangely good about himself.

Unfortunately, Oliver being a good guy and laser focused on his work, Jack’s shenanigans continued unabated – including hitting on Allison about whom he cared zero, preferring less intelligent, less driven, more overtly flirtatious slutty types – as the deadline for Oliver’s report approached. Oliver and his team would do the research in painstaking detail. Oliver would write the report with Allison’s and the other team members’ help. Jack would read it and preview its findings with management. He was a quick study, and there was usually no stopping him from demanding and getting access to their work. Depending upon their reaction, he’d either take credit or suggest that there were still elements of the study that, well, “needed work.” Not to worry. He’d handle it. When the time came, he’d insist on making the formal presentation, or let Oliver do it and submit a supplementary report based on middle management’s concerns – the ones Oliver knew nothing about.

This time, Jack was beginning to sense, would be different. This particular project had an especially high profile, and had attracted senior management’s attention with an intensity none of them had seen before. Middle management was being tentative, hedging its bets. There was “no-nonsense” in the air, and it was making him uneasy.

Early the following afternoon, Oliver’s team was in the conference room engaged in what Jack figured had to be their last meeting before Oliver would put the final touches on the report and write up his recommendations. “Oliver.” Jack walked in, not caring that he was interrupting a highly animated discussion, professional, but nonetheless noisy, between two of Oliver’s team who were arguing about the pricing they’d recommend. “E-mail me the draft.” He was talking to Oliver, but looking at Allison, her auburn hair pulled back with a scrunchy they way she did when she’d been their overnight. “Hey, Allison.” (Just two simple words, but there was no way he could say them that didn’t sound creepy.)

“Jack,” she answered without looking up from the notes she was making.

“How about dinner tomorrow night, after the presentation?”

“No thanks,” she looked up showing the minimum courtesy she could, short of telling him where to get off.

“Don’t tell me you have plans?”

“She has plans with me.” It wasn’t true, but Oliver had had it with Jack’s crap.

“You’re kidding?” Jack turned to Allison, waiting for confirmation.

“I said she has plans with me. And you’ll get your copy of the report when it’s done, at the presentation with everyone else.” Oliver remained seated, working on draft text and tables he had spread out on the table in front of him.

“You’ll give it to me now.”

Oliver looked up, paused for only a second, before he asked the question he could no longer resist, “Or what?”

No response.

“Or what?” he repeated, more deliberately this time. “…Maybe you didn’t hear me? Just what are you going to do if I don’t give it to you?”

No response, but then, turning back to Allison, his voice uncharacteristically subdued, Jack decided to pursue a different subject. “You’re not really going out to dinner with Chubby?”

“Out?” Allison looked up, taking off her reading glasses. Reaching back to remove the clip, her chest pushing forward while she shook her head just enough to let her hair down. “I’m going to be fucking his brains out at my place over some sangria and cartons of carry out.” And then turning to Oliver, “Crab Rangoon and black bean shrimp, babe, same as last time?”

“Maybe…” He had to stop to swallow. “…maybe some pineapple chicken?” Oliver couldn’t take his eyes off her, while the heads of the other three on the team went back and forth between them as if they had table side seats at a ping pong game.

“Yeah?” Jack was determined to have the last word. “You two deserve each other,” and he left, heading down the hall toward the elevator and the middle management executive offices two floors up.

Oliver and Allison would have probably stared at each other for the rest of the afternoon if one of their colleagues hadn’t interrupted the silence for selfish reasons. “Hey, guys. Can he get us fired?”

“Them maybe,” one of the others answered, obviously kidding, “but not us.”

“You’ll be fine,” Oliver reassured them. “By now, he’s finding out that senior management had us hand in the final draft early, yesterday morning. I’ll e-mail these revisions they requested later this afternoon.”

“What about the presentation?”

“They didn’t need one. I’ve been keeping them up to date for weeks, on a daily basis. …I’ll be running the project, with Allison taking over here as of the Monday.” Turning to Allison, “You’ll have to hire a newbee to keep the team at five.” (She was pleased that he had recommended her for the promotion. Sure, Oliver liked her, but she was good, really good. He knew it, and so did she, but in a practical, not conceited way.)

