AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I wondered if Carmen was a frequent dreamer. I’d have to ask him when I saw him next.
I fell asleep with a stupid smile on my face, thinking about the man I’d irresponsibly tied myself to.
“You’re gonna be late, Dah!” Maye called through my bedroom door. At least I thought it was the gentle twin’s voice that woke me.
“Huh?” I grumbled into my pillow.
Facedown in the squishy paradise of the thing, I was sure whoever it was couldn’t hear my reply. If it had been Maye, why the hell was she up so late? I’d set my alarm before going to sleep so I could get up and work on the assignment the newsroom editor sent to my email. She would expect a proofed copy in her basket the moment my feet were in the downtown building.
Digging through the blankets, I located my phone and squinted with one eye open and one closed to see the time.
8:48 a.m.
Wait, that couldn’t be right. Turning toward my nightstand, I zeroed in on the clock there and confirmed the horrifying truth. I’d overslept and would never get to work on time. At this point, I’d be better off calling in sick.
But I’d just used my last official days off for the Vegas trip. My boss bitched and moaned routinely about people extending their vacations by using sick days before or after the vacation itself. It was a big no-no in her book, and I was already on thin ice with the woman.
From day one, the shrew didn’t like me. There wasn’t a particular incident that I could think of or any one specific reason I could put my finger on. It seemed to be a matter of personalities not gelling. And in most work environments, that should be fine. You don’t care for someone? Stay away from them. Boom! Problem solved.
But Marla Bines, newsroom editor extraordinaire, was my direct supervisor, and we crossed paths many times a day. She was a plain-Jane woman in her late fifties. Bitter about all the wrongs her ex-husband did to her, she was cranky and mean. The woman had a countdown calendar on her office wall that showed a daily reminder of how many days she had until retirement.
The number was five digits long.
Other than Ms. Bines, as she insisted we call her, I got along with everyone. I tried to just keep my head down and do my job and not call extra attention to myself. That was a great plan for staying out of trouble, but not so great for my career path’s upward trajectory. What was even worse was this growing habit of showing up late.
Damn it, I was in for an ass chewing.
Really, I should probably quit and find something else, but now that my father had threatened that I’d have to shape up or ship out, I needed the income. The luxury of taking weeks to find the perfect job somewhere else was gone.
Getting depressed this early in the morning didn’t bode well for the rest of the day. Plus, it was Monday. The rest of the week would follow this one right down the toilet if it was bad. I had to snap myself out of this self-induced funk and get my ass in the shower.
After calling and leaving a message on Marla’s voicemail that I had car trouble, I sent up a quick one to the big guy that she bought that bullshit. I couldn’t be sure, but I think I used the same excuse last week.
Well, some cars were known to have recurring problems. It could totally be true!
While I rinsed my hair under the glorious hot water spray, I remembered the unfinished assignment. It crossed my mind when I first woke up, but then I started spinning about being late and despising my boss and pushed that fuck-up to the side. Nausea rolled through my entire body, starting with my stomach and pounding out a bass drum beat through my ears.
Maybe I really was coming down with something? As far as karma went, it had to be bad juju to wish for illness. So instead of calling out sick, I sped down the 405 like the CHP was chasing me. My poor, road-worn, commuter car was rattling from every possible nut and bolt. My hair was still wet, and to top it all off, I needed gas in a bad way and didn’t have the money for a fill-up. If I made it to my office, it would be a miracle. I’d have to call one of my sisters during my break and ask to borrow money.
Could this day get any worse?
Here’s the thing about that saying… It’s an open invitation for things to get worse.
From the moment I hustled into the huge open space partitioned off with stormy sky–colored cubicles, I zeroed in on my desk. Marla’s office was clear across the office in the back corner, so I wouldn’t have to pass her fishbowl to get to my spot. She said she liked having an all-glass-walled space. That way she could keep track of what we were doing at all times.
A banker’s box with the lid askew sat on the top of my desk. My personal belongings overflowed between the top of the box and its crooked lid. On top of the lid was a pink half sheet of paper.
Fired. She fucking fired me for being late. I was livid but refused to make a scene for everyone to whisper about after I left. I knew how these people behaved, and I wouldn’t be their next hot topic.
Like unset color rinsing through fabric, the expression left my face. My whole body, really. I was a robot moving through the necessary tasks to get to the goal.
Empty the drawers of my desk, check.
Log out of the company computer, check.
Grab any personal files I had here, check.
It was all done without a single word to my coworkers who hovered nearby, even when they tried to offer sympathy. The box was so heavy, but I hefted it onto a hip, grabbed my purse, and walked out with my head held high. No one got the better of me. Ever.
