Read On the Brink (Vol. 1) (The On the Brink Series) Online
Authors: Erika Rhys
On the Brink (Vol. 1) (The On the Brink Series)
For Christina Ross, in appreciation of
friendship, encouragement, and inspiration.
For Teresa Woroniecka, in gratitude for
unwavering friendship and support.
Copyright and Legal Notice:
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permission in writing from the author.
First ebook edition
© 2013.
Disclaimer:
This is a work of
fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead (unless explicitly noted) is
merely coincidental. Copyright © 2013 Erika Rhys. All rights reserved
worldwide.
On the Brink
Erika Rhys
“Nope.
No Juliana West in the university payroll system. You have to fill out a W-4
form and make sure your department has filed the necessary paperwork.”
Hunching
toad-like behind a dingy monitor, the payroll office employee glared at me and
tapped a few final keystrokes with her chipped red talons. Through oversized
glasses, her magnified, bulging eyes communicated a surprising degree of ire.
After all, I had submitted the paperwork in question. Twice.
Striving
to maintain a neutral expression, I turned and left the Tremont University
payroll office, my eyes burning. I needed rent money in two weeks, and the odds
of getting it from my job were rapidly approaching zero.
For
two stressful months, I had managed to survive without a paycheck, but time was
running out. I would resubmit my employment paperwork to the university, but
there was little hope of it getting through their labyrinthine payment system
in time. My bank account was empty, my credit card maxed.
Over
the past three months, I’d applied for dozens of jobs, and signed up with every
temp agency in town. I’d even made it to the interview stage a few times.
But every time, someone else got the
job. Usually because they had more experience. At this point, it felt like a
vicious circle. If you didn’t have experience, you couldn’t get a job. But how
was I supposed to get experience without getting a job?
For
the moment, all I had was a part-time teaching gig at Tremont. Perhaps I should
be glad that I wasn’t completely unemployed, but it was difficult to be
grateful for a job that wasn’t paying me, thanks to a succession of paperwork
screw-ups. I hadn’t received my September paycheck yet, and after today’s
depressing visit to the payroll office, I was now worried that I wouldn’t get
paid on time for October, either.
I’d
borrowed last month’s rent from Duncan—my best friend and
roommate—but at this point we were both broke. Our unsympathetic landlord
would evict us from our drafty little Somerville apartment in a heartbeat, and
it would be my fault. Most recent graduates would get help from their parents,
but that wasn’t an option for us; Duncan’s parents were dead, and if my DNA
donors had a nickel to share with anyone, it wouldn’t be me.
I
pulled my phone from my briefcase and called Duncan.
“Hey
Jules—any luck getting paid?” His baritone voice sounded concerned.
“No.
The payroll hags lost my paperwork again. It’s probably buried somewhere in
their shithole of an office, wedged between a broken pencil sharpener and a
ceramic frog. I’ll resubmit, but we can’t count on my check showing up by November
1. Bottom line, Dunc, I’ve just got to find another job. Any job.”
Duncan
sighed. “Unbelievable. I’ve asked for more hours, but no shifts have opened up
yet. I’ll post my Nikon on eBay. It should sell for enough money to cover the
rent.”
I
felt a wave of affection for Duncan. He always had my back. But I couldn’t let
him sell the Nikon. He’d saved for months to buy it. It was the best camera he
had ever owned, and photography was his passion. Tremont owed me for two months
of work, and one of my co-workers had suggested that I try interviewing for
transcription. I resolved to call every transcription service in greater
Boston, and continue fighting with the payroll office until they paid what was
owed.
“Hold
off for a couple days. One of the other adjuncts mentioned that transcription
services pay well if you can type fast enough. And if that doesn’t work out,
I’ll try the temp agencies again.”
“Remind
me never to graduate in a crap economy again,” Duncan joked, “or major in art.”
“Never
again,” I agreed. “At least I minored in business. If my painting career
doesn’t take off in the next year or two, my next stop will be business
school.”
* * * * *
Several
hours and a dozen phone calls later, a transcription service offered me work if
I could type 60 words per minute and pass a transcription aptitude test. The
manager scheduled me for testing at 4pm.
Deciding
what to wear was easy; I owned a single black business suit—a lucky find
at Filene’s Basement—that I paired with an ivory silk blouse and faux
pearls. I wore my hair up instead of down, and glasses in lieu of my usual
contacts. Light foundation and a touch of eyeliner completed my professional
look. Looking in the mirror, I stuck out my tongue at my reflection.
