Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase (31 page)

I decide my best bet is to do nothing at all. “Looks like you dropped something!” I say sweetly. I don’t make a move from where I’m standing.

I’ve spent so much time apologizing to this man over issues that aren’t my fault, it takes him a second to realize I’m holding my ground. I can actually feel the balance of power tipping as he crouches down to retrieve the papers. “I’m happy to take these back to my office and get them all figured out for you,” I tell him.

“Come with me,” he says brusquely. I follow him down the hall. I’m almost always seated when I meet with him, so I never realized that in my crocs, I’m just as tall as he is. We get to a little storage closet at the end of a hallway, filled with boxes and a make-shift desk.

Before I even realize what’s going on, the doctor jumps out from behind me and shuts the door. From the other side, he shouts, “You can come out when you’ve resolved my claims issues.”

I grab the door knob and try to turn it.

That crazy old bastard actually locked me in here.

This? This is a new one. Can’t say I’ve ever been kidnapped before. I try the door handle again. Yep, still locked. I walk to the tiny window over the desk. It’s just a pane of glass and doesn’t open. Okay, I would have stayed a journalism major and taken the Beirut beat if I had any interest at all in being kidnapped.

I sit in an old office chair and weigh my options. I could try to break the door down except I think that’s one of those things that looks way easier on TV. I shove up against it a little bit—
ow
—and realize I’m right.

Samantha would throw the chair through the window and jump out except it’s little and I might not fit.
¹⁹⁹

Charlotte would call the police except I’m pretty sure no one would believe me.

Miranda would be the most levelheaded. I follow her lead and decide to use my cell phone to call my director. After I explain the situation (and she finishes snickering
²⁰⁰
), she tells me not to do any of the above. Her suggestion is to just sit there and work on the claims. She doesn’t want me to make any trouble because we really need this doctor in our network.

Miranda would never take this kind of shit.

So I use my phone to dial Kathy in reception. I tell her the doctor has locked me in the storage room. Strangely, she isn’t that surprised. I demand she come let me out. When she opens the door, I hand her the stack of claims, saying, “These belong to you.”

“What are they?”

I stand up straight and pull my shoulders back. “They’re what I like to call
the last straw
.”

I go home with every intention of writing up a letter of resignation. But before I can even boot up my laptop, my Sunday fantasy comes true and I break into a cold sweat. I alternate between broiling and freezing and I begin to cough my lungs out. I’m stricken with the worst flu of the decade.

I’m so exhausted that I can’t even stay awake to see
SATC
. And I barely have the energy to change my voice mail at work, but I do anyway because I have to make sure the Pats, Kathys, and Lindas have the number of my backup.

An entire week later, I’m finally well enough to return to the office. I’ve changed my mind about tending my resignation. Yes, I hate this job, but I can’t just quit. It’s too dicey. I can’t get my dad’s words out of my head.
²⁰¹

I get to my desk after stopping to say hello to David and Tim. They both remark that they’ve never seen me so pale. (Girls would mention the five pounds I’ve lost.)

I throw my purse in a drawer and slide my laptop into the docking station. As I settle in, I notice my voice-mail light blinking. I can’t have too many messages because my greeting instructed callers to talk to my backup for urgent matters, and to e-mail me whatever wasn’t.

I pick up the receiver and punch in my password. I cradle the phone on my shoulder while I log in to the computer. I have ten new e-mails but none of them are pressing. Sweet! And then I hear my voice mail kick in.

Welcome to the Audix Network. You have one hundred and three new messages.

Eighty of these are from Dr. Dickweed.

None of them is apologetic.

All of them are apoplectic.

As I listen and transcribe, I notice I’m sinking lower and lower in my seat. I’m practically cowering by the end, and I’m shaking all the way to my shoes. I kick them off in case my feet start terror-sweating.

Then I step outside myself and really examine the situation.

Hold on, this isn’t who I am.

I’m not a coward.

I’m not a patsy.

I’m certainly not a punching bag, even if the blows are only verbal.

I will not be bullied.

I look down at what I’ve written in quivery handwriting and I decide I’ve reached my limit. That’s enough.

I wad up the paper, then put my shoes back on and stomp on it before tossing it in the trash. Then I open a Word document and begin to type.

