All right! How ‘bout that Jellwagger?! The first act of Exit the Danish done and done. And all he had to do was get shot. Sure, it’s still only the first draft. And yes, when he eventually goes back to revise and rewrite, some of these pages may be deleted. Maybe most of it. Shit, some revisions are page one rewrites. But Jellwagger didn’t want to think about that. No, any excuse to break out the beer and microwave ‘corn was a good one.
In addition to making progress on Danish, Jellwagger’s week off afforded him the opportunity to sample other beers. Since he started working for Carla, it had pretty much been all Spaten all the time. He still loved it, and he always would love it, from the bottom of his Jersey-bred heart, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t step outside his brewski comfort zone. Shit, if the Germans could make something that spectacular, maybe they had some other gems for Jellwagger to discover. And maybe other countries had their own answers to Spaten. Hey, the car and electronics industries weren’t the only hyper-competitive markets. They got all the ink, but no one talked about the cutthroat culture of breweries. They were constantly trying to outsmart each other. Of course they each had their own recipes that have been around, so they say, since 1587 or whenever, so keeping their brand fresh just means marketing the living bejesus out of it, shoving their logos down our throats and so forth. The beneficiaries of all this, of course, are us! The drinkers! And so Jellwagger got drunk every night of his week off on the likes of Hoegaarden (Belgium), Franziskaner (Bavarian, like Spaten), Löwenbräu (a true Bavarian classic), Kronenberg (France), and Singha (Thailand). And of course all the drunken revelry happened while scarfing down the ‘corn and getting caught up on Bruce Willis classics he hadn’t seen in years (he forgot how much he loved and adored The Last Boy Scout).
Still, it was a lonely week. And frustrating, sometimes simultaneously. Lonely because he hadn’t realized how much he appreciated the company of his coworkers. He missed Betsy’s smile and especially her smell. And he missed Grant’s e-mails and deadpan humor and non sequiturs and off-the-wall declarations about how random everyday shit was “gorgeous” or whatever. He missed all that, but therein lay the frustration. Grant had stormed out of Jellwagger’s apartment last week after Jellwagger, drunk off his ass courtesy of prescription pain killers washed down with Spaten, lost control upon seeing Grant, Zach, and Stu standing side by side. And now Jellwagger would have to face Grant when he went back to work. Once in a while during his week off he thought about calling him to see how bad the fallout with Zach had been. Would Zach really leave him? Their relationship seemed stronger than that. But even if that happened, in the end it wasn’t Jellwagger’s fault, was it? Just like Grant and Zach (and now Stu), infidelity couldn’t stay in the closet forever. Even if Grant and Stu had kept the action at work after hours, what wouldn’t stop the odd attorney from stumbling upon them? Attorneys worked late all the time. If Grant had gotten busted that way, he’d’ve been fired on the spot and left to explain the whole mess to Zach.
This was the kind of logic under which our poor beleaguered Jellwagger sought shelter whenever he felt like complete shit for the fubar with Grant, which was most of that week. The beer helped, but the resulting hangover always amplified Jellwagger’s feeling like a complete asshole.
The one good thing was that he and Grace made up. Sort of. She wasn’t pissed at him anymore, and she went along with his logic, but she was still taken aback by his behavior. When she said she wouldn’t have time to get together until next weekend because of another sculpture she was slaving over, Jellwagger couldn’t help but wonder about her sincerity. Plus, there was Stefania. Would he ever see her again? Our man just couldn’t buy a break. At least Betsy had left before the inciting incident, but would Grant tell her about it? Jellwagger drove himself bonkers wondering how much Betsy would find out.
Bottom line: It was a suck-ass week. He was only able to focus on Exit the Danish in spite of himself. He almost wished he didn’t have the week off. Living inside your head twenty-four-seven can be hazardous. He even started not minding his Donald Duck cane. He spoke to it occasionally, especially whenever Chump was asleep, which was most of the time. I mentioned Jellwagger’s going bonkers, right?
By the time Monday morning rolled around, Jellwagger welcomed it with gusto. He practically jumped out of bed, his wounded thigh be damned. He was so thrilled to be going back to work. His leg certainly still hurt. If he didn’t stay on top of the prescription, that pain could be something else.