“What about Jack,” Allison was wondering if he’d still be getting in their way.

“Not up to me, although I suspect a transfer might be an option.” Checking his watch, “Okay, enough. Good job everybody. It’s only 2:50. Plenty of day to get some work done.”

At 3 PM sharp, Oliver pushed open the door to the company kitchen, heading right toward the refrigerator, his head already busy wrapping itself around the first few project management problems he’d be facing. Opening the freezer compartment, the frosty mist hitting him in the face, it took both his hands to open the new box of Drumsticks his team had bought him, with the big red bow on top, and pull one out. Pushing the freezer door shut, he carefully removed the top of the wrapper, turning without realizing there was anyone standing behind him.

“Thanks!” Allison pulled off the surprise, snatching the Drumstick from Oliver’s hand. “You know, that was way too easy,” she smiled with the corners of her mouth as he watched the freshly applied red gloss on her lips wrap around the peanut covered coating, taking the perfect bite without so much as cracking any of the other chocolate.

Wiping some ice cream from her lips, she told him to, “Get your own,” turned and headed for the door. Pausing just as she got there, Allison looked back, took a second bite, licking her lips clean, rolled her eyes up to look at him, and asked Oliver the question that would make his year. “So,” her tone was matter-of-fact, but her eyes… her eyes were unusually blue, “are we still on for dinner at my place?” A quick air kiss and she left before Oliver regained consciousness and began running down the hall after her.

-wf

What to read more? Just click here and pick a title you like.

Copyright as of the title date or earlier, by me.
(I write the WordFeeder blog.)  All rights reserved.
Email WordFeeder@verizon.net for additional information.

Short Fiction for Guests of the WordFeeder
Sunday, September 6, 2009

Once upon a time…

“I’ll tell you the story of Jimmy Jet –
And you know what I tell you is true.
He loved to watch his TV set
Almost as much as you.”*

*Text, from his children’s poem, “Jimmy Jet and His TV Set,”
and embedded sketches are by Shel Silverstein
(Where the Sidewalk Ends, 1974).

Tuesday, 6:47 PM, thirty-five years later…

“Hey.” Jimmy was beat, and was beginning to suspect the internship the summer before he graduated had be a hoax. Just two excruciatingly stressful days into the week, and he’d had it. Monday’s trip out of town on business hadn’t gone well, but he was back. Tired, disheveled, he plopped his computer case and small duffle bag onto hallway floor in front of his apartment, and started fumbling for his keys just as Melissa got off the elevator and turned toward her apartment, the one directly across the hall from his.

“Hey,” she responded, her raincoat folded over her left arm above the briefcase and handbag she was carrying, an overstuffed bag of groceries in the other.

“Here, let me help you with that.” He was crazy about Melissa, and pretty sure she liked him, but getting their deal underway was taking forever.

“Sure,” she smiled back at him, the sparkle in her eyes coming back on-line as she did. “Hold this while I get my key.” He did, and she opened the door to her place. Walking inside past the kitchen, with Jimmy right behind her, Melissa dumped her stuff on the table, large enough for just two chairs, and turned back to Jimmy to take the groceries.

“Spaghetti and turkey meatballs?” she asked him, hoping he’d come over.

Jimmy’s eyes looked away from hers, for just a second, at the French bread sticking out of the bag. “On-the-couch-picnic, in time for ‘Bones’ at 8? It’s an episode I haven’t seen.”

She almost forgot to say anything, but remembered just before it became weird. “Deal.”

Jimmy just stood there, reaching out for the door knob a full five feet behind him. Seeing his dilemma, Melissa put her hand against his chest and started walking, slowly pushing him back a couple of steps until he made contact.

“See you later,” he said, to which she nodded slowly back at him – no smile this time, but more of an expression resolute with anticipation that made him nervous.

Across the hall, he fumbled again for his keys, pushed his door open just crack, holding it open while he picked up the bags he’d left on the floor. Looking down, he saw the telltale whiskers of his cat who thought he was hiding from him, hoping he would open to door too wide and give him the shot he needed. “Hey, Dubie.” (It was short for “Dubious,” which described his gray and white cat perfectly.) Shuffling in, Jimmy did his best to prevent Dubie from escaping. “Miss me?”

