Russell Wiley Is Out to Lunch (12 page)

Once we’ve worked our way through our lunch specials, we order a few extra pieces of sushi. Fergus isn’t the best when it comes to marriage counseling. But at least he’s always sympathetic to stories of corporate stupidity and the way workers like me get exploited by management. Either that, or expensive raw fish increases his tolerance for my work-related whining.

I eye my tamago—the egg custard sushi I’ve saved till last. It’s a glistening yellow slab, flecked with white.

“Have you ever cheated on Julie?” I ask him.

“Whoa,” he says. “Where’s that coming from? You know I haven’t.”

“Would you, if the chance arose?”

Fergus laughs. The waitress comes to refresh our green teas, and I tell her we’ll take the check.

“First off, I resent the implication that a husky guy like me hasn’t had his fair share of chances. Second, the question I always ask myself in those situations is ‘What would J.C. do?’”

“Jesus Christ?”

“Jimmy Carter,” he says. “The best president you and I have ever seen. Just like him, I know what it feels like to have lust in my heart. But that’s as far as it goes.”

I hand my corporate credit card to the waitress as she brings the check.

“Whoever she is,” says Fergus, “don’t do it. Sam deserves better than that.”

I’m late back from the accepted two o’clock lunch hour cutoff. Just late enough that I’d be embarrassed if I were spotted by my boss. At the elevator bank, I bump into Cindy Lang. She’s wearing a short, expensive-looking raincoat and carrying a recyclable cardboard tray from our cafeteria. A small gym bag is slung over her shoulder. Unlike the rest of us, she doesn’t let her heavy workload distract her from these more important commitments.

“Hi,” she says, without a trace of shame.

“Busy?” I say.

“Crazy,” she says. “But we’re teaming things. I’m trying to get a lot done before Roger deserts us.”

I can’t think of anything else to say to Cindy. She’s a dead weight holding my department down. But her politicking makes her loom larger in the eyes of management. Even more so since she persuaded Henry to add her to the team that won our company’s annual Gold Anvil Award last month. The judges didn’t even notice that she inherited this success—the winning program was executed months before she got here. Henry even sat her at Jack’s table at the awards luncheon. Now both Henry and Jack think she’s a star performer. It’s as if her predecessor, Alison Mead, who actually worked on the project and is now at home taking care of her newborn twins, never existed.

We ride the elevator in silence. Getting rid of Cindy won’t be easy. It’s something I’ll need to think about.

I walk down the hallway to my office.

One of the mailroom guys is leaning over the wall of Angela’s cubicle. I hear her laugh at something he says.

Barbara is busy uploading photos of various relatives onto Flickr.com. She doesn’t even notice me as I pass by.

I close the door of my office. Lucky Cat tries to cheer me up, but the mess that surrounds me is starting to feel oppressive.

I check my email. Ellen, Henry’s assistant, informs me the Livingston Kidd people have reconfirmed our partnership review meeting next week. Also, Judd’s sent a meeting request: he wants me to commit to a ten o’clock brainstorming session tomorrow.

I don’t see how I can put him off any longer. I click accept, then lay my head on the desk the way we used to do in grade school during nap time.

When I get home, the big brown lump of furniture Sam brought home on Monday is sitting like a huge turd beside the coffee table.

“I’m in the bedroom,” she calls out, so I go right in without even taking off my jacket.

She’s bending over, face down, palms flat on the floor, her ass presented toward me. She’s been doing yoga for three weeks now, learning the positions from the
Yoga for Beginners
DVD that’s playing on our bedroom TV. She wants to feel a minimal level of competence before performing in front of other people.

“What pose is that?” I ask. She’s wearing the company T-shirt I brought back from the last sales meeting in Florida, tucked into a pair of running shorts. Her feet are bare. The nail polish on her toes is chipped in places.

“Salutation to the sun,” she says.

“Can I take a picture?” I study her tilted head, the curve of her buttocks, her taut leg muscles.

“Shut up.”

“Relax,” I say. “Breathe.”

“Leave me alone.”

I hang my jacket and tie, then head to the living room. I sit on the turd-stool, sink into it, and reach for the remote. I flick through the TV channels, half-recognizing certain shows, celebrities and characters. People at work still talk about this stuff sometimes. But none of it grabs me. I guess you really have to watch every week to truly feel connected.