And so when he pulled into the red line subway station in North Hollywood for the first time in what seemed like forever, our dear Jellwagger had to limp his way down the seemingly bottomless escalator with his Donald Duck cane for all to see. It wasn’t so bad. I mean, if you were to see someone limping around the NoHo station with a Donald Duck cane, would you really give him a hard time? Especially if they were a young buck like our Jellwagger here, which would tip you off that he was only using a cane because of some injury or other? You might do a double-take or something, or wonder about Jellwagger’s sexuality, but only to yourself. And so it was here. Jellwagger kept his eyes on whatever inanimate object was around—the tiles, the signage, the monitors—while with his peripheral vision he noticed people check out his cane now and again. Whatever. He got used to it soon enough. When a particularly adorable college-age Latina told him his cane was cute, he decided he didn’t mind Donald at all.
Speaking of cute Latinas, this babe magnet of a Jellwagger found himself sitting next to a very well dressed and professional-looking Latina on the subway. She was one of those people you see who look so familiar it drives you mad. Jellwagger was already dangerously close to losing it thanks to his week off. He really didn’t need this brain tickle. But he couldn’t just ask her, could he? While she read the Times, he once again used his trusty peripheral vision to check her out while racking his brain.
Finally, around fifteen minutes into the thirty-minute trip, Jellwagger gave up. As if the hottie was a mind reader, she turned the page while grunting a laugh. “You still haven’t fallen asleep,” she said. “I assume you’re better rested than the last time I saw you?”
Of course! This was the hottie in front of whom Jellwagger had embarrassed the shit out of himself week before last. He’d fucking walked to the station from Azure’s place in Glendale and gone straight to work. On the ride down he’d conked out on this babe’s shoulder. Wait. Don’t panic. She’d been cool as a taco shell then, and she seemed equally mellow now. Hopefully she’d have enough tact not to ask about the Donald Duck cane.
“So what’s with the Donald Duck cane?” she asked.
“Oh, you mean Donald here?” He impressed the hell out of himself with how he smiled and just rolled with it.
“It’s cute.” She offered him a smile of her own before turning back to the paper. Damn, she was gorgeous. And she smelled fantastic. Eat your heart out, Betsy.
“Thanks.” Should he tell her he’d been shot? Jellwagger didn’t have the energy to explain all that nonsense right now. But what the hell else could he say? Pulled a hamstring? How the hell would he have managed that? Then again, he did manage to get shot.
“So?” She was looking at him intently. What the hell was she, a lawyer? She spoke in a very official and clipped manner, like lawyers you see on the news.
“So…?” Jellwagger pretended not to know what she meant. Was the bitch really going to make him say it?
She turned back to the paper. “If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine.” She grunted another laugh. “None of my business.”
“No worries, lawyers ask questions all the time.”
She turned to him with a start. “How’d you know I was a lawyer?”
“Oh come on. Helen Keller could see that you’re a lawyer.”
She turned back to the paper again and continued scanning and turning the pages without another word. Was that it? Jesus! Jellwagger didn’t have the energy for hot women’s mind games. Not today. “Okay fine, I was shot.”
“What?” The hottie folded the paper and faced Jellwagger head on. Aw look, she even had a little mole on her cheek. “Seriously?”
“No, J. Robert, I made that up.”
She made these quick little shakes of her head like Chump E. Chips did now and again when he wanted to get Jellwagger’s germs off him. “Wait a second. When did this happen?”
He told her the whole story except for the part about having a nubile Filipina and an escort in his apartment.
“So you knew this person?”
“Meh…” Jellwagger tilted his head from side to side.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s like, do you know that one suck-ass judge or opposing lawyer the very sight of whom pisses you the hell off? You don’t see them much. You never talk to them beyond the occasional hostile ‘Hey!’ or whatever. And then suddenly there they are. And they shoot you. And then I ask you if you knew the person who shot you.”
“So we’ve established that it wasn’t a stranger.”
“Oh is that all you meant? Why didn’t you just ask it like that?”
