Eileen Slovak

Chapter Four: There’s Always Work

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and locales are products of the author’s imagination. They are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is coincidental. Copyright © 2024 by Eileen Slovak.

Scarlet

I lose an hour fiddling with the snow which has now started coming down heavily again. Somewhere up in the sky it forms clumps before landing. Looking up, one of the clumps lands on my eyelash temporarily blinding me. I have yet to have my second cup of coffee. My head feels like a thousand tiny Leprechauns are up there doing the Irish jig with itty bitty jackhammers. Now I’m officially late for work. The roads are slippery. They’re already filled with people who can’t drive properly in inclement weather, despite having contended with it most of their natural lives. Who am I kidding? Rhode Islanders drive lousy in all sorts of weather. The snow only gives them an excuse for part of the year.

      My head is pounding. The snow flies at my eyes. The short walk from the parking garage to my office building in downtown Providence feels like miles. Suited businessmen trudge past me, soggy and indignant. I decide rushing at this point is not going to make a difference. My boots are soaked from cleaning off the car earlier. Now the wet seeps into my previously dry dress socks. When I switch into the pumps under my desk, my socks will be wet. I’ll squish and squeak all day in pure misery. Should have used bread bags like mom taught me. 

      I enter the revolving door of my office building. I plaster a smile on my face. I need to fake it until I make it through this day. A better apartment with a garage is a solid reason to work toward a promotion. Showing up late with a sour puss on won’t get me there. Most days I like my job, just not today. I see Martin, the middle-aged security guard who bears a striking resemblance to Shrek but with a much better disposition. 

      “Well good morning, Miss O’Brien. Yours is a smile that can brighten even the grayest of days.”

      “Fair play, Martin, you always brighten mine.”

      “That’s my job,” he says, with a wink and a smile. He becomes more serious. He adds, “Best not work too late tonight, miss. This one’s going to get real sticky later. They’re calling it a nor’easter.”

      “Thanks Martin, have a good day.”

      “Is there any other kind?”

      Standing in the elevator, I ask a stranger to push the button for the fourth floor. I don’t bother making small talk or eye contact with any of the other riders. It’s obvious we would all rather have a snow day. I’m fantasizing about the Bahamas. I visualize myself swinging in a hammock tucked under a pair of palm trees while sipping a strong cocktail.

      I cross the navy carpeted hallway to Lucky Chance Corporation. Our motto is displayed proudly on a placard above the double glass doors of the office threshold. “Where the dreams of today, become the products of tomorrow.” Six years ago, I began working for the two brothers who co-own the company, Frank and Larry “Lucky” Chance. I started as Frank’s Executive Assistant. Then, I was promoted to Sales & Marketing Director. It’s a good job and Frank gives me a fair bit of leeway.

      “Good morning, Emilie.” I chirp at the receptionist, with as much cheer as humanly possible. Emilie is seven months pregnant. Where there once sat a sweet, stylish, French-Canadian, now sits an expanded woman on the edge. Her legendary mood swings come without warning. When she’s really ticked off, she slams the phone down and mutters a slew of expletives in French. So far none of the clients have noticed. Fingers crossed she will return to her cheerful self after the baby comes.

      “What’s so good about it? My sciatica is murdering me,” she says, pressing a stress ball into the small of her back. When the telephone rings she dramatically rolls her eyes until only the whites are visible. It’s hard to imagine pregnancy creating such a demonic transformation. From what I’ve seen and heard from my sister, Catherine, pregnancy feels like something alien is growing inside you. This sensation lasts for nine months. The alien systematically takes over and ransacks your entire body. Afterward, you’re never quite the same. All worth it though, she assures me. I remain skeptical.

      I prefer being the first to arrive at the office, easing into my day, instead of sprinting to catch up. I walk through the spaces to the small kitchen for desperately needed coffee. I observe the centered group of cubicles. It’s curious how the customer service representatives find space in such confines. Somehow, they manage to fit their family pictures, plants, stuffed animals, and trinkets. No space is left uncovered. After a trail of greetings, with coffee in hand, I settle into my office and close my frosted glass door. I’ve already dealt with most of the chaos of the week. I hope to bury myself here to focus on any lingering issues without constant interruption. Hope springs eternal.

     Through the wall of windows surrounding my corner office, I see this morning’s clumps. They have now become cotton ball sized balls pelting down. If this persists, like Martin said, the office will close early. My co-workers who lived through the blizzard of 1978 bring it up at every snowfall. Those like me who were born too late to witness it have heard stories of people stranded in their cars on highways for days. The storm dumped over two feet of snow practically overnight across New England. Lingering fear still stirs in the hearts of many with the first snowflake. Supermarket shelves are stripped bare of essentials like bread, eggs, milk, and beer.

     Time to get to down to it. On my desk, there’s a framed picture of my two nephews, Michael and Christopher, and my niece, Charlotte. There are few other visible signs of a personal life. Only the laptop that travels with me, a telephone, and the half full in-bin complements of Frank are present. He likes paper. He mistakes my tidy desk as a sign that I’m not busy enough. Thus, he heaps more work on top of it. I never object. With no evidence he’s been by this morning, I’ll go looking for him to learn what bombs have gone off.

