Eileen Slovak

Chapter Nineteen: Scoring at Work but Zero on Love

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 survive the work week in a robotic fashion. Frank knows me well enough to leave me alone when I’m clearly brooding over something. It means I’ll be even more productive, working to his advantage. By the end of the week, things have seriously hit the fan. I snap out of my self-imposed stupor. After the weekly morning executive meeting on Friday, I’m pummeled with non-stop telephone calls. Plus, I’m putting out never ending fires that need stomping out. Why does everyone wait until Friday to have a crisis?

      Before lunchtime Rick, the Quality Control Manager, appears in my office doorway. He has his hands on his hips, his shirt sleeves rolled-up to the elbows. Large sweat stains are forming matching circles under his armpits. He explains the latest disaster of the day, while a bead of sweat trickles down the side of his face.

      “Thanks Rick, I’ll take care of it. I’ll call you if I need you.”

      In truth I have no idea how to go about fixing this mess. A product shipment is missing a recycle stamp. Seemingly this is not a big deal, but the product is known for its earth friendly qualities. Rick gives me a copy of the product SPECS. He insists that all of the production samples he had seen bore the stamp. Still somehow a batch of 10,000 units was manufactured without it. That load is now sitting on the loading dock of an irate retailer. Within the hour, I’ve tracked down where the breakdown occurred. I made the call to the manager of the manufacturing facility to inform him the error was on his end. The manufacturer promises a replacement shipment will be shipped within two days at the most. His company will absorb the cost. He’ll also handle the logistics of re-making then re-shipping the goods, along with retrieving the bad shipment. He takes the news surprisingly well. Although I know the owner of the company will call Frank to complain. I contact all of the appropriate people. I smooth over ruffled feathers. Then I file copies of the documentation to have at the ready when Frank questions me about the issue. The hardest part of my job is dealing with all manner of egos.

      Almost on cue, Frank buzzes me into his office. His trust in my decision-making abilities has become more apparent over the last few months. I’m due for my annual review, hoping a big raise is forthcoming. He’s always been generous in the past. I bring the shipping disaster file with me, but he has other matters to discuss.

Sitting in his office, I watch a steady parade of customer service representatives, and accounting clerks file by. They’re carrying bundles wrapped in pastel paper dripping with ribbons. Some carry dishes covered in foil and plastic wrap.

      “There’s a baby shower for Susan in accounting,” Frank says, smiling. “Are you going?”

      “Are you?” I ask as a way of avoiding my answer. I donated toward a group gift but have no intention of going.

      Frank adores parties. He dresses up as Santa Claus every year for the office Christmas party. Employees are encouraged to bring their families. In the weeks leading up to the festivities, Frank supervises decking of the halls while offering opinions on buffet menus. I work sixty-hour weeks. Trying not to tear my hair out over the lack of actual work being accomplished during the holidays is frustrating. It’s the busiest production and shipping time of the year. It’s made uber stressful by the lackluster effort of our preoccupied staff. By the time Christmas arrives all I want to do is sleep through it. Every year I consider scheduling a vacation to the tropics the week of the party. Except I can’t miss Christmas at Catherine’s house and I always have too much work.

      “I feel a compulsory off site lunch meeting coming on.”

      “You know Scarlet,” he says, with a look of concern, “you’d be better liked if you joined in the fun once in a while.”

      “Popularity in my position is not nearly as essential as respect. Besides, you’re popular enough for both of us. Who’s going to be the bad cop if I go all soft and squishy?”

      “I worry about you, Scarlet.”

      “You know what worries me, Frank? The numbers this month. They aren’t where they should be. Did you see the sales reports this morning?”

      “I have them here…somewhere.” He sifts through the enormous piles on his desk. “What happened to the paperless society we were promised?”

      “It only applies to people who read their email regularly, keep virtual files and only print to PDF.”

      “What can I say? I like my hard copies.”

      Frank insists that Emilie print out copies of anything “important”. The problem is, he’s so afraid he’ll miss something, that he marks everything important. He even asks her to print some of his emails. Although dozens of people are paid to worry about the small stuff, Frank can’t help but insert himself. It leaves even less time for the issues that truly require his attention.

