Page 5 of A Shot in the Dark
“Hey, Dex,” I say as the elevator operator presses the buttons for my floor.
“Miss Jenkins,” he replies without even looking at me.
That’s odd. Usually Dex asks me questions, pays me compliments… Acts happy to see me…
“Everything okay, Dex?”
Instead of answering me, he announces my floor early and keeps his focus tight on the buttons directly before him. The doors open and Dex remains still as a rabbit as I stride past him. I greet my coworkers quickly on the way to my office, but the dread I had since returning last night to my condo threads its way through the air around me. I sense eyes on me, yet none hold the normal, jovial it’s-Monday-but-at-least-we’re-together looks I’m used to. There’s something cooler—more aloof—about everyone.
Beyond the occasionally muttered greeting—given only after I’ve offered mine first—everyone is nearly as quiet as Dex was.
I peruse the morning’s selection of fruit and pastries, choosing something pretty and holding the promise of nothing substantial about it beyond its calorie count and tug out my keycard as I head toward my office and its skyline view of the city. “Best office in the place,” my boss Patrick once assured me. “Best view, best desk, new chair.” I’ve made it my home away from home. Classy decor, even a high-end air freshener that gives my environment a signature scent, making it truly my own.
I stop short to stare, distantly aware of chairs squeaking as they turn, of the way the nearly ever-present soft-spoken running commentary so standard in an office of our size has grown nearly nonexistent, as everyone realizes what is just now registering with me.
The door to my office stands wide open, the scent of my air freshener edging tentatively into the earthier-smelling realm of the cubicles.
My fingers hook into the bracelets on my left wrist, giving one a slow spin as questions spiral through my brain. I lurch forward and enter a room that feels distinctly alien to me. The air has gone nearly stale.
My special touches? The carefully curated art, the pen set from Italy, my diploma and certificates? They all fit—not so neatly—into a large white copier paper box sitting in the center of my desk. I clutch wildly at the top of the desk to steady myself as the bottom drops out of my world and the room spins.
I don’t understand…
On the top of the box rests a hastily scrawled note.
See me.
I know immediately from the handwriting who it belongs to. It’s the same self-assured script of the man who has signed my checks for the past four years. Setting my pastry on top of everything else, I heft the box and head to Patrick’s office.
Seated behind his desk, Patrick busily scans through an impressive stack of documents. I’m briefly reminded of the studious young man I helped ace Statistics in college. That had been a year before he got accepted into a much different circle of friends than I ever imagined would take an interest in him.
The moment he hears me enter his office, everything about his demeanor changes. He straightens, leans back in his chair and briefly attempts to hide the grin that finally slips free before he can squelch it again. He addresses me coolly. “Marlyn. I see you’ve collected your things.”
I prop the box on the back of one of the overstuffed leather chairs facing him. “They seem to have been collectedforme.”
He grimaces. “Nevertheless. I have to let you go.”
“I inferred that from the box. I just don’t understand why.” Against my every desire, my mouth goes dry and my throat constricts. “I don’t get it, Patrick,” I admit. “I know last quarter’s numbers were softer than expectations, but we were well above the expectations of the board. With the Markensim deal coming through… And honestly, we both know all I am is a glorified messenger.”
He gives a pained groan, like he can’t bear that I’m being so obtuse. That the reason for my firing is obvious—it’s not. I’ve worked my ass off for this company for years and it’s shown in dividends. I’m a model employee. Cream of the crop.
It’s while I’m standing there, the act of balancing the box of my belongings making my arms ache, that it hits me: the degree framed and hanging on the wall over Patrick’s shoulder bears the same insignia as the one Jonathan had in his home office. “I nearly forgot. You guys were frat bros…”
His eyes are cold, distant, and he steeples his fingers before him. If he answers the wrong way it might give me a reason to push back with an accusation of improper labor practice. So he ignores my comment. When I’m certain there’s nothing more to be said, I pick the box back up, spin on my heel and head toward the door. Controlling bastard that he is, he chooses that moment to clear his throat. I pause. “Hold on, Marlyn,” he comments, his tone teetering between wistful and regretful. For a moment I cling to the idea that he’s changing his mind. I turn back to face him and hate the hope I know shines out from my eyes. “There was something I was supposed to say… Oh, yeah: Let’s call this what it was:fun.” And then, with a twist of his mouth that some might misconstrue as a smile, he turns his chair to face the broad window normally at his back, making it clear that I’ve been dismissed.
No one says a word as I leave the offices and descend in the elevator. I am the very depiction of sorrow and loss as I head a block down the street to the one restaurant I know will let me linger because almost no one ever comes in there. It’s in a strange little neighborhood that somehow gets overlooked by most everyone including real estate agents who should have bought it out a long time ago and replaced it with another skyscraper’s footprint.
I slip into the restaurant, barely noticed even by the hostess, which is exactly what I need right now. The fewer people notice the box marking my abject failure, the better.
“Oh, hey, I didn’t see you there,” a curvy waitress mentions as she stops short beside my table. “Did Gina seat you?”
“No,” I admit. “I didn’t want to be a bother. She seemed to be dealing with a lot of things on the phone. I figured when somebody spotted me they’d take care of me. And here you are.” I offer her my most welcoming smile; one look at her face tells me she knows it to be as fake as it feels.
“Okay.” She flashes me a smile too full of teeth. She pulls out her notepad and eyes me skeptically. “So what can I get you?”
“I think I need to start off with a coffee. I need to just stay here for a little while,” I explain. I stare at a section of her tightly done updo that’s come undone and wings out at a weird angle. In the restaurant’s light it’s a mousy brown, but I’m guessing that in the sun it’s shot through with color. Even if it does seem as frazzled as the rest of her. “Absorb the vibe. Try and get my head back on straight.”
Her gaze flicks to the box of my belongings, then back to me. “You’re not the first person to come in here carrying a box and wanting little more than a bit of space. I’ll try and keep you under the manager’s radar. She can be a bit bossy and push people out to get higher table turnover.”