“But was it random? Or did this Aaron guy target you specifically? By the way, Roxanne.” She offered her hand.
“Jellwagger.”
“Seriously?”
“Michael Jellwag. Just about everyone calls me Jellwagger. Except my dad. Only, he’s a goner. But you’ve also got my sister Jo. My boss calls me Michael. She’s a hot Latina also. Holy shit, did I just say that? I’m sorry, I’m sort of doped up on painkillers right now.”
“Where is Aaron now, Jellwagger?”
“You’re not mad at me?”
She just looked at him as if she hadn’t even heard the “hot” comment. Lawyers, huh?
“I, uh, I don’t know. He just took off.”
“He’s missing?”
“He’s going to have to come back at some point. His mom lives in my building. Although she did kick him out. That’s why he was busting into my place, see. He’s desperate. Aaron’s busted into a lot of places in my gorgeous Van Nuys neighborhood. I have to say I feel kind of sorry for him.”
“Would you press charges if he were caught?”
Jellwagger turned almost to the sheer black window. In the corner of his eye he could see his reflection. It seemed like his reflection was staring right at him, an extremely disturbing thought to our boy here, so much so that nausea punched him in the gut before he turned back to Roxanne. “Boy oh boy, I’m going to have a ton of e-mails to catch up on.”
“You okay?”
“I was shot, Einstein. Figure it out.”
Her all-business demeanor was pissing him off now. They were coming up to the Westlake/MacArthur Park stop. Good, almost there. Her hotness no longer meant anything. Jellwagger’s pits were dripping. God damn her. He faced forward and looked at all the people sitting and standing, including a particularly attractive Asian. She didn’t look like an attorney at all, not with those jeans and that long-ass purple scarf and woolen hat. Maybe she was an artist chick like Grace. Suddenly Jellwagger felt a deep longing to keep the Asian’s company instead of this hard ass’s.
Jellwagger didn’t even wait for the subway to screech to a complete stop at the Seventh St./Metro station before jumping up and scooting past Roxanne. It was then that he came upon one great benefit of being an invalid: Everyone gave him the right of way. This was by far the most popular stop downtown because of the blue line transfer. Tons of people got on and off here, but they all allowed Jellwagger through first. While limping down Seventh St. towards Figueroa, he noticed people affording him extra personal space as they walked by.
“Jellwagger!”
He turned to see Roxanne speed-walking toward him while stuffing her newspaper into her compact leather briefcase.
“I thought people like you used those rolling suitcase jobs.”
“Hey there, sorry about that.”
When she caught up, they started walking together toward Fig. “Not too fast. I’m literally lame here.”
“I have a nasty habit of coming on strong,” she said as she pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit up. She offered one to Jellwagger.
“Looks like that’s not the only nasty habit you have.”
“You don’t know how many times I’ve tried to quit.” She stuffed the pack of cigarettes into her coat pocket as she exhaled and slowed her walk. Her all-business countenance, at long last, melted away. “I went three months without a single cigarette. This was last year.”
“So what happened?”
“This bitch of a case. I shit you not, Jellwagger, it was a twenty-four-seven operation. I would literally go an entire day without taking a meal break. Not because I was on a diet. I was forgetting to eat.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“You’re telling me.”
“I work in a law firm too.”
Roxanne was in the middle of inhaling when he said that. She looked at him and raised her eyebrows before turning back to the street.
“Powell and Powler.”
“Not a bad firm,” she said as she exhaled. They walked in silence for a bit.
Damn, look at this. Not only did smoking relax her, it completely detached her from the whole planet. Jellwagger figured if this woman had love in her life, she wouldn’t need to smoke. There’s nothing like lots of love and the volcanic orgasms that went with it to make you relax and forget about your cares. Not that Jellwagger knew anything about that. He wondered if Grace might be the ticket. Ostensibly they had nothing at all in common. She looked nothing like the woman Jellwagger figured he’d spend the rest of his life with, but they’d really hit it off, hadn’t they? Surely one bad drunken night wouldn’t undo that chemistry.
“Hey.” Roxanne tapped his arm with her cigarette hand, causing some ash to snow onto his shoes. “Penny for your thoughts.”