“Meeeh,” which, according to Jimmy when Melissa asked him once, was Dubie-speak for, “You bet your bald ass I did!” Dubie was small, but then so was Jimmy’s apartment, the mirror image of Melissa’s.

Throwing both switches on the wall, the hall and kitchen lights went on. The flat screen in the living room was already on, having been set to bring up the NBC Nightly News at 6:30, and then switchover to the CBS Evening News “with Kay-tee Cur-ick” at 7. Jimmy loved saying her name with the announcer and, to disclose something he’d never admitted to anyone, thought she was hot. The TV in the corner of his bedroom did the same.

Pushing his door shut, he slid his computer case on the table by the kitchen, unzipped it and plugged in his laptop using the extra cord he kept at home, opened the lid, and repressed the on button, hardly missing a step on his way toward the balcony to see if Dubie was out of food and water.

The two TVs made it possible for him to move from room to room without having to wait for a commercial. Both sets were always on, even when he slept, a habit he’d picked up when he was a kid. At work, his computer was on-line all the time, his phone keeping him connected whenever he was out.

Changing out of his suit, Jimmy put on jeans and a t-shirt, and then had a thought that required a video call to Melissa.

“Hey.” He was in front of his webcam, she was in front of hers which was on a desk she had in her bedroom.

“Hey.”

“What are you doing?” as if he didn’t know.

“Changing into my jammies,” by which she meant the sweat pants and t-shirt she wore to bed. “But then that’s why you called,” she chided, moving her face right up to the screen, “isn’t it?”

“Actually, I called to ask if I should make some Sangria.”

“Oh, yeh? Well,” she thought for a moment, tying up her shoulder length hair into a haphazard bun, “sure. …No peeking,” she advised him, waving her finger back and forth in front of the camera as if she was scolding him.

“Of course not,” he agreed, covering his face with is hand, but spreading his fingers to let his right eye keep watching.

Turning around, but moving only slightly away from being directly in front of the camera – Melissa unbuttoned and took off the business blouse she’d worn to work that day, and the bra under it. “How was your trip?”

“Okay. ..I’ll tell you about it over dinner.” Talking now would only break his concentration. Melissa had told him that she’d read in one of her Anthropology textbooks that men were programmed to do only one thing at a time.

Her back facing the camera, she looked over her shoulder to see if he was watching, careful not to turn too far around as she did. He was still there alright, and quickly closed up his fingers while she stretched her t-shirt over her hair and pulled it down. “I’ve got to fix dinner. See you later,” and she left the room, knowing full well, and liking every second of it, that he was still standing there, staring at the screen.

She had just the one TV in her living room on which “Access Hollywood” was bringing her up to date on the world of entertainment. If she’d been paying attention, she’d have learned that Michael Jackson was still dead, but hadn’t been buried yet. Why this particular show? Because it was so much better than “Entertainment Tonight.” Just in case, she’d straighten up her room, but not so much to make it look as if no one really lived there. Her blouse and bra were left purposely tossed over the back of her chair. (She’d had to do it twice to get it to look just right.) And the sheet and light blanket she slept under were pulled up, but not all the way, the one pillow left propped up vertically, and pushed in lightly on top of the other as if she’d been sitting up in bed reading.

At 7:45 exactly, she was in the kitchen now, stirring a pot of store-bought tomato sauce and some turkey meatballs she’d made a few days before. A big bowl of salad, napkins, silverware and plates were on the table for them to pick up, buffet-style, when her phone on the counter made its familiar “boob boop” to indicate an incoming text. “Knock, knock,” the screen said.

Going to the door, she looked through her peep hole, knowing who it was of course, but wanting to make it official. And there was Jimmy, checking his office e-mail, his arm under Dubie who insisted on coming, a pitcher of red wine and fruit in his other hand.