By the time Sam sticks her head around the door, I’ve turned off the TV and I’m skimming through one of her home design magazines.

“I’m taking a shower.”

“Want me to join you?”

“No thanks.”

“I could help you with those hard-to-reach places.”

“Don’t pester me tonight. I’m trying to de-stress. I have to shave my legs.”

While Sam showers, I experiment with ways to incorporate the turd-stool into some stretching exercises and faux-yoga positions—arching my back over it, then lying on my stomach, arms and legs stretched out in midair. After a couple of minutes, I roll off and sit on the floor. I lean back against the stool and close my eyes, waiting for the sound of running water to come to an end.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

There’s a screen in my office elevator displaying the date and time alongside the latest headlines. I try to ignore the breaking news alert that says, “R
USSELL
W
ILEY
E
NTERS
T
HIRTIETH
D
AY WITHOUT
S
EX
.”

The seconds tick by, confirming that this morning’s subway delays have left me running five minutes late. Not bad for a normal day. But this is a day when Henry’s called me into a meeting. Not a real meeting—an informal one.

The kind that gets scheduled late in the afternoon when Henry pokes his head around your office door—just far enough for you to see he already has his coat on—and says, “Come see me when you get in tomorrow. We should catch up.”

And you say, “Sure thing, Henry.”

And Henry pauses for an extra half second, just to let you know he’s holding something back, and says, “Great. Lots to talk about.”

And then he disappears, leaving you to wonder what exactly the meeting is about.

I step out of the elevator and turn right, dipping my body slightly to wave the ID card that dangles round my neck in front of the black security panel bolted to the wall. The panel’s red light turns green, and I pull open the door. Christine Lynch, the human resources director who oversees our division, steps through.

“Thanks,” she says and walks swiftly to the elevators. She stabs the call button with her index finger and steps back to wait, clutching a black leather folder at her side.

In my office I hang my jacket behind my door, drop my messenger bag by the side of my desk, and search among my papers and project folders till I find a reasonably fresh legal notepad. There are no pens in sight, so I hunt around in the assorted junk of my top-right desk drawer before finding a slightly mangled yellow pencil. There are teeth marks up and down its surface that gross me out—I don’t think they’re mine—and the stubby pink eraser that the pencil came with has long since disappeared, but it’s the best I can do.

Seeing Christine Lynch on the floor is never a good sign. I rub Lucky’s paw and make a nonspecific wish that things will be OK. Then I’m out the door.

I’m heading back to the elevators when my fingers remind my brain of something: lately, every time I’ve looked in my bag for a lost item of any kind, the only things I’ve found are pens.

I hurry back to the office, grab seventeen assorted ballpoints from my bag, spread them across my desk, and choose the most expensive-looking one. As he waves me off for a second time, something in Lucky’s smile suggests he’s trying to take credit for helping me find the pens.

I’m on twenty-six outside Henry’s office by ten after nine, which is close enough to nine o’clock that I don’t feel too bad, but Henry’s door is closed. Ellen shakes her head in an almost imperceptible way that somehow communicates in the clearest possible fashion that NOW IS NOT A GOOD TIME TO GO IN THERE.

Then I hear a raised female voice and I know exactly why. Susan Trevor is inside, reacting to some new corporate injustice. When she’s finished shouting, I hear an indistinct yet reassuring mumble that can only belong to Henry. After that, Susan starts shouting again.

“I’ll call you when Henry’s ready,” Ellen says.

I decide to go back down to my office while I wait. It’s the best way to avoid running into Judd. Stepping off the elevator, I head to the kitchen to grab a sugar-free hot chocolate. As I pass through the creative department, all is quiet. No one’s around, but that doesn’t surprise me. Except for Mondays, when Henry holds his nine a.m. meeting, Martin rarely shows up before nine thirty. His timekeeping sets the tone for the rest of his department. They usually drift in around nine twenty-five.

