Page 2 of Bingeworthy
My head is lost in memories of Thanksgivings past when the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Someone is watching me. I turn and see my boss hovering nearby. Mr. Spencer glowers over the top of his tortoiseshell glasses.
Meanwhile, my mom is rambling on about the annual tradition of s’mores around the campfire and the Friday night showtunes-only karaoke showdown. All the neighbors vote on the best performance, and there’s a shiny gold trophy for the winner. The whole thing is ridiculous and corny. Everyone on Queen of Hearts Lane shows up for it year after year. Well, all except Rocco next door, who hasn’t shown up for anything in the last five years.
But there are more pressing matters than waxing nostalgic.
“Lucille, I’ll have to call you back with that quote,” I say clumsily and hang up the phone.
I clear my throat and try to look innocent as I turn to my boss. “Tiffany, we need to talk,” he says.
Sheepishly, I follow my boss into his office, and I can’t help but catch Jean’s smug expression as we walk by the cluster of salespeople gathered around the coffee station.
I close the office door behind me.
“You were warned in your performance review about taking personal phone calls at work. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to let you go,” Mr. Spencer says.
My jaw drops. “I was expecting an official write-up, but a stone-cold firing on my second offense?”
He frowns. “This isn’t your second offense. I have a list…”
“A list?”
Jiggling the mouse on his desk, he wakes up his computer and pulls up a document. Yes, that’s right. He has a document of all my infractions, and from here, the list looks long. And detailed.
“According to the team, you’ve taken seven personal phone calls this month.”
I’ve got nothing to lose at this point, so I shake my head in dismay and mutter with a wry laugh, “Bunch of preschoolers.”
“You think this is funny?”
“Not at all. I think the people who work here don’t like me, and I think you don’t follow protocol.”
As I say the words, I realize I don’t feel anything. Not devastation or sadness, or even that much anger.
I pack my personal effects into my crossbody bag and flip Jean the bird.
I submit my wrongful termination complaint to Debbie in HR, and then I turn in my badge to security. On the way to theelevator, I switch gears and decide to take the stairs. I’d prefer not to cry in front of people.
Lucille is overjoyed at the news.
“Great!” Mom says. “Now you can take over the financials for Bottoms Up,” she says, referring to her business.
“Mom!” I reply, horrified. “No nepotism.”
“Fine, fine,” she says. “You can start out bartending for Housewife parties and work your way up to CFO, if you insist. Just make sure you sign the release for filming so you can insert a little free advertising, if you know what I mean.”
“Sure, Mom.”
“Really?”
“No!”
Realizing how tacky she sounds, she throws in a halfhearted, “Dear, it’s terrible you lost that job. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you."
She makes some supportive noises, then says, “We’ll talk more when I see you tonight.”
The lump in my throat is coming on strong.