8:57 PM. Dinner had been delicious. The entire bread was gone, together with an entire stick of cold, real butter, and they were down to sucking on the orange slices left soaking in the pitcher of Sangria. Dubie was somewhere, but neither of them cared. Melissa had given him a couple pieces of meatball which he ate off the coffee table, and were the highlight of his day. Odds were he was taking a nap.

It was a good episode of “Bones” through which they talked and laughed incessantly about every detail, speculating about the precise circumstances when Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth would finally make it official. It was their way, Jimmy’s and Melissa’s, of asking the same question about themselves.

As fate would have it, Melissa had sliced up the half a watermelon she’d bought over the weekend, just in case. It was Jimmy’s favorite dessert. The two of them sat there, some Lifetime movie starting up on the wide, HDTV a few feet across from them. Kitchen towels spread out on the coffee table, they leaned over, burying their faces into juicy, sweet slices, spitting their seeds, as best they could, into the glass bowl between them, only half of which made it. Three minutes later, they were making out like teenagers, which they barely weren’t, in a frenzied explosion of pent up passion, watermelon juice dribbling recklessly down the sides of their mouths and on their hands, grabbing at each other’s faces and t-shirts. …until the cable went out, and they stopped.

“What was that?” Jimmy asked, almost in whisper.

“Why are you whispering?”

“It’s so quiet.” Their mouths were less than an inch apart.

“So? “

Jimmy’s eyes began darting between Melissa’s and the TV, now nothing more than a black window on the wall. His blinking became erratic, his breathing labored.

“Jimmy?” And just as quickly, the cable came back. The glowing lights and sounds of dialog and soundtrack filling the darkened room.

Turning back toward her, she felt the strength returning to his hands, moving again under her t-shirt – and they got back to finishing what they had started. Right there on the couch, because there was no TV in the bedroom and Melissa wasn’t about to risk it.

-wf

That's Melissa on the right.

What to read more? Just click here and pick a title you like.

Copyright as of the title date or earlier, by me.
(I write the WordFeeder blog.)  All rights reserved.
Email WordFeeder@verizon.net for additional information.

Short Fiction for Guests of the WordFeeder
Sunday, August 30, 2009

It was a case of “unauthorized schtupping” which was what it said, in more professional terms, on the papers when Jeremy’s wife of just three years sued him for divorce. As for the more common description, those were the words of the division’s President, Howie Rackman, who thought he was funny, but wasn’t. Only three years from retirement, Rackman’s sensitivities and terminology were those of a very different time.

“Schtupping,” from the Yiddish “schtupn” meaning to push (in) or press. Rackman, who wasn’t Jewish, but who had secretly always wanted to be, thought it was funny to mock Jeremy’s ethnicity, laughing out loud when he did, shaking his head from side to side as he marveled at the wit only he appreciated. (He also wanted to be Italian, but only if he could have the accent he was certain women found irresistible.) At least he was an equal opportunity jerk, having no qualms about offending anyone regardless of their origins or type – and women, women in particular whom he considered inferior, little more than interesting toys for the men in their lives and his company. “Somebody has to do all this clerical shit,” he often remarked around the conference table after one of the young female assistants who worked with senior management would leave to get coffee, make copies or do “God know what.” It was no accident that they were all young and attractive. That was, after all, the primary reason they were hired.

Jeremy Levitz, the senior Assistant Manager in the division, just three years out of Wharton with his MBA, never fit in and couldn’t get the promotions his work deserved. The market was soft, so he couldn’t leave. What he wanted was to manage one of the new offices they were opening – get the hell out of corporate, spend the next three years building that office his way and then move back to headquarters after Rackman retired.

Jeremy was good enough for management to take credit for his work, but not good enough to be one of them. Their nominal excuse was his lack of experience. The real reason was that they didn’t want the competition and couldn’t overwork and otherwise exploit one of their own, and that meant denying Jeremy membership in their exclusive club of over-paid, under-performing senior division executives.