Ben’s office is on the other side of Martin’s. As I glance over, I see that both of Ben’s event managers—Erika Fallon and Sally Yun—are standing in front of his desk, focusing intently on what Ben, out of my line of sight, is telling them. Sally unfolds her arms so she can raise a hand to her mouth. Erika Fallon keeps her hands on her hips. But sensing my eyes upon her, she turns to shoot me a blank, impersonal look.

I duck into the kitchen and hunt in the cupboards for the box that contains our single-serving packets of hot chocolate. I rip open a packet and pour the powder into a disposable cup. I press the hot water button on our vending machine, then hunt around for a spoon or a stirrer as the water spurts out. I find a discarded spoon in the sink, rinse it quickly, then shake it dry.

I head back to my office. The hot chocolate tastes good. I should drink it more often. I need to remember it’s a year-round option—it’s not just for winter anymore.

I keep talking to myself like this to keep any thoughts of Erika Fallon from creeping back into my head. Though I do wonder why she looked so angry. With Erika Fallon, there’s always something new to obsess over. One day last week I got a jolt when I saw her walking half a block ahead of me down Forty-seventh Street. It wasn’t till she turned onto Broadway that I realized it wasn’t even her.

My phone is ringing when I get back to my office. Ellen says Henry can see me now.

Carrying my hot chocolate, I take a necessary detour on my way to the elevators. I need to retrieve the notepad and pen I left on the kitchen counter.

I’m moving quickly, but the sight of Erika Fallon standing by the water cooler makes me stop abruptly. She’s wearing a mauve top and gray checked pants. She’s already poured water into a waxed paper cup, but now she’s just standing, staring at the wall.

I move past her in slow motion and pull my notepad toward me, trying to roll the pen into the crook of my thumb so I can grab both without putting down my mug of chocolate. The pen clatters to the floor and rolls toward the water cooler, coming to rest by the point of Erika Fallon’s right shoe.

I put my mug down, and keeping my eyes on the floor, I bend and scoop in a single motion. By the time my fingers touch the pen, my body is already moving away from her mannequin-like presence. The whole action takes only a second, but in that time I can’t help noticing the toe cleavage that’s being revealed by Erika Fallon’s dangerously fashionable shoes. Her toes look delicate and slightly mangled. Three of them are sporting small, skin-toned adhesive bandages.

She makes a sniffing sound as I grab my mug, but I don’t look back. I’m almost through the door when she says, “I guess you know already.”

I turn slowly. “Know what?”

“About Ben.”

I look into Erika Fallon’s luminous, watery eyes. Her lips are trembling.

“What about Ben?” I’m scared now. Maybe he’s sick. Erika Fallon says something back to me. But I can’t focus on that. I’m fighting an urge to hold her in my arms and comfort her.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m late for a meeting with Henry.”

I turn and flee.

I walk into Henry’s office clutching my pen and notepad in one hand and my hot chocolate in the other.

Henry looks up from behind his mahogany desk and smiles when he sees it’s me.

“Russell,” he says. “Come on in.”

Henry always wears expensive white shirts with wide-spread collars and French cuffs. Today his tie is predominantly pink, a softer color than he usually prefers.

“Good morning, Henry.”

“Sit down. Close the door.”

I’m distracted by my still-fresh experience with Erika Fallon. I take two steps towards Henry’s studded leather couch before realizing I should reverse his instructions and close the door first.

I sit, place my cup on one of the marble coasters on Henry’s coffee table, and wait while Henry files a manila folder in his desk’s cabinet drawer.

Just being in Henry’s space helps shift my focus away from my water cooler encounter. I sip my hot chocolate, reflect on its attributes as a beverage, and try to concentrate on living in the moment. Henry’s office is unlike any other in our department: its nine-windowed corner location offers southern views that overlook the bustling energy and illumination of Times Square, plus a western vista which, although partially obstructed, carries across the Hudson to the most sought-after apartment buildings in New Jersey. The décor is predominantly dark wood, creating a comfortable, lived-in feel. Henry researched and ordered all the pieces himself, shunning the generic furniture options that are recycled and mismatched throughout the rest of our offices and cubicles.

He locks the filing cabinet and tosses the key in his top desk drawer. He sighs, stands up, walks over to where I’m sitting, and eases into his usual spot—the matching leather armchair that sits catty-corner to the couch—so that our knees are almost touching.