      The job perks are nice, but my head hurts from banging it against the glass ceiling. Frank is far too young to ever retire. Where is my career going from here? Most days I feel like a glorified secretary, cleaning up company-wide messes. I may have maxed out on advancement opportunities with Lucky Chance. I’m considering looking for other employment opportunities. Retrieving the sales reports from a red folder on his desk marked “Frank Important”, I hand it to him.

     “Here they are,” I say, handing him the copies.

     He flips through, frowning. “Hmmm. Yes. We’ve had better months. But Scarlet, the reason I called you in is because I have a meeting on Monday with a new inventor. I’d like you to sit in.”

      “I’d be happy to,” I say, surprised. Work has become so habitual; I need a spark to re-ignite my lost fire.

      “I forget what time he’s coming in. Check with Emilie. She’s on top of that sort of thing,” Frank says, forming a volcanic pile with the papers on his desk. When his cell phone rings, I excuse myself, leaving his office with a new spring in my step.

      Serena Jacobs, the Human Resources Manager has been circling my office all week. Serena is like a great white horror. She has most of the other employees snowed by her syrupy, sweet act. I know her for what she is. She’s a major pretender always on a fact-finding mission who spends a lot of time at Emilie’s desk. Whenever she’s near, my BS meter goes off the charts. I know she tried to sink me when Frank decided to promote me. Serena can always smell blood in the water. She relishes being the first in the office shark pool to sink her fangs into some juicy scandal. Gossip should be contrary to her position. As should convincing Frank to allow her to hang her amateur paintings on the office walls. Especially since they are all for sale. I find it completely unethical, since she has influence over employee careers. When I hear Serena’s high heels click-clacking down the hall toward my office, I quickly close and lock the door. I’m not very politically correct I know, but then again, I’ve never cared much for politics. I’m not back in my office a minute when my cell phone rings.

      “This is Officer Hardesty, from Bentonville, Arkansas. I got a message that you had some questions about the Sean Campbell accident.”

      Gary had put in a call on my behalf.

      “Yes, Officer Hardesty, thank you for calling me back.”

      “Rhode Island area code, is that where he was originally from?”

      “Yes, Sean had only recently transferred out there.”

      “I talked to a guy the other day, some private detective. I forget his name. Are you working with anyone else on this? Wait a second.” I hear the sound of shuffling papers as he riffles through, “on second thought, maybe he was from Virginia. Never mind.”

      I can’t imagine why a private detective from Virginia would have any interest in Sean’s accident. I assume maybe the insurance company hired someone.

      “Well ma’am, what is it you wanted to know?” Officer Hardesty asks.

      “I’m not inquiring in any official capacity on this, I was a friend of the victim.” After I say this, I realize my mistake, not sure what Gary had told him. Why do police make me so nervous? I’m not a law-breaker.

      “Well, in that case I’m afraid I can’t tell you much that wasn’t already in the police report or the newspaper. That’s a matter of public record anyway.”

      “I’d really appreciate any information you can offer, officer,” after my initial foible, I cover with polite respect.

      “Like the report said, he was speeding, came up on the road crew equipment. There was a warning sign out on the road along with some cones. I guess he was moving too fast to break in time. It’s a bad stretch of road for certain, sure. Lots of twists and turns, but you know, nothing gets fixed until there’s a death or two. Then it becomes a political matter. You know what I’m saying? The man’s family is all spun up about it understandably. If it eases your mind at all…it was quick. I can tell you; he didn’t have time to suffer.”

      I wince at the thought of Sean in those final panicked moments.

      Officer Hardesty goes on. “No other cars were damaged, the vehicle appears to have lost control, spun out, then hit the paver straight on.”

      I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Why am I doing this to myself? I’m like one of those people who slows down when driving by an accident to rubber-neck. Have I really become the type of person that I hold so contemptible?

      “Ma’am?”

      “Yes, I’m still here.”

      “I’m sorry I don’t have more to tell you.”

      “Was the weather bad that day?”

      “Um, it was raining a bit. That would have cut down on visibility. They’d just put down the new road surface. New tar can be slick when it gets wet.”

      “Thank you, officer. You’ve been very helpful.”

      “Sorry for your loss, Ma’am. You try to have a good day now.”

      “Thank you. You as well.”

      There’s no hope for this day. I had planned to have dinner with Catherine and the kids tonight. Can I go without being a complete Debbie Downer? Why can’t I be more like Catherine? Her life is so much simpler than mine.