Though
people sometimes told me that I was beautiful, I didn’t see it. My dark hair,
thick and wavy, seemed perpetually out of control, and my skin, though smooth
and unblemished, always looked too pale for my taste. My eyes, green,
expressive, and long-lashed, were the one aspect of my appearance that I liked.
Shoes
were a problem. My one pair of good black heels had done too much time on the
dance floor and were looking more than a little shabby. Tearing through the
contents of the bathroom closet turned up a grungy container of desiccated
brown polish, but no black.
An
idea struck. I raced to the kitchen, grabbed a handful of junk flyers from the
recycling bin, and then ran to the tiny room that functioned as my painting
studio where I tossed the flyers in the center of the floor. Placing the
offending heels on the flyers, I grabbed a can of black spray paint, shook it
hard, and sprayed until they gleamed almost as good as new. Opening the studio
window to get rid of the paint fumes, I congratulated myself on a job well done
and checked the time. Ten minutes to spare. I needed to get a move on.
Leaving
the heels to dry, I checked the contents of my briefcase. Two forms of ID,
several copies of my resume, keys, cash, phone. I retrieved the freshly black
heels and shoved my feet into them, crossing my fingers that the paint fumes
would wear off before I arrived at the agency.
Exiting
the Red Line subway at Kendall Square, I emerged into the warm sunlight and
crisp air of a perfect fall day. Next to MIT and the Charles River, the
cityscape of modern office towers housed biotech and other technology
companies. The mood of the square generally alternated between brief periods of
frenetic activity—the 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. floods of office workers arriving
and departing, and the bustle of quick business lunches between noon and
2—and near emptiness of its sidewalks and cafés the rest of the time.
But
today wasn’t Kendall Square as usual. A crowd of business suits and lab coats,
small clusters talking and gesticulating among themselves, filled the expansive
plaza of the Marriott Cambridge. Blue lights flashed from half a dozen squad
cars, and several police officers emerged from an office tower just off the
plaza, the very office tower where my interview was supposed to take place.
Yellow tape cordoned off the area around the building. Wondering what was going
on, I approached a group of office workers, who were making the best of the
situation by turning the apparent evacuation into an extended smoke break.
“Excuse
me. I’m supposed to have a job interview in Manning Tower. Can you tell me
what’s going on?”
A
fiftyish woman with dyed red hair and a too-tight polyester suit answered in
the gravelly voice of a heavy smoker.
“Bomb
threat. Second time this month. We’ve been out here near two hours. They just
brought the dogs out, so they’ll probably let us back in soon. Who’s your
interview with?”
“Perfect
Transcripts,” I replied. “I’m supposed to interview with the owner, Roberta
Klein, at 4 o’clock.”
Turning
to another woman in the group, the red-haired smoker said, “You work for
Perfect. You know where Berta is?”
The
other woman transferred her cigarette to her left hand and offered me her
right. Tall and skeletally thin, she wore a man’s navy blazer over a short
houndstooth skirt and bright yellow tights. Her eccentric look was finished off
with a vividly colored scarf and a black beret atop short auburn curls.
“I’m
Moxie Palermo,” she said. “I work for Berta. Let’s go find her. She’s probably
off on the side somewhere, because of the dog.”
“Juliana
West,” I replied, following her through the crowd. “It’s okay to bring dogs to
work?”
“Not
in general, but you can’t separate Berta and Dolce. Dolce after Dolce and
Gabbana. Look. They’re over there next to Starbucks.”
Through
the crowd, I glimpsed an enormously fat, expensively dressed woman holding an
iced coffee in one hand and a dog leash in the other. As we approached, I saw
that Dolce was a cute, albeit noisy Toy Maltese. Yip…yip-yip-yip…yip!
“Hey
Berta,” Moxie said. “This is Juliana. She’s the one interviewing today.”
“Take
Dolce, but don’t go anywhere. You know he has separation anxiety,” Berta said,
handing Moxie the leash.
“I
looked over the resume you emailed,” Berta said. “With a master’s degree,
you’re clearly overqualified, so I’m going to cut to the chase. I don’t make
any money on transcriptionists who work for a few weeks and leave the second
they find something better. On the other hand, a couple of my best workers are
washed up PhDs, like Moxie here. Why are you interested in transcription work?”