“All you need is love, Roxanne.”
“I’ve always thought it was ironic as hell that my folks named me Roxanne.”
They reached the corner. “Just to show you the drugs haven’t made me a complete fruit loop, I recall that you go that way.”
She dropped the cigarette and stamped it out with her black boot. “And Powell and Powler’s down there.” They shook hands again.
“Can I just say that ten minutes ago I thought you were a four-alarm bitch?”
“I get that a lot.”
“You’re hot, though. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind saying that since you didn’t seem to mind before.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll tell you what’s ironic as hell: That a spicy mamasita like you is still single.”
“You’re not so shabby yourself, Jellwagger. What’s your excuse?”
“Ugh, look at us, Roxanne.” He smiled at all the folks zipping by, many of them engrossed in their Crackberries or in the middle of a hands-free conversation on their cell. Some of them shot ugly looks at his smile, but who gave a shit? “I figured my first Monday back would be friggin’ hard, but look. I’m having this cool existential conversation with a hot uptight Latina lawyer.”
She unzipped her briefcase and dug through it for a few seconds. “Oh come on, why is it when I actually need one…?” Roxanne dug some more before pulling out a business card.
“Holy shit, you’re a partner!”
“Try not to hide your surprise too much.”
“Roxanne Soto of Soto and Samuels, LLP. Well you get an A for alliteration.”
“If you need anything, give me a call.”
“I’m sure that’ll lead to a nice chat with your assistant.”
“I’m not that kind of attorney. If you call, and I’m there, I’ll take the call.”
“So what kind of lawyer are you? Like, what areas?”
“Maritime.”
“Sounds like a thrill a minute.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“I wish I had business cards. You haven’t asked me what I do.”
“Well listen, Jellwagger, I hope I see you again sometime. And really, don’t be shy about calling.” Without waiting for a so long, she turned and zipped away.
For some reason Jellwagger couldn’t take his eyes off her. It wasn’t just that she had the hottest and tightest little ass this side of the Valley, although that definitely helped, but how she immediately went from being chilled out to all business. I mean look at that spitfire. Look at how she whipped out the Crackberry, brushed aside some hair so she could ram the bud into her cute little ear, and dialed a number without even looking. “Fucking amazing,” he said out loud without meaning to.
When Jellwagger limped into the lobby of the Sanwa Bank building, he did something he’d never done when getting to work: He smiled. Jellwagger never thought he’d miss the sight of that long-ass line for coffee.
“My man Jellwagger!”
And look, there was Dathan at the security desk, standing as always with his hands in his pockets, greeting each and every working stiff who walked by. Thousands of people worked in this building, and Dathan seemed to know the name of each and every one of them. “’Morning, Dathan.”
“Welcome back, sir. How’s that thigh? Not too well cooked, I hope. Ha ha!”
Shit, how did he know?
While riding up the elevator, Jellwagger decided it didn’t matter if Dathan knew. In the ultimate, bitter end, it didn’t matter if anyone knew. Shit, if anything, it would score Jellwagger sympathy points. If people were nicer to him simply because of his horrible luck, he couldn’t be too sore about that, pun intended.
Unfortunately, nice was the furthest thing from the reception awaiting this particular Jellwagger at his cubicle. His desk, chair, and keyboard were covered in kitty litter, as was the carpet around his workspace. And both his wastebasket and recycle bin were filled to the brim with the pebbly stuff. But wait, it got even better.
While standing there and taking it all in, Jellwagger noticed little lumps here and there throughout the sea of litter. No sooner did he step into the workspace than the smell smacked him upside the head with a force to rival the bullet from Aaron’s peashooter, as if an invisible wall had formed there and waited for him to shatter it. Or maybe whoever played this prank had somehow manipulated the stench to go off like a time bomb upon Jellwagger’s arrival.
“Compliments of the cat who lives in the alley near my house,” came the unmistakable deadpan voice.
Whenever you think and rethink and overthink how an event will play itself out, especially if it involves people you (think you) know, the reality usually turns out to be far different. So it was for Jellwagger. It started with the litter. He knew Grant was pissed at him and that things would be slow going at first, but shit, look at this. “So Grant…” Jellwagger turned, but Grant had already gone.