      By ten thirty, I’ve answered a few dozen emails. I wade through the pile of paperwork in my in-bin. I review my to-do list and the electronic files of my current campaigns on my laptop. Still, no sign of Frank. I step out to get more coffee. In the background, there’s employee chatter speculating about projected snow accumulation. A few employees are clustered together at the window across from Emilie’s desk. This will go on all day, with little to no work getting done.

      “You would think you people have never seen snow before,” Emilie says to them. “This is nothing. You should see the snow in Canada. You would all be crying in your boots.”

      Frank is in the break room pouring himself a cup of coffee, still in his overcoat. 

      “One of these days I’ll get here before you, Scarlet.” 

      “Want to bet?”

      “No thanks, I know when I’m beat. Anything I need to know about?”

      He asks this knowing full well I would have already sought him out if there were. Frank is an attractive man, in a way that living a life of means imparts. His stylist dyes his hair every six weeks. I know because I used to make his appointments. His nails are always well manicured and usually look better than mine. His year-round tan is natural and is the envy of the office. My fair Irish skin only burns, peels, then turns back to ghastly. Frank has the fitness of a man in his late forties. It’s impossible to determine his actual age; it’s the longest running bet in the office pool.

      “It’s been so quiet,” I say. “I’m worried about what’s coming.”

      “Think positive, Scarlet! Besides, whatever it is, I know you’ll take care of it.” His trust in me is a source of pride.

      “Are you going somewhere Frank?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

      “Larry’s meeting me in Tampa for a few days. I’ll be back on Tuesday. You have my number if anything pressing comes up. I came in to pick up a few things.” He takes a sip of his coffee adding, “Have a great weekend. Try to enjoy yourself a little, Scarlet.”

      “I’ll try. I’ll email the sales reports tomorrow. Please say hello to Larry for me, and have a safe trip.”

      Lucky Chance Corporation turns inventions into viable products for the retail market place. Frank is the company President and creative mind, a former inventor with a Master’s Degree in Engineering. Larry, the CEO, handles Sales and the company showroom in the New York office. The brothers started the corporation with their own money. Then slowly built capital and grew the firm to what it is now, a forty million-dollar a year enterprise with annual profits steadily increasing. 

      At lunchtime, I eat a cup of soup at my desk as usual. What plans do I have for the weekend? Nothing exciting. More of the same, hanging out with my two besties, Maggie and Corky. Frank has a point. I should be more like him. He will no doubt spend the weekend golfing at some resort, see a few clients, and call it work. Then again, if I were as relaxed as Frank, how would anything ever get done?

      The phones have been fairly quiet all morning until now. Emilie starts putting calls through without giving me the heads up about who’s calling. I should address the issue with her but haven’t had a moment. Besides, in truth I’m afraid she’ll quit. I just hang up when it rings again, but smile hearing Barry Davis’s cheerful voice. Barry is the company’s Executive Vice President of Marketing in New York. He helped to train me when I transitioned to the marketing team four years ago. Over the past few years, we’ve become friends with a mutual respect for one another. There has always been a lingering flirtation. There’s a ‘what if’ factor. I’m fine with this. I prefer to keep my personal life separate from my professional one.

      “Hey, Red Hot, I’ve got a new product to run by you. There’s one small glitch, but I want to see if we’re both in bed together on this one.”

      Anyone overhearing our normal banter would think it inappropriate, but it’s how we’ve always communicated.

      “Ok,” I say, “you’ve got me in the door.”

      “It’s a product for the new food line, a make-your-own Sicilian cannoli kit.” Barry’s voice is like silk. He could sell sandals to a girl with webbed feet.

      “Hmmm, okay, I’ve taken off my coat and I’m sipping on some oaky, buttery chard.”

      “The pastry shells come direct from Sicily, made by hand in a kitchen filled with little Sicilian grandmothers.”

      “Grandmothers are not particularly sexy, but pastry is, so I’m slipping off my high heels and reclining on the couch.”

      “The shells are dipped in the finest Italian dark chocolate.”

      “I’m unbuttoning my blouse.”

      “The filling is made from a two-hundred-year-old family recipe. It has a creamy, melt-in-your-mouth mascarpone cheese base. Perugina chocolate chips are swirled into every delicious bite.”

      “I’m slipping off my skirt.”

      “The kit includes a special tool for ease of filling insertion,” he continues in a velvet tone.

      “Why not sell it with the cream already inside the special tool? Wouldn’t that be much easier and less wasteful?”

      “Um, excuse me? Good idea but…I believe you were down to your panties.”

      “Right, sorry. I’m unclasping my bra, throwing my head back downing the rest of the wine,” I purr.

      “And the name of this sizzling new product is…Hide the Cannoli. Get it? It’s so good, you’ll want to hide it from everyone else to keep it all for yourself.”

      “I’m hastily shrugging on my coat, gathering up my clothes and sprinting for the door!”

      “Come on, Scarlet! You have to admit it, it’s cute, in a way. Even a little bit?”

      “That’s disgusting! I’m glad I won’t be fielding phone calls or lawsuits on this one. We’ll send them all your way. Besides, you can’t get copyright on that, it’s not even original.”

      “The guy won’t budge on the name. He’s un-frigging-real. Why can’t they leave the marketing to us?”

      “You know why. Everyone is an expert on their own brilliant invention. You’re smooth Barry. You’ll think of something,” I laugh.

      “Sure, sure. So, what color were they?”

      “What color were what?”

      “Your panties.”

      “Oh, red, of course!”