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 15 minutes spent literally poking and prodding Atkinson’s fax mach
ine, 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 36—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.