From the other direction came the unmistakable squeak of the mail cart. Jellwagger turned just in time to meet Stu’s glare. If there were such a color as jihad, that would’ve been the color of Stu’s eyes. He opened his mouth as if to exclaim Jellwagger’s full name in that whacky way he always delivered stuff. He even spread his arms. But just as the first syllable of Jellwagger’s first name escaped his lips, Stu stopped short and dropped his arms. Maybe pretending to have a package was his passive-aggressive way of payback. If that’s all he was going to do, that wasn’t so bad.
Stu continued on his way. And then:
Bam!
Something smacked Jellwagger in the back of the head.
“Michael Johnson Asshole!” Stu squeaked the cart away in a hurry.
At Jellwagger’s feet was a package from Just Because.
“You there, bitch?” Carla’s voice squawked from the walkie-talkie in Jellwagger’s backpack.
He noticed the message light on his phone. Who the hell had called him at his work number? Everyone knew he had last week off.
“Wake up, skinny bitch.”
That one middle-aged heavyset attorney who occasionally wobbled by was doing so just then. He stopped and looked around for the source of the voice when he was knocked back by the sight of Jellwagger’s cubicle. “Lord have mercy. What happened here?”
Jellwagger had never heard this guy talk before, but judging by how his face was always red and how his breathing always sounded laborious, our main man wasn’t too surprised by the phlegmatic voice. He was wearing a hands-free earpiece. Was he even talking to Jellwagger?
“What happened here, young man?” He peeked over the surround before lifting his baggy eyes at him.
“I had an accident,” was all Jellwagger could think of saying. Jesus, that sounded lame.
“Your computer is destroyed, young man.” The big man seemed engrossed in the litter-drowned keyboard. “Destroyed. Uh huh. You call IT?”
“Jellwagger?” Carla said. “Just because you and I fucked in the shower doesn’t mean I’m going easy on you.”
The big lawyer looked around and frowned.
The phone rang.
“Just the opposite, bitch. You read me?”
“I’ll clean it up,” Jellwagger said.
“Someone needs to learn how to close their door if they’re going to use speaker. Mercy.”
“I’ll clean it and get a new computer.”
“Have you called them?”
“Jellwagger!”
The big lawyer pulled out his Crackberry and stylus and tapped the screen. “Mahoney here. We’ve got a situation. Cubicle on my floor has a computer that’s been destroyed by cat shit…Yes, sir…No, sir, I’m not joking. You don’t have time for jokes when you bill by the quarter-hour…What’s your cubicle number, young man?”
Jellwagger slipped one arm out of his backpack so he could unzip the pocket containing the walkie-talkie. “Hold your horses, carrot top.”
“Where are you?”
“Young man?”
“Drowning in cat shit.”
“What?”
“What’s your cubicle number?”
“I don’t know my fucking cubicle number, Boss Hog.”
“The young man doesn’t know the cubicle number, but he works on my floor if that helps. Just follow the stench. It’ll take your breath away.”
“Did you get the package?” Carla asked.
“Maybe my name would help,” Jellwagger said. The big lawyer walked away.
“Who are you talking to, Jellwagger?”
“What do you want, Carla? I literally just fucking got here.”
“Enjoy your week off?”
“Do you really give a shit?”
“There’s lots to do. Have you gotten caught up on those e-mails?”
“Maybe you didn’t hear me, Deep Throat. I just. Got here. Capeesh?”
Just then Betsy walked by with some papers fluttering in her hand. She flashed Jellwagger a gorgeous smile. “Welcome back, Michael. How’s the leg?”
“Eh.”
“Listen, when you’re settled, could you stop by my office?” She looked at the litter and laughed. “You boys and your pranks.” She walked away.
At least things were hunky dory with his boss. That was something, right? Jellwagger clung hard to shit like that, what with the nightmare this morning had already become. Speaking of clinging and shit, when he tipped his chair forward to dump off the litter, only the topmost pebbles and clumps fell. The lower layer clung to the chair’s fabric. “So what’s in the envelope?” he asked while sweeping the rest off with his hands. At least the shit was hard and dry.