Dear Human Resources,

It is with regret that I’m tendering my resignation. . . .

You know what, Dad?

You’re wrong.

Plenty
of companies will hire me if I’m not employed. And if I go into my interview with a good attitude, a solid résumé, and some killer crocodile shoes? They’ll even give me a better salary.

“Where are we going?” I’m almost completely out of breath and starting to fall behind.

Someone in the group assures me that we’re almost there.

“Yeah, you said that, but where are we
going
?” I’m trying to keep up but three-inch crocodile shoes aren’t exactly the best choice for climbing the hills of San Francisco, especially on a slippery sidewalk. I could take them off for better traction, but the street’s cold and wet.

“Here,” says the girl with the spiky red hair. I think she’s from San Diego. “We’re going here.”

I eye the exterior sign dubiously. “This looks like a sushi bar.”

“That’s because it is,” replies the girl from Boston.

Okay, did
no one
listen to me in the getting-to-know-you part of our training session earlier today? My “one interesting fact about you” was that I hated sushi.

I’m here in San Francisco as part of corporate training. I quit the HMO, telling them I’d rather be waiting tables again than spend any more time in health care. Fortunately, the universe did not call my bluff and I was quickly snapped up by an information technology recruiting firm. My new job entails developing relationships with companies and providing them with IT consultants when needed.

I’ve been on staff for a few months now and realize this isn’t exactly my dream career. However, they gave me an extra couple grand just for walking in the door and it’s super-easy to earn commission. Plus, I should learn enough about technology to land a better dot-com job when the opportunity arises. Also? No one’s yelled at me once, even when one of the contractors I placed sexually harassed a secretary.
²⁰²

“Yeah, I heard you. You can’t say you hate sushi if you’ve never tried it,” Boston argues.

Pfft. “Of course I can.”

Boston stares me down as the rest of our group files into the restaurant. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t be that way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t be outspoken and ballsy in class and then not even have the courage to try something you can buy in the grocery store.”

I take a step back. “
Ouch
. That was straight to the heart.” She grins. “Did it work?”

I pause for a long moment. “Yes.”

“Then let’s go.” Boston holds the door open and I enter in front of her. The rest of our group is already seated around the bar. As I sit, I notice there’s a channel full of water between the chef and us. I’m going to be honest—I’m kind of a sucker for anything with a moat.

“What is this? How does it work?” The other girls from my class explain how the chef continually puts together new combinations of fish and rice and then sets them adrift on a floating plate. They sail around the bar and if you want something, you take it. Each plate is coded, so when the waitress collects them, she knows how much to charge.

I sit still as fish bits packaged like pretty little Christmas presents float by. San Diego shows no hesitation, grabbing three plates in quick succession. She wolfs down each piece after covering it with wasabi and pickled ginger.

Boston carefully selects one of the pink things that I always used to see David and Tim eating. She douses it with a little soy and eats it in two bites.

“You’re not eating,” she says. “Here. Try this. If you don’t like it, I’ll buy you some chicken fingers once we’ve finished. You can eat them with ketchup.” She hands me a little boat with something green, white, and black on it. I stare at it and make no motion toward it. “Oh, my God, you’re worse than a
child
. My eight-year-old son eats sushi. You really want to be bested by a second grader?”

“No.”
Maybe.

I hold the piece up to my mouth and give it a tentative sniff. I smell . . . nothing. That’s a relief. If it smelled fishy, I really would have barfed on my shoes. I hold the roll against the very tip of my tongue . . . and my head surprises me by not exploding. Then I take my first mouse-sized nibble and then another. And another.

“You like it, don’t you?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny your allegations.”

“You’re an asshole. Try this.” She picks up what she calls
hamachi
and sets it in front of me. My reaction time is quicker and I clean my plate in a couple of bites.

I go on to try snapper, scallops, and squid. I do spit the salmon out into my napkin, but I never cared for it cooked, either.

Over the course of dinner, all of the girls from my training class laugh and talk and tell stories for hours and it’s just like a
Sex and the City
brunch only with more business and less b-l-o-w j-o-b chatter.

I also have something like ten cups of sake, which is why I don’t blame the sushi when I do eventually vomit in the vicinity of my feet.

But you know what? I wiped off my shoes in the morning and they’re fine.

They’re a lot more resilient than I ever expected.