I’m in my apartment, looking at the bare walls and sparse furniture. It’s like I’ve just moved in, except I’ve been here for three years. I suppose the state of my studio was an unconscious attempt to keep myself deluded: I wasn’t trapped as a software desk jockey; I wasn’t stuck in an apartment with a ceiling on the verge of caving in.
But half of my travail is over; I was fired. And, now as I’m looking at my dartboard, there’s a certain blonde I would like to use for target practice. I’ve come home to flip through the newspaper, away from people who feel that every time I open one it’s an invitation for them to look over my shoulder…and start reading. But, as I peruse the employment section, I find the same problems cropping up: No degree. I have the experience, but cannot explain my sudden departure from my job. If I say it was by choice, I will be required to furnish a recommendation to back my words. Admitting that I was discarded like a used piece of toilet paper marks my past with a host of unwanted labels and assumptions: Slacker. Troublemaker. Probably got caught fucking the boss’s wife, daughter, chihuahua, whatever.
But I have to admit, that call, the one I made to my former boss was the highlight of a bad week. The words: “I was fired by someone of _higher authority_” felt…good. It was as if I’d delivered a swift kick to his crotch with a steel-toed boot. Or, at least the noise he made gave me permission to momentarily indulge in that S&M fantasy. And, as I am reliving that fantasy, idly flipping through the newspaper without taking heed of its contents, I realize the phone is ringing. Strange. Perhaps my boss (correction), former boss, is calling back with a snappy comeback. It’s been a week. By now, he should have been able to conceive of something. I let the phone ring. If it is indeed him, I want to capture his shining moment on tape.
I hear my answering machine pick up and my terse and somewhat annoyed voice say, “I’m not in. Leave a message.” Beep. I smirk. I managed to get the right mix of prickishness and dismissiveness on the first attempt. But the smirk falters as I listen and recognize the voice over the machine.
There is no introduction. No name drop. None of the saccharine politeness I was held prisoner by on that elevator ride 7 days ago.
“If you’re in, take a look out your window.”
I drop the newspaper. The middle section slides from the bed and lands on the floor. I trample it as I bolt upright. Resistant, but curious, I glance out the only window in my studio. A nerve behind my right eyebrow does a single twitch. Outside, across the street, leaning on a shiny red Porsche is Blondie, with that creepy, half-polite half- discerning smile of his in place. He waves with the hand holding his cell phone. I’m about to close the window and pull down the shades when I hear a shrill whirring sound that turns into a whooping siren. Dumbstruck, I assume that either my building’s on fire or someone _accidentally_ broke the safety glass and _accidentally_ pulled down the lever for the fire alarm. My luck is bad but not that zany. My building is on fire. The smell of burning wood creeping from the hallway and underneath my door is confirmation.
Surrounded by my anxious and pissed neighbors I look up to see my apartment building aflame. I can hear the fire engines screeching to a halt just feet from where I’m standing. I’m pushed to the side. I was blocking the fire hydrant. Barefoot, I walk out of the way. And I keep walking, even as I feel someone trailing me from behind.
“Do you need a ride?”
It's the blonde of course. So, he is a stalker as well. I would keep walking but the stoplight prevents my escape. Mockingly, it flashes yellow then turns into a red hand telling me to stay on the curb unless I want to compete with Mac trucks for road privileges. After a moment of deliberation, I turn to face Blondie. I’m taller. I remember that much, by only an inch, but perhaps it will be enough to brow beat him away.
“I don’t need a chauffeur,” I reply using the steely gaze I save for pushy department store attendants who want to douse me with cologne samples.
“I wasn’t offering to drive you anywhere,” says Blondie with his amused gaze locked on my suspicious one.
He looks down and as a reflex I follow his gaze. After a second, I realize he has a key chain dangling from his pointer finger. On the key chain hangs a pair of car keys.
“It’s a little flashy,” says the blonde gesturing to the car he’d been leaning on earlier, “But I thought you could use some color in your life."
I’m not sure how he did it, but I’m sitting in the driver seat driving to a destination he decided. As much as I hate to admit, he was right about a number of things: I have no job; and now because of this fire (other than my pants and a soot-stained shirt) I have no clothing and no place to live.
I’m off the highway and growing tenser with every mile of road. At first, the accusation was in the back of my head, but now it's on center stage as I glance at the blonde. He's sitting serenely in the passenger side seat with a slightly satisfied look on his face. He’d fired me. Stalked me. How he got my number and figured out where I lived I could conceive of. But how he knew which window belonged to my apartment took my suspicions to the next level: had he set the—
“Fire,” says the blonde suddenly. “That word seems to like you. You were fired and your building was a fire trap.”
I take my eyes off the road for just a moment.
The blonde laughs genially to himself and perhaps even me.
He’s a nutball, I think, but a rich one. After I drop him off, wherever it is that we’re going, I can pawn this car.
“You’re speeding,” he says.
“No, I’m--”
“And ahead, the road is slick,” he comments, a little too late.
Before I can react, the car spins out of control. It’s like we’re caught in a carnival ride, except this ride ends up with us slamming into a pole.
Restrained by the seatbelt and cushioned by the airbag, I look up slightly dazed. I look to my right. The passenger side airbag is only half inflated and Blondie is hunched forward against it. He’s seat-belted in but his bodyweight is causing the seatbelt to strain forward.
A thought passes through my head: I’ve killed a CEO and I’m going to fry. I look around the car that isn’t _legally_ mine and another thought passes through my head: Even if he is alive, this looks like a carjacking turned kidnapping. I picture myself in a cell with a guy named “Tiny” who wants to be my husband and me his wife.
I look outside the car and realize that I had driven/spun onto the beginnings of long winding driveway that leads up to a large estate. I get out of the banged-up car and walk around it towards the winding driveway. After a moment of considering the large, looming mansion at the top of the driveway, I glance back at the car only to see the blonde conscious and staring out the passenger side window at me. Somehow, I don’t jump out of my skin and, somehow, the window lowers as he presses a button on his side of the door. I consider this last occurrence a feat as I notice that his side of the car took the brunt of the damage.
He looks up at me.
I look back uneasily as he says, “In a total of three years, you made roughly $84,232, taxes excluded. You just crashed