Page 8 of The Holiday Fakers
Nothim.
People murmur around me as the full horror of the situation sinks in.
Come January, I’ll be fighting for my job against Colin Turner, the owner’s son.
And my ex-boyfriend.
“Piper? Can I have a word?”
My head jerks up from the computer screen.
Stanley Parker Sr. is standing at the entrance to my cubicle, a perk of an unintentional promotion after the lead graphic designer retired two years ago and was never replaced. No hike in salary, but hey, have some screens around your desk!
He lifts his chin toward my computer. “Working on the new printer ad?”
“Yes.” I follow his gaze back to the stock photo of smartly dressed women standing around an office printer, laughing like it’s more hilarious than salad.
“Looking great!” he says enthusiastically. “High energy!”
I clench my teeth as I formulate my response. Sure, the printer is apparently so advanced it could cook a three-course meal and pick your kids up from daycare, if you could program it correctly, but this ad is generic and dull.
I may have the skills and creativity to match my job title, but by the time my work has passed through three layers of corporate approval, it’s been sanitized of anything original. So, I have to put my digital stylus aside and focus my energy on vetoing the use of Comic Sans.
I force a smile. “Thank you. And congratulations on your retirement.”
His face lights up. “It’s been a long time coming, but I’m excited now.”
He hesitates, then pulls a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his slacks. “I’m here because I want to talk to you about something very important … It’s not just me that’s retiring.”
“But you said there would only be voluntary redundancies!” I stammer before I can stop myself.
His eyes widen, and his hands fly up. “No, no, this is a good thing for you, Piper! The last thing I want for the company is to see you go.”
I slump in my seat, breathing heavily.
He looks stricken. “I’m so sorry I gave that impression. It’s Stanley who’s retiring.”
“Your son?”
“No, the other Stanley.”
My mind goes blank. How many Stanleysarethere?
“Stanley the Stapler.”
Oh yes. The company mascot I drew a few years ago—a project that hadliterallegs when I was then tasked with creating a full-body costume—and given the dubious honor of wearing it at the company summer barbecue.
“I wanted to recognize your work for us, Piper,” Stanley continues, fiddling with the paper in his hands. He lowers his voice. “And I also thought it might strengthen your position after the merger.”
I nod and he beams.
“So, I wanted to be the first to tell you. We have a new company mascot.”
Unfolding the piece of paper, he holds it out to me. “You! Meet Piper the Pen!”
I stare at the picture. It looks like one of those inflatable tube men you see outside car dealerships, with a manic smile and flailing arms. But this one has bright yellow hair that sticks out like overcooked spaghetti after an electric shock, and eyelashes that reach halfway up its forehead.
“My granddaughter drew it,” Stanley says proudly.