And then there was Ruth. 30. Unquestionably the hottest “shiksa” in the office. (Rackman liked to use these terms like they were his own. “Ever wonder to yourself,” Jeremy once asked his wife, “where politically incorrect expressions go to die? Now you know.”) As close to being “one of the boys” as a woman could be, she’d earned every dollar she’d made putting up with their crap, never letting them get to her, keeping her distance – never once having had so much as dinner with one of them. Rackman and his posse didn’t respect her, not really, so much as they feared having to deal with her. She made them nervous for the wrong and inappropriate reasons.

She and Jeremy were the ones who made the division happen. Everyone in their division knew it. More to the point, so did corporate management two floors up. They tolerated Rackman as a legacy, for his work with the founder building the company decades ago, but would clean house as soon he left. In the meantime, although neither Ruth nor Jeremy knew it, the two of them were bullet proof. Picking on them, dumping on them was as far as corporate would allow Rackman to go, although being fired might have been a godsend. For the two of them, the next three years under his supervision would seem like ten.

“I need the re-analysis of our southeastern region on my desk Monday morning.” Rackman’s tone was matter-of-fact, barely breaking his stride on his way past Jeremy’s office. Leaving early for the weekend, he wouldn’t be missed. “I’ll need 10 binders, and write me a presentation, big type, you know how I like it, including notes indicating when I point to what. That always impresses them. …Use Ruth for whatever you need,” he added, raising his eyebrows as if those instructions had sexual implications. (Ruth had wondered out loud to Jeremy once, after a particularly slimy exchange with Rackman, whether or not he had a clue how truly unattractive he was? It was a rhetorical observation.) “See you,” and he was off without bothering to ask if there might be any questions, utter a “Thanks” or wait for Jeremy to nod his acceptance. Just a “Whoa. Hold the elevator,” in which everyone was begging the doors to shut more quickly, and he was gone.

“Asshole,” Jeremy mumbled under his breath, rolling his chair to look out at the cityscape and ponder his frustration. He’d been hoping to spend some quality time with Evelyn this weekend, but clearly that wasn’t going to happen. He’d be lucky to get out of his office. Maybe, he thought to himself, eyeing a young women moving wistfully through her office in the building across the street, maybe Evelyn would bring over some carryout that evening and they could get to know the leather on his couch together. Just then, the woman across the street stopped, and turned to face him. Smiling, she waved and let him lip read the word, “Hey.” He smiled and waived back at her the way they often did, both of them slightly embarrassed by their long-distance relationship as she walked away and out of her office. Seeing her like that, the girl with short blond hair he’d never met, was often the highlight of his day.

Turning back to his desk, Jeremy reached for his phone, thinking he’d better call Evelyn, just before it “buzzzz”d at him. Pressing the intercom button, he said the usual, “This is Jeremy. What do you need?”

“Hey. It’s Irene,” the receptionist on that floor. “There’s a messenger here with some papers he says he has to give to you, personally. Can you come out, or should I walk him back.”

“Thanks. Here I come.”

It was to the right, just down the open hallway formed by the offices along the perimeter and waist-height carrels in the middle of the floor. Turning the corner past the upholstered furniture in the small lobby, instead of the usual bicycle messenger smelling like he had just been on fire, there was a young man, in his early twenties wearing a suit. Hearing someone coming, he was quick to break off his vain attempt to score points with Irene. It wasn’t that she was so pretty, as it was the effect of her strawberry blonde hair that seemed to have a life of its own.

“Mr. Stein? Jeremy Stein?”

“Yes?”

“This is for you,” he said, taking a 9 x 12 white envelope out of the zippered portfolio he’d been holding against his chest. “And, if you would,” he paused for a moment, looking down to fill in the time on his clipboard form, “Please sign here, in the blank next to your name.” Jeremy scribbled his usual “JStein,” no period after the “J,” looking apprehensively at the return address for one of their city’s boutique law firms, well known for representing women in divorce, workplace and other litigation. “Thank you, Mr. Stein.”

“Yeh,” Jeremy mumbled, putting off opening the envelope until he was back in his office, knowing that Irene would be staring after him wanting to ask what was going on, but being nice enough to understand that it was none of her business.

