And hey, don’t I get severance pay? Or at least unemployment? I should AT LEAST get unemployment. Why didn’t I read the personnel handbook more closely? Let’s see, I’m administration, not staff, so that means I get . . . two weeks pay as severance? Or is it four weeks? WHY couldn’t I have been union? Then the T.O.D. wouldn’t have dared fire me without issuing both a verbal and written warning first. . . .
Let’s see . . . unemployment for someone who was making $40,000 a year is . . .
Oh God. Skiboy just walked in. He says Dolly told him to meet her here after work. They’re going to some benefit dinner, or something. Doesn’t Skiboy look nice in a tux? Yum. Not as nice as Mitch Hertzog, but . . .
OH MY GOD, I CAN’T BELIEVE I WROTE THAT!!!! I am never thinking another kind thought about Mitch Hertzog again. THAT GUY GOT ME FIRED!!!!!!!!!
Skiboy just asked me what I’m doing here in the middle of the day. I told him that I was fired on account of standing up for my convictions at work. He seems impressed. He says this calls for a celebration.
And really, if you think about it, I SHOULD celebrate. I am free of the oppressive rule of the tyrannical office despot! I don’t know where I’m going to find a new job, let alone scrounge up first and last month’s rent, plus a security deposit for a place of my own while living on unemployment checks, but I’m free! Liberated! Why shouldn’t I celebrate by drinking a vodka and tonic in the middle of the day?
“Yes, we SHOULD celebrate,” I just told Skiboy. And he is breaking out the Grey Goose now.
Really, things aren’t SO bad, are they? Yes, I have no job, no life, no place to live, etc. And I can’t even move back home with my parents, because my father is dead and my mother is driving cross-country in an RV the size of Dolly’s terrace.
But I have what few are given—ooooh, Skiboy makes strong drinks—I have what you called the greatest gift of alclass="underline" the opportunity to make a whole new start in life. Really, I could be anything. I could be a doctor—well, if I could get money for med school. And if the sight of blood didn’t make me feel all sweaty. I could be a politician—really, I’d be very good at that, you know, because I know what it feels like to be trod upon and broken, like the people of Jersey City or wherever. I could be a lawyer—
Oh, no, blecch, a lawyer, never! I never want to be like Stuart Hertzog. I HATE him. As much as I hate Amy Jenkins. The two of them deserve each other. I hope they both enjoy their country-club wedding and their Sandals honeymoon and their house in Westchester and their 2.1 kids and no dog because of the kids’ allergies and their gas-guzzling, environment-destroying—Yes, thank you, Skiboy, a refill would be lovely—SUV, and their two weeks in Aspen and their summer on the Cape and their JP Tods and their Tse cashmere sweaters on their two-year-old, and preschools that cost ten grand a year for two mornings a week and then the right elementary school because God forbid Junior doesn’t get into the right college so he can get the right job so he doesn’t end up like ME, A BIG FAT HOMELESS UNEMPLOYED FREAK THAT NO ONE LOVES AND WHO IS GOING TO DIE PENNILESS, BITTER, AND ALONE. . . .
Okay, one more drinkie, then I have to hite the pavement, becauge I am woman hear me rihatibgrmvn
To: Dolly Vargas <dolly.vargas@thenyjournal.com>
Fr: Jen Sadler <jennifer.sadler@thenyjournal.com>
Re: Kate
Dolly, something AWFUL has happened. Kate’s been fired! Amy gave her the old heave-ho right before lunch. I don’t know what went down at the meeting they went to this morning, but Amy came tearing in here with SECURITY, cleaned out Kate’s desk, confiscated her computer, and that was that. I haven’t been able to reach Kate—I don’t even know where she is. She left a message a little before noon, but since then. . . .
Dolly, you’ve GOT to talk to Peter about this. Kate is a GOOD employee. If she’s been fired—and like this—it must be a mistake. It probably has to do with Mrs. Lopez. PLEASE PLEASE ask Peter to look into it.
And if she shows up at your place, can you ask her to call me? I’m really worried about her.
Jen
To: Jen Sadler <jennifer.sadler@thenyjournal.com>
Fr: Dolly Vargas <dolly.vargas@thenyjournal.com>
Re: Kate
Darling, don’t worry. I just called home, and Kate’s safe with Skiboy. He says he’s taking good care of her.
Of COURSE I’ll talk to Peter, only you know he flew to San Francisco this morning to check on his vineyard. I mean, I’m happy to see if I can do anything to help our poor little Miss Moppett, but I’m not sure Peter’s going to be able to be of any help until he gets back.
Tell you what, though, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll call Mitch Hertzog. He’ll know what to do. After all, from what I hear from Kate—and it’s hard to tell, with all the slurring—he’s the one who got her fired. He can damn well get her hired back.
Got to run—so many new designs, so few adjectives to describe them. . . .
XXXOOO
Dolly
Hola, darling! It’s me, Dolly! I’m not home at the moment—or possibly I am, but I’m . . . indisposed. Anyway, leave a message, and I’ll get back to you just the second I can. Ciao!
(Tone)
Kate? Kate, it’s me, Jen. Dolly says you’re home. How come you’re not picking up? Kate, come on, pick up. I know you’re upset—hell, I would be, too. But this is not over, okay? Dolly and I are going to get your job back, don’t you worry. We’re not going to let that fucking T.O.D. win. We’re all in this together, Kate, and we’re going to get your job back. Did you hear me? Well, call me as soon as you get this message. I’m really worried about you, Kate.
(Click)
Hola, darling! It’s me, Dolly! I’m not home at the moment—or possibly I am, but I’m . . . indisposed. Anyway, leave a message, and I’ll get back to you just the second I can. Ciao!
(Tone)
Kate? This is Mitch Hertzog. I just heard. Look, I am so—I don’t even know how to begin to say how sorry I am. I had no idea—I mean, I suspected she was up to something, but I never in a million years thought that she’d stoop to—Listen, I am not going to let them do this to you. All I need is that e-mail Amy sent you and a draft of that letter you wrote, and we have them, okay? I’ll get your job back in no time. If you can just get one of your coworkers to forward those documents from your computer, we’re golden. Kate? Are you there? If you’re there, pick up. If not . . . well, call me as soon as you can. You have my numbers. Just . . . God, I can’t believe she did this. I’m so sorry. Call me.
(Click)
To: Stuart Hertzog <stuart.hertzog@hwd.com>
Fr: Mitchell Hertzog <mitchell.hertzog@hwd.com>
Re: Kate Mackenzie
Well, I hope you’re satisfied. Your fiancée, obviously acting under your instructions, just dug her own grave. That’s right, Stu. Because I am going to bury Amy for this. Bury her. I hope this won’t interfere with your wedding plans too much. Don’t worry, she’ll probably still marry you, since she’s going to NEED to change her name by the time I get through with her. She won’t be able to get on a guestlist in town with the name Jenkins.
Oh, and tell her from me—she doesn’t know the meaning of the wordfucker. But she will, shortly.