Page 3 of The Tenant
“Wayne.” A misunderstanding—that’s all this is. I clear my throat. “I swear to you, I would never—”
“Bullshit.” A fleck of his spit hits me in the face with this enunciated word. “You’re fired, Porter. Pack up your office and get out.”
What?
“Wayne!” I leap out of my seat, my heart jackhammering in my chest. “You can’t possibly think I would do something like that to the company—to you. I don’t know why you think I would—”
“I said, getout.”
I can tell from the sneer on his face that this isn’t some kind of elaborate joke. Nobody is going to jump out of the closet with a surprise cake to congratulate me on my promotion. He is dead serious. He wants me out. After a decade of loyal service, I’mfired. Just like that.
A cold sweat breaks out under my armpits. “Can we please discuss this?”
“Get. Out.” He picks up the receiver on his desk, his other hand punching numbers on the keypad. “I’m calling security to escort you from the building.”
This is really happening. I’ve lost not only my promotion but myjob. What the hell is going on? This has got to be some sort of misunderstanding.
“Okay.” I hold up my hands. “I’ll go, but…maybe we can discuss this later.”
The look on Wayne’s face indicates we will never discuss this ever again. “Just get out. And forget about a severance package after what you pulled. Don’t even think about applying for unemployment. I’ll prosecute you for theft, you piece of shit.”
I can only shake my head, unable to conjure up the words to respond to that.
Even though it’s six in the evening, practically everyone is still at the office, and all of them just heard every word of what happened. I pass Stacie’s desk on the way out, and once again, she won’t look at me.
“Stacie,” I say.
“Sorry, Blake,” she mumbles, not lifting her eyes from her computer screen. “There’s nothing I can do.”
Okay, so that’s how it’s going to be. Well, to hell with them all. I’ll find a job ten times better than this one.
I make the walk of shame back to my office while my coworkers buzz about me from ten feet away. Chad Pickering will be the happiest of all—he thought the VP promotion was his before I snagged it. But he won’t be the only one celebrating.
What can I say? If you want to get ahead, you have to make a few enemies.
When I get back to the office,myoffice, I realize there’s very little I’ll be able to take with me. The framed photo of Krista. The pen my grandpa bought me as a graduation gift—he was so proud that I was the first in our family to ever finish college.
And I’m sure I can take the nameplate that saysBlake Porter, Vice President. Nobody here has any use for that.
Impulsively, I snatch the nameplate off my desk and hurl it at the wall with so much force that it dents the paint. The nameplate falls to the floor, fractured in half. The office has gone completely silent, watching my little performance. Fine—let them watch. At least I didn’t break my hand punching the wall like that dumbass Craig Silverton did after he lost the Roberts account.
I walk over to the window to get one last look. I lean my forehead against the cool glass, not caring anymore about smudges.
And for the first time, I understand my predecessor. Because I wouldn’t mind if this glass broke and sent me plummeting to my death 350 feet below.
3
I have been unemployedfor sixty-two days.
Not that I’m counting.
I’m on my way back to the brownstone now after running for two hours, following an hour of lifting weights. I’ve got another two months left on my gym membership, and I’m damn well using it. Krista has hinted that it’s unhealthy to spend hours every day exercising, but how could that be? It’sexercise. It’s healthy by definition.
Besides, I have to keep my energy up for when I find another job.
I am soaked with sweat when I get back inside—my T-shirt is sticking to my skin. August in New York is the worst time to go for a run due to the stifling humidity, but I do it anyway. I like to see how hard I can push myself. What’s the worst that can happen? I drop dead?
We can’t really afford to run the central air, but I’m glad it’s blasting as I catch my breath in the living room. The aroma of cinnamon hits my nostrils, and my stomach rumbles. All I’ve eaten today is a power breakfast (three whole hard-boiled eggs), and I’m starving.