It was a Friday afternoon, after a long week during which Jeremy had been noticeably upset by some rough calls with his wife, Evelyn, his end of the arguments having been overheard through his office walls even though he’d been trying to keep it down. Apparently she’d had it with the endless late night sessions at the office working with Ruth, often going until 1 or 2 AM, not to mention the weekends.

He was surprised, having been more or less oblivious to his marriage during the past year, but then he wasn’t. They were divorce papers alright, accusing him of adultery, naming Ruth Smythe the subject of his indiscretions. Ruth would deny the accusations vehemently, but no one would believe her – not even her friends among the other women in the office who had seen the two of them working together, heard the occasional laughter, seen them touch or brush up against each other when no one was supposed to be looking. It might have appeared innocent enough at the time, but now it made perfectly good sense.

By Monday afternoon, everyone knew. At first, and to everyone’s surprise, management wasn’t annoyed at their intra-office affair. Far from it, they were impressed that Jeremy had nailed, repeatedly, the hottest girl in the office – and at the office, no less. For Rackman and his yes-men, it was enough to make them tear-up. “Way to go, Jeremy. Good work.” They didn’t say it out loud, but you could read it on their faces and in the way they had started treating Jeremy. Make him one the boys, his sexual conquests rub off on them. The fact was, they still didn’t like him. All this new found comradery was more about minimizing Ruth. Respecting Jeremy had nothing to do with it.

And so they were feeling pretty good about themselves, living vicariously through Jeremy, until Ruth showed up with her attorney – a striking, if severe looking woman – who sat down in Rackman’s office, door shut, and explained, in no uncertain terms, how her client was going to sue his company’s ass off for sexual harassment and discrimination. Proof? What proof did she have? Sexual harassment and discrimination are always so hard to prove.

Ruth’s attorney wasn’t about to concede any ground. “Mr. Rackman, you don’t honestly think a jury is going believe anything you have to say? You don’t have a single woman in any management position, not here or in any of your offices. With a couple of exceptions in the mail room, the entire clerical staff is female, young and attractive. No one over 40, no one overweight – and every one of them underpaid according to agency and government industry surveys.”

“This is extortion. This sex stuff was between Levitz and your client. Strictly personal business. What’s the company got to do with it?”

“You’re not really paying attention, are you Mr. Rackman? In the past 4 years, different men on your management team – including you – have asked my client out to dinner – a dinner “date” mind you, with no business purpose – on seven documented occasions, all of which invitations she declined. During the same period, she’s received nothing more than routine, minimal increases in salary, despite very substantial expansion of her responsibilities and three “Superior Performance Memoranda” for work which came to the attention of senior corporate management…”

You’d think Rackman wouldn’t have talked to them without his own counsel in the room, but that would have included corporate in the conversation. Turns out a significant portion of his retirement income is subject to Board approval. The kind of mess Ruth’s attorney was threatening wouldn’t be good for him.

“…And now, when she’s required to work under an Assistant Manager with less experience than she has, but who she has to please and, by inference, please you to keep her job, this happens!” The attorney held up her copy of the divorce papers. “’Use Ruth for whatever you want’? Are you kidding? That’s the way you talk about a female professional, raised eyebrows and a condescending smirk on your face, in earshot of the staff she supervises? Do you really want to take us on?”

“What do want?”

“Surprisingly little. You’ve got two new regional offices opening up in Savannah and Phoenix for which you’re advertising for managers. Levitz gets Savannah. My client wants Phoenix. Three year, no cut contracts, with standard executive level benefits, increases and bonuses. Promotions effective the first of next month.”

Rackman was quiet, doing his best to avoid the stare of the women sitting on the other side of his desk. And then he looked up, leaning back in his chair. “What the fuck. Your client can have Phoenix. Too damn hot, if you ask me, but why do you care what happens to Levitz?”

“My client feels that he’s basically an okay guy, who shouldn’t lose his job over something that’s really your fault. His marriage is over. It’ll be enough to have him reassigned to a startup office. You’ll just have to learn to live without the two of them.”

No reaction. (Unbelievably, Rackman was too busy staring at the attorney’s legs, her skirt a full three inches above her knee.)

“Besides, what do you care? Just agree and all this goes away.”