“I
teach painting part-time at Tremont University during the day, but need to make
more money. I’m looking for work that I can do at home or on a flexible
schedule, preferably evenings. Aside from painting and teaching, my only other
skill is typing, so transcription seems like a good fit.”
Berta
sighed. “Any medical or legal experience? We do a lot of medical and legal
transcription.”
“As
an undergraduate, one year I had a work-study job with a professor of medicine.
I typed all his research and journal articles, so I learned quite a bit of
medical and pharmaceutical terminology.” Thinking fast, I added, “I don’t make
spelling errors either; I have a photographic memory for spelling.”
“I
did just close another big pharmaceutical client. Maybe you’ll be useful. If
you pass the typing test, that is. Evenings are fine. The office is open from
10 a.m. to 10 p.m. Monday through Saturday. Twenty hours a week minimum.
Flexible hours, but you have to set them one week in advance.”
Moxie
interrupted. “They’re letting us back in.”
“Give
me Dolce,” Berta said. Taking the leash and glancing at her watch, she asked
“Can you wait around for half an hour? I have to finish a few things. Then you
can come in and take the test.”
“No
problem,” I replied. “Should I come back at 4:30 then?”
“Make
it quarter to 5.”
I
watched Berta, Moxie, and Dolce disappear into the crowd of people streaming
back into the building. For the first time in weeks, I felt hopeful. Berta had
all but said that getting the job was just a matter of proving my typing
skills. I thought about texting Duncan, but decided not to raise his hopes
until I knew whether I had the job or not. Noting that the mass return to work
had emptied Starbucks’ outdoor tables and figuring that I might as well enjoy
the afternoon sun while I waited, I sat down and rested my briefcase against my
chair. Over the next half hour, I alternated between playing Angry Birds on my
smartphone and checking my watch. Finally, it was time to go. I put my phone
away and looked across the plaza.
Most
of the police presence had left, but one car remained. A tall businessman in a
dark suit shook hands with the two remaining officers, who then got into their
car and drove away. The businessman walked briskly in my direction. As he
approached, I nearly knocked over my briefcase. During my years in the city,
I’d had my share of exposure to models and actors, but I’d never seen a better
looking man. Tall and lean, dark blue eyes contrasting with olive skin,
slightly long black hair, chiseled features. All in a flawlessly fitted suit.
Beauty and masculinity in ideal proportion, accompanied by an air of supreme
confidence unusual in such a relatively young man—he couldn’t be much
over thirty, if that. For a moment, I imagined what it might feel like to kiss
his perfectly formed lips, to run my fingers through his dark hair.
Gripping
my wayward briefcase, I waited as the intriguing businessman disappeared into
Starbucks. I then got up and walked toward Manning Tower, pushing his image out
of my head.
The
important thing now was to keep my focus, ace the test, and get the job. The
office tower, sheathed in dark glass, reflected bright flashes of the
descending October sun. I passed through the revolving doors into a gloomy
atrium, its expanse of steel and dark glass interrupted by a security desk and
a bank of elevators. I signed in at the desk and took the elevator to the
fourth floor where Perfect Transcipts was located.
The
front office was generically professional with industrial carpet and off-white
walls that were decorated with framed prints of New England landscapes. Under a
print of a red-and-white lighthouse, Berta Klein’s bulk reposed in an oversized
swivel chair. A large monitor rested on an expansive glass-topped desk, flanked
by a couple of fake plants and a dog bed. Dolce yipped as I approached the
desk.
Seeing
me, Berta yelled, “Moxie! Get in here. Set Juliana up with the test. Dolce,
shut up. Mama’s right here.”
Moxie
entered from a hallway to the left of Berta’s desk. As she led me down the
hallway, she explained, “It’s basically a short transcription job to test your
speed and accuracy. If you can type quickly and accurately and your spelling is
good, you’ll be fine.”
“Bathrooms
are on the right. The breakroom is on the left. There’s a microwave and a
fridge. The transcription area is here in the back.” Lowering her voice to a
whisper, she added, “Keep away from Dolce—the little shit bites.”
