Leila
It’s my last day at the office and nobody but Annabeth could give a crap.
Well, that’s not entirely true. Kidman did offer to go down on me as a going away present. The mental picture makes me vomit a little in my mouth, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?
Right now, I’m a little over halfway done with Atkinson’s final laundry list of menial tasks. I just finished walking his lucky ferret—yeah, the man has a ferret which he not only considers lucky, but actually brings into the office whenever there’s an important meeting—and am now on my way to see if I can, “figure out what the hell is wrong with that fax machine.”
I have absolutely no skills with anything technical like this, but my feeble attempts should buy me a good half hour before he finally tells me to just call maintenance.
I tried calling maintenance first once when his monitor started flickering.
That was the day I found out that Atkinson, though otherwise intimidating, screams like a girl when you get him really, really mad.
Tonight is going to be Dane and my second attempt at an actual date.
After he told me what happened with Wrigley outside his new executive chef’s building earlier today, though, it’s apparent that we’re going to have to get a little creative.
That is, if this interminable day ever comes to an end.
After fifteen minutes spent literally poking and prodding Atkinson’s fax machine, I decide to give up a little early and let maintenance deal with it.
My next stop is to collect the third page of Atkinson’s last memo from everyone on this floor and replace it with a new copy.
I’m not doing this because there was some sort of new policy or significant change. I’m doing this because in line thirty-six—that is, fourth paragraph from the top, second sentence—he inserted a hyphen where it didn’t belong.
The offending pair was “boiling-over.”
Never to fear, though, soon everyone will have the copy which rightfully has the phrase as “boiling over,” and I am perfectly confident that no one would ever have noticed. Even if they did, I am certain nobody would have cared.
As I look at the clock, though, my mood lightens.
Only a few more hours and I will forever be free of this cluster fuck.
(I think Dane is starting to rub off on me.)
I hand out the third page of the memo to everyone in the office, making sure to collect the old versions. Atkinson will check my work when I’m done.
This is not speculation.
Kidman’s is the last one, and I motion to Annabeth that it’s time for the fireworks.
She creeps to the side of Mr. Kidman’s doorway. I knock and let myself in.
“Mr. Kidman,” I start, “Mr. Atkinson has asked me to replace page three of today’s memo. Do you happen to have it handy?”
“I’m sure I can find it here somewhere,” he says. “You know, I think I must have tucked it down the front of my pants. Why don’t you be a dear and help me pull it out?”
“You know,” I tell him, “I saved your page for last. Would you like to know why?”
He straightens his tie and says, “Because you’re finally ready to get that raise?” he asks. To ensure there’s no miscommunication, he grabs his crotch.
“No,” I tell him. “I saved yours for last because I finally did something that I really, really should have done a long time ago.”
“What’s that?” he asks.
“I learned the finer points of your particular severance plan and contract with the company.”
“Oh?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Apparently, it’s a pretty standard document. I talked to one of the lawyers here, just to make sure—”
“Wait,” he says, “how did you get access to that?”
“I’m an intern,” I tell him. “I work with important papers all the time. Anyway,” I continue, “it turns out that you only get severance if you’re not fired for cause. While it is true that whoever drew this up gave you a lot of latitude regarding what constitutes cause, in section 18c of the agreement, it clearly states that sexual harassment, as it is against both state and federal civil law, is cause for immediate termination, forfeiture on your part of severance rights, profit-sharing, and about ten other things I didn’t really take the time to look over.”
“That’s not right,” he says. “I don’t remember anything about any section 18c.”
“Oh, Miss Lozano!” I call out.
A moment later, my gorgeous friend comes into the room, carrying a folder. “Why, yes, Miss Tyler?”
“Did you happen to grab Mr. Kidman’s employment contract with this company?”
“Why, yes I did, Miss Tyler,” she says.
She hands me the folder.
“Thank you, Miss Lozano,” I tell her and she leaves the room.
I open the file and toss it onto the letch’s desk.
“Don’t worry, we’ve taken the liberty of highlighting the appropriate paragraphs,” I tell him.
“Wha—Why would you do this?”
“I think a better question is why would you do this to us?” I ask.
“This is all he said, she said,” he scoffs. “Nobody’s going to believe you or your friend. I’ve been with this company for—Mrs. Beck,” he says, interrupting himself.
I turn to follow Kidman’s gaze.
There, standing in the doorway is a tall brunette, dressed in a black pantsuit.
This is my going away present from Annabeth. And to think, I didn’t get her anything.
“I understand that’s no longer a problem?” Mrs. Beck asks, looking at me.
I take the pen out of my pocket and hand it to her. She presses the little button and the recording isn’t playing for ten seconds before his career is over.
“It seems you’ve been caught on tape,” Mrs. Beck says. “How you’ve gotten away with this shameful behavior for so long is nothing short of astounding.”
“I have a contract!” he shouts, rising from his desk. “You can fire me, but I get—”
“You do have a contract,” she interrupts. “It is a contract which you have violated in such an egregious way to do substantial harm to this company and its employees. As soon as these women are done with you, rest assured we’ll be coming for whatever’s left. That is, if they haven’t taken everything.”
“What women?” he asks.
Right on cue, Annabeth calls, “Ladies!” from the other side of the doorway and over the next couple of minutes, every woman, assistant level or lower, every woman this on this floor comes in, hands a pen to Mrs. Beck and walks back out again.
I’ve never enjoyed watching a grown man cry so thoroughly.
I’m about to head out the door, but realize that I’ve forgotten something.
“Sorry,” I say to Mrs. Beck as I make my way back into the room.
I walk to Kidman’s desk and remove page three from Atkinson’s memo. While it’s clear enough that Kidman’s not going to need any part of it, Atkinson was adamant that I retrieve every copy with the extraneous hyphen.
The things we choose to care about.
I walk back out of the room, expecting—not applause or anything—but some kind of acknowledgment that we’ve finally brought the bastard down. True to form, though, everyone’s back to work and no one but Annabeth even notices my presence.
* * *
The rest of my work day is spent finishing up favors for Atkinson. For as much commotion as there was in Kidman’s office only a few hours ago, I leave the building without speaking to anyone.
When I get home, the apartment is empty.
Dane should be home by now, but that’s all right. Now I’ll have a chance to take a quick shower and change out of my work clothes before he gets back.
Once the water’s pouring over me, I’m finding it difficult to imagine getting out voluntarily. I clean myself, rinse myself and then just enjoy the water.
I start to fantasize about Dane coming home, finding me in the shower. We have dinner reservations at l’Iris, pretty much the only place either of us believes we might have a chance avoiding a run-in with Wrigley, but I wouldn’t mind pretending that the shower is a waterfall and that the dim light over the sink is a sunrise.