Mrs. Saint and the Defectives

He brought two fists together, one on top of the other, as though gripping a baseball bat, and swung hard. The motion set him off balance, and he struggled to recover. “Bash them out,” he finished casually, as though the balance thing were all an intended part of the demonstration. “And get your numbers back up to where we all know they can be. Where we all want them to be. Need them to be.”

Markie shook her head vigorously, only somewhat worried that the dramatic gesture might make her seem a bit deranged. She guessed Gregory’s managerial cheerleading services didn’t extend to dog walking. And she knew what he would suggest if she admitted to the four-legged productivity obstacle in her own home.

“Nothing to discuss,” she said. “Just had a few glitches to work out.” She lifted her crutches: Exhibit A.

“Are these glitches exacerbated by your work environs?” he asked. “Too many stairs to climb? Narrow spaces to squeeze through? Because you know, if the at-home situation is becoming a barrier to your success, we can swap that out for you.” He pointed to the cube prairie, squinting. “I think six forty-two is free. See? Ninth row from the end there, eighteenth cube down? On the left?

“Could get you plugged in here with no problem. In fact”—he snapped his fingers—“let’s go call them down in the loading bay right now, have them hold off on putting the new boxes into your car. Get them sent up here instead. The guys can stock up your new work space while I take you around and introduce you to everyone.”

He rubbed his fleshy hands together. “And today is perfect timing, because we’re having our weekly team lunch! Nothing fancy, mind you. I just like to have all of my direct and dotted-line reports together in the conference room one lunch hour a week so we can network, you know? Share a meal, share ideas. It’s a blast!

“We all bring our own lunches, and I have everyone walk around the room, find someone they don’t know very well, and broker a trade. You know, my pickle for your pudding cup, half my bologna for half your turkey and Swiss. Like back in grade school! Great intermingling exercise! Really lets you get to know your coworkers more intimately.

“As we eat, we go around the room and introduce the person we traded with—you sit with whoever you traded with, that’s one of the rules—and say a few things about them. Super-short notice for you today, I know. But you could run down and get something from the cafeteria on the thirtieth floor. Or—hey! This is good! You could show up with no food at all and see how you do trading conversation for grub! Talk about a good way to get to know people!”

He rubbed his hands again and looked at her expectantly, his wide smile suggesting this was her cue to jump up and shout, “Hooray!”

Markie’s throat closed, and she felt a trickle of sweat run down from her hairline, behind her ear. She tasted metal in the back of her mouth, and she feared opening it in case her breakfast, rather than words, came out.

Oblivious, Gregory turned toward his office and motioned for her to follow. “Let’s get hold of them down in the loading bay before it’s too late!”

She considered faking a cardiac arrest to delay him long enough that the boxes would be loaded by the time he reached his phone. That would take more energy than she had, though, now that all the blood had drained from her head, and she worried that any sudden movement might cause her to faint, so she settled on clearing her throat and squeaking out some words.

“The thing is, Gregory, I didn’t factor in the cost of driving downtown, parking, lunches, a work wardrobe, and all of that when I took this job. I don’t know if I can swing it financially, you know? The location change? So I think I’m best to just stay where I am.”

She took a step backward toward the exit door.

“But your numbers . . .”

“I’ll get them up.” She took another step back.

“Because the others”—he pointed to the cube farm—“they drive here, too, you know, and park, and . . .”

“Right,” she said, shuffling farther backward, “but they took a job that requires that.”

There wasn’t a great deal of strength in her argument, but she seemed to have flustered Gregory enough by not matching his excitement that he was unable to list for her all the reasons why her resistance was futile, starting with her Global Insurance offer letter, which expressly gave him the right to demand she report to work at headquarters if that’s what he decided, in his sole discretion, was best for the team and the company.

“I really think my current work situation provides an environment tailor-made to maximize my performance,” she said, hoping it sounded enough like Global Insurance speak. “And . . . uh, efficiency, um, exponents.” She took another few small steps backward. “And I really want to get my numbers up. Way up. Higher than they were. For the team. For you. So I think leveraging my, uh . . .” She moved her hand in the air as if the rest of her sentence were obvious—and laced with corporate lingo.

Gregory sighed. “I guess we can give it another try,” he said. “Tell you what. I have an all-day meeting next Friday, but let’s meet the Friday after that. We’ll look at your numbers. If it looks like your performance is being optimized again, then great. If not, well, you remember what the terms of employment are.”

He gave her a look that said he might have been momentarily flustered a minute ago, but he had not forgotten who held the power. If he wanted her downtown, in the midst of the insect buzz of the cube prairie, trading pickles for pudding cups, there was nothing she could do about it.

“I’ll keep six forty-two open for you,” he said. “Just in case.”

He turned to locate her potential future cube, then scanned the prairie rows until his eyes rested on his own office door. He smiled. She panicked.

“Unless something comes up closer to me.” He pointed to a cube so close to his door that she imagined the person sitting there could smell his breath.

“I’d love to have you right there so I could see you at the start and end of my Pep Walks! Maybe take you along with me, even with your, you know . . .” He pointed to her crutches. “Could get you acclimated in no time, plugged in with all your colleagues. Say, maybe we could even set up a little memory game, see if you can learn a new row of names every day!”

He turned to her, beaming with excitement, and Markie hastily rearranged her face so she no longer looked like an audience member at a horror movie.

“But first, I’ll give it those two weeks,” he said. “Sound good?”

She nodded, told him thanks, and spun toward the exit, forcing herself not to risk reinjuring her ankle by running. When she finally burst through the doors and into the elevator bank, she felt like she had emerged into fresh air and sunshine after two weeks trapped in a root cellar, trying to survive a swarm of locusts.





Chapter Twenty-Three

Julie Lawson Timmer's books