The
transcription area turned out to be a large, windowless room with workstations
set up around the perimeter. The fluorescent-lit space could have used a fresh
coat of paint, and its dingy walls were sparsely decorated with faded
motivational posters. “Winners never quit and quitters never win—Vince
Lombardi” read one. “You can have RESULTS or EXCUSES not both. Which one do YOU
CHOOSE?” trumpeted another. Occupying about half the workstations beneath the
posters, were several women of varied ages and a lone man, all wearing
headphones and typing. Another woman, dressed in a faded but clean yellow
blouse and a brown tweed skirt, was on her hands and knees, patting the floor
around her with one hand.
“What
in God’s name are you doing down there, Luanne?” Moxie asked irritably. “Please
don’t tell me you’re still searching for your missing earring. If it was here,
we would have found it when I helped you look earlier.”
Luanne
clambered to her feet with some difficulty. Tall, angular, and sixtyish, with
large, bony hands and chapped, reddened skin, she wore oversized glasses with
thick lenses, connected to a chain around her neck. The overall effect was that
of a man in badly done drag, minus the lipstick. Even her hair reminded me of
Jack Lemmon’s wig in
Some Like it Hot
.
“But
I’m positive I lost it right here,” she said plaintively. “My daughter gave me
those earrings for Christmas, and they’re real 14-carat gold.” Behind the thick
glasses, her eyes were red-rimmed and watery, and it occurred to me that her
vision might not be very good.
“Mind
if I take a quick look?” I asked, glancing at Moxie, who shrugged. I picked up
Luanne’s desk lamp and angled its light underneath her desk, sweeping the beam
of light around. Something metallic glinted next to one of the back legs of the
desk. I got down on my knees and crawled underneath to retrieve it.
“Is
this it?” I asked, emerging with a small gold ball earring and handing it to
Luanne.
“Bless
you, sweetie. It is. Thank you for finding it.” She threw a glare at Moxie. “I
knew it was here.”
Moxie
rolled her eyes. “I’m glad your earring turned up, Luanne.” She turned back to
me. “Let’s get on with the transcription test.” She indicated an unoccupied
workstation.
“Here
are some headphones. The test is five minutes of audio from a meeting. Here are
the guidelines. Remember that accuracy is the top priority; speed is the
second. I’ll be working at that workstation over there. Come get me when you’re
done.”
I
thanked Moxie, glanced over the guidelines, and started the test. Forty-five
minutes later, I was done. A few spots were inaudible due to overlapping
voices, but it was the best I could do. I went over to Moxie’s station and
tapped her shoulder.
“Done
already?” she said. “Berta’s going to hire you for sure, unless you’re dyslexic
or something.”
“I
couldn’t figure out a few bits where people were talking over each other, but
the rest should be okay.”
Moxie
printed the transcript, looked over the printout, and motioned for me to follow
her, leading the way back to the front office.
“She’s
a keeper, Berta. Accurate and fairly fast for a newbie.”
Berta
grabbed the transcript, gave it a quick glance, and nodded in agreement.
“Ten
dollars an hour, unless it’s medical or legal. Then it’s twelve. If you work
six hours or more, you get a thirty minute paid break. Moxie, have Juliana put
her hours on next week’s schedule. Juliana, you can do the paperwork when you
come in for your first shift. Just remember to bring a photo ID.”
I
contained my relief long enough to sign up for as many hours as I could fit
around my teaching schedule. The moment the elevator doors closed behind me, I
retrieved my phone and texted Duncan.
Got the job!!!
I
put the phone away as the elevator doors opened, not anticipating an immediate
reply, since Duncan was at work. I stepped out, and headed for the exit. The
businessman talking to the security guard looked familiar, and as I passed the
security desk, I recognized him as the man I’d seen outside of Starbucks
earlier in the afternoon.
Once
again, I was struck by the combined force of his unusual beauty and aura of
confidence, the sense that he was fully in charge yet completely at ease with
the world around him. Probably another spoiled scion of wealth and
privilege—Cambridge had more than its share of those, and I’d long since
learned to keep my distance.
People
like Mr. Confident came from a world and lifestyle utterly different from my
own. Their remote world of luxury cars, multiple mansions, and expensive
vacations, pictured on the pages of fashionable magazines, had nothing in
common with my life.
For
the second time, I dismissed him from my thoughts. Basking in the relief of
having landed a new job, I passed through the revolving doors, and headed into
the empty street beyond with a spring in my step.