“You’ll find out soon enough. But listen, I don’t like how chummy you and Pat were last week. I’ve warned you before, and I’ll warn you again: He’s an oily bastard. He convinced Stefania to go from nun to whore. He could convince a dog it’s a cat. Be careful with him.”
“What’s with all those pills he takes?”
“Has Sam T. Lee been in touch with you?”
“Who?”
“You told me you met him that first night with Pale Cock. They treated you to Lagavulin.”
“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“Jellwagger, I’m serious. You cannot trust them.”
“What does he think about me knowing you?”
“Exactly. He doesn’t seem fazed by it at all, but secretly he might suspect you’re working for me. And if he doesn’t figure it out, Sam T. Lee will.”
“I only talked to that guy for, like, five seconds or something. I wouldn’t be worried about him.”
“Five seconds may have been all he needed, Jellwagger. Don’t let your guard down, you read me?”
A young unshaven buck in a T-shirt and sweats appeared at Jellwagger’s cubicle. “Hey man. What’s up?”
“Oh nothing,” Jellwagger said. He went back to the walkie-talkie. “I’ve got to run, Carla. Seriously. There really is cat shit all over my cubicle, I wasn’t kidding about that.”
“’Fuck did that happen?”
“Later.”
He chucked the walkie-talkie into his backpack as the helpdesk guy came around and turned on the computer. “Your computer works.” He turned over the keyboard and smacked the bottom of it to get the litter out. When he put it back on the desk, he tapped the delete key several times. “You need a new keyboard.” And then he just sat there while the computer slowly but surely labored its way toward logging in.
During that eternity, Jellwagger looked around to see if anyone else was coming by. In particular he wanted to see Grant. And now. He was sorry if Grant and Zach were on the outs, but this was bullshit if he was going to get in trouble for the litter.
When the screen finally arrived at the desktop, the IT guy wiggled the mouse. The arrow wiggled accordingly. “Mouse works. So you just need a new keyboard. But next time, man, be careful.”
“You got it. Next time I bring up a year’s worth of kitty litter, I’ll spread it around in a more responsible manner. Thank you so much.”
“I’ll be back.” The IT guy left without even trying to dodge the litter. He stepped in it and tracked it across what little bit of workspace carpet had still been clean.
Six messages waited for him on his voicemail: Two from Jo, three from Rosamund Powler, and the most recent one from Pat Dinner. Jo and Roz were checking up on him, but Pat’s was urgent. He needed Jellwagger to call him, stat.
First, though, Jellwagger needed to clean this shit up. He went stalking around the office looking for a supply closet or something that had brooms and whatnot. While doing so, he racked his brain about something he’d never thought about before: Who kept this office clean and how did they do it? Finally he grabbed some paper towels from the kitchen, thinking he could at least wipe off the surfaces. He also snagged the kitchen trashcan which, in stark contrast to his own can, was still mostly empty.
His phone was ringing when he got back: Powler, Rosamund. How many people in this firm got to see that on their caller ID? “Hiya, Roz.”
“You get here this late every morning? No wonder you’re still just a lowly data flunky.”
“I love you too.”
“I heard you got your ass shot off. You alive or what?”
“Sure.”
“What?”
“I mean, yes. But my desk is drowning in cat shit.”
“Is that a metaphor?”
“I wish. Don’t we have a cleaning crew?”
“Hold on a second, Jellwagger.” She put him on hold for a few seconds, then came back with: “They’re on the way. Now what else?”
“What else?”
“What else did you fuck up? I don’t have time to be your nanny.”
“You called me, remember?”
Just then a man and woman in white shirts and khaki pants appeared at Jellwagger’s desk with brooms, dust pans, a vacuum, and a couple of those cylindrical containers with anti-bacterial wipes. “Here to clean?” the man said.
“Damn, Roz, you’re good.”
“Talk later. And remember: Whatever else happens, don’t be a pussy.” She hung up.