“You’re right,” he said, getting back to the issue at hand, “I don’t care. Consider it done.”

“We’ll expect both contracts in my inbox by COB Friday. My e-mail address is on my card. “

His pursed lips and inability to look them in the face were the only response they were going to get. Picking up the card the lawyer had given him when they first came into his office, he tapped the edge of it on his desk and waited for the sound of them pushing back their chairs to get up and leave.

Two weeks later…

“Hey, Ruth!” Jeremy realized it was her before he answered, calling from her new Phoenix area code cell phone number. “Are you having as much fun as I am?”

“More! How’s Evelyn? Are you settled in yet?”

“Yeah, we’re fine. What’s not to like. The city’s great. We virtually live on the ocean, and her parents and sister are less than an hour away.”

“Not to mention the money!!” He could have almost heard her laughing without the cell phones. “Absolutely the best idea Evelyn ever had!”

“Hi, honey. It’s Ruth.” Evelyn, holding the carryout they ordered, had just poked her head, to be funny, around the corner of the open door to his office. Jeremy would be working late tonight and they thought they’d unwrap his new chairs and leather couch together.”

“Here,” she reached for his phone, “give it to me.” “Hey, Ruthie! Thanks for your help with all this.”

“Are you kidding? I just wish I’d thought of it – or had a cousin who’s a women’s rights attorney.”

“Consider it a team effort. Rackman’s been screwing you and Jeremy all this time. The least we could do is return the favor.”

-wf

What to read more? Just click here and pick a title you like.

Copyright as of the title date or earlier, by me.
(I write the WordFeeder blog.)  All rights reserved.
Email WordFeeder@verizon.net for additional information.

Short Fiction for Guests of the WordFeeder
Monday, June 6, 2009

“Com’on, com’on.” Eleanor was the last of Jane’s friends to leave for the elevator, the others having given up more easily. “We’ll share some wings, the boring kind you like that won’t make your head sweat, pretend to be laughing at each other while we scope out guys pretending to be laughing at each other, watch American Idol on the big screen, and walk…” She stopped, Jane’s negatively shaking head having finally made its point.

“Thanks,” Jane smiled back at her, not wanting to rule out a rain check, “but I’ve got stuff to do. Lots of stuff.”

“Yeh,” Eleanor nodded, her eyes twinkling in the process, “I know all about ‘stuff.’ See you tomorrow,” and she ran off to the “bong” of the elevator doors opening.

“Thanks for your help!” Jane shouted after her, to which Eleanor responded by waving her right arm, but without turning around.

True, Jane really didn’t like getting home late without enough time to do things around her small apartment before she went to bed. But this wasn’t about the droll evening routine of an entry level program analyst on the 23rd floor in carrel #2308. No. Tonight was all about Steve.

Meanwhile, back at the elevators, and the one in particular into which all five of Jane’s friends were squeezing themselves, their over-sized purse-bags and briefcases…

“Ewww,’ Rona whispered way too loud, turning as she got on to avoid making eye contact with the two loose-tied young men in the back.

“Ladies,” one of them named “John” greeted them politely, his eyes focused on Eleanor’s as she looked up and then away before any of her friends noticed as the doors closed behind her.

Steve – carrel #3116 and fellow-resident in the small apartment building where Jane lived – was 6’ 1” with dark brown hair that fell wherever it pleased and blue green eyes, but his friendly good looks and melt-in-your-mouth smile weren’t the point. It was the way the sound of his voice made her feel that gave Jane the resolve she needed.

Despite her best efforts, she’d never been able to get his attention. Not really. Sure, there was the occasional lunch in the company cafeteria, with others at the table. And they would take the subway and walk together on their way home now and then, window shopping for pastries along the way. They would talk, taking longer than they would have going home alone, but never long enough. “Tonight would be different,” so said the determination on her face as she packed quickly, leaving the work she would normally take with her behind. Tonight she had a plan.