Jellwagger went to the kitchen to collect his thoughts and caffeinate himself. It wasn’t even ten o’clock, and he was already exhausted. How was he going to make it? This coffee wasn’t doing it. He could go to the café downstairs, but this Jellwagger just didn’t feel like standing in long-ass lines. He hadn’t even gotten to his e-mails yet. After refilling his mug, he plodded back to his desk.
In the measly ten minutes he’d been gone, those two cleaners had completely renewed his workspace. The desk was polished, the carpet was clean, and his trashcan and recycle bin were empty. The IT guy had been by to drop off the new keyboard.
He expected a lot of e-mails to catch up on, but not over a thousand. “What the fuck? Who…?” As he scrolled down, it became clear: The vast majority were from Grant.
Just then Stu was coming by. He slowed down upon passing Jellwagger’s desk, which made the cart squeak even louder.
Jellwagger jumped up. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“You talkin’ to me, Michael Johnson Asshole?”
Jellwagger marched around the desk and up to Stu until they stood inches apart. It was like coming face to face with a bearded beanbag. “Listen, you insult to Jenny Craig. If you have a beef with me, you settle it like a man. You don’t go around with this passive-aggressive bullshit.”
“If you can’t talk to me—”
“You’re the shit-for-brains who had sex with someone who was already committed. In the office!”
Stu looked ready to unleash his own outburst. But instead he broke down and cried. “I didn’t know he was committed, I didn’t know he was committed, I swear.” He fell to his knees while gripping the cart’s handle like his life depended on it. “I swear to God, Michael. I swear.”
“Get the fuck up. Jesus.” Jellwagger went back around while Stu rose shakily to his feet. “So are we cool? You won’t be a dick anymore?”
Stu nodded. He untucked his barely tucked-in shirt and used it to clean his glasses.
“Awesome. Have a good day.” His phone rang. “What’s up, Betsy?”
“Caught up on those e-mails yet?”
“Very funny.”
“So you think you might have time for a quick chat?”
“Aw fuck, I totally forgot.”
“We can talk now.” She sighed heavily. “It’s not good news, I’m afraid, Michael. The firm won’t pay for your time off.”
“Is that a joke? Did Grant put you up to this?”
“Look, it upsets me too. I got into a pretty bad argument with payroll. They wouldn’t budge. You need to be at a certain pay grade.”
“Like, say, Grant’s pay grade?”
“Or higher.”
“So if I were to go shoot Grant in the leg right now and make him take the next week off, the firm would pay for it?”
“Yeah, he’d be covered. But you’re one grade below him, so.”
“Listen, do you know if he and Zach broke up?”
“I have no idea. Where’d that come from?”
“So he hasn’t said anything? Nothing at all?”
“It’s funny how we always think we’ll miss something when we’re away. That’s good, it means you’re committed to your job. But no, last week was boring if you don’t count my argument with payroll.”
“So let’s recap. I’m not getting paid for last week, and Grant’s just fine. Un. Fucking. Believable.”
“I feel horrible, Michael.”
“Well listen, I have to run. Christmas tree’s on fire.” He dropped the phone onto its cradle so it made a loud thud.
“I’m sorry, Michael!” Betsy yelled from her office.
“I’m not!” Grant yelled from his cubicle.
Just looking at all those e-mails made Jellwagger feel sick.
Now was as good a time as any to open Carla’s envelope. Inside he found a letter and a bunch of large glossy photos. Jellwagger flipped through the photos first and was struck dumb by what they showed: Pat Dinner and Kit Figures eating together in some swanky restaurant, Pat and Kit outside perhaps the same swanky restaurant, Pat and Kit getting into a limo. “What the fuck?”
His phone rang again. It was an outside number with a 310 area code. Jellwagger had a hunch who it was, and it was instantly confirmed by the cackling laughter. “I’ve been trying to reach you forever, my man!”
“What in hell for?”
“Someone’s on their way to see you. I wanted to give you a heads up.”
“Who? When?”
Just then both questions were answered. Walking up to Jellwagger’s cubicle was an impeccably coiffed, expensively suited Asian man whom Jellwagger might have had trouble recognizing if not for Carla’s call earlier.
“Hello there,” the man said. They shook hands. “Remember me?”
“Sam T. Lee,” Jellwagger said.
To be continued...