Steve, who had been working late every day for the past two weeks on a special project, was a closet American Idol fan according to an unidentified, but trustworthy source. He’d get home late this evening, order takeout to eat while he watched American Idol, and then do his laundry, which he always did on Wednesdays, later that evening. Problem: Tonight, Steve would arrive at his apartment, turn on the evening news as usual, only to find that his TV and Internet wouldn’t be working. (She’d have to do something very nice – maybe some concert tickets? – for her cousin, Randy, twice removed, who worked for the local cable company.)

Quick to adapt, Steve would go down to the laundry room at 7:40 PM, enough time to stuff his darks in one machine, his underwear and towels in another, and call “#1 Son” before 8. The place would be empty, all the usuals being glued to their sets, watching the show from the comfort of pillowed sofas and over-stuffed chairs. Steve would just have to settle for the small screen that hung off the wall above the change machine.

The layout in this particular laundry room is important. First of all, it was small. “Cozy” is more like it. There were four washing machines, top loaders, two backing up to the other two, up against the wall on the right when you came into the room. Exposed pipes overhead, but who cares about that? Two dryers were side by side up against the back wall. And there was a folding table along the wall on the left. In the corner, between the folding table and dryers, there were two plastic chairs facing the TV which, as you know, hung above the change machine, diagonally across the room, in the corner next to the door. It was a metal door, mostly frosted glass, that took forever to close by itself, picking up just barely enough momentum toward the end to “thunk” shut all the way.

Jane arrived at 7:50, carrying a large plastic laundry basket, and smaller round one on top with delicate items she’d wash separately. “Hey, Steve,” she pretended to be surprised to see him, which she wasn’t of course, but then was surprised to see him standing up suddenly as if he had been bending over and she had interrupted something.

“Hi.” He seemed flush, blushing in fact. “I… I was just…”

“Wait,” Jane decided to leverage the awkwardness of the moment in her favor. “Let me guess,” she said, doing nothing to hold back her giggling. “Thinking you’d be alone down here, you decided to wash the jeans you were wearing with your other clothes. …How’m I doin’ so far’?”

“Pretty much right on the money,” Steve smiled, trying to maintain his cool, pushing his balled up jeans into the suds and dropping the lid – “Bammm!” – of the machine he was hiding behind. “Maybe, I’ll just stay here for a while.”

Putting her regular laundry in the one washer, Jane dumped the smaller basket in the other machine, looking up at Steve deliberately every chance she had, her lips unable to keep her nervous smiling under control. Taking one obviously deep breath, Jane put the small basket down on the black and white checked vinyl tile floor. Standing up, she reached with both hands behind and under her white “I know, I’m hard to believe.” t-shirt, her eyes looking right at Steve’s. Neither of them was smiling just now. Unhooking it in the back, in one smooth, carefully rehearsed move, she took off her bra under her t-shirt and put it in the open machine in front of her, lowering the lid slowly and carefully to hold the moment as long as she could.

Neither of them noticed that American Idol was well underway on the TV in the corner.

Reaching for the cell phone he’d put next to his wallet and keys on the short wall that separated the washing machines, he held it up, and then looked up before scrolling to the number he needed. “You like Chinese?” he asked Jane. And the rest of the night was, as they say, “history.”

Early the next morning, a few minutes before they had to be at their desks, in the last stairwell before the roof of their office building, Eleanor was just lowering herself off her toes, pulling her mouth down and away from John’s who still hadn’t opened his eyes, his hands just inside her jacket, under the back of the soft blue faux silk camisole she was wearing. “So,” he asked, making an effort to regain his composure,” how was last night for Jane?”

“Pretty spectacular. She was almost incoherent when she called after he left this morning. …And my $20?” she reminded him as if he’d forgotten.

“No sweat.” He pulled the folded bill out of his shirt pocket where he’d had it waiting for her. “Steve said getting her to take off her bra like that was worth every penny.”

“Thanks!” Eleanor snapped the $20 from him, finally stepping back a few inches. “And to think I ever doubted him when Steve first asked for our help. …Com’on,” she said, poking him in the stomach right through his tie. “We need to get to work.”

-wf

What to read more? Just click here and pick a title you like.

Copyright as of the title date or earlier, by me.
(I write the WordFeeder blog.)  All rights reserved.
Email WordFeeder@verizon.net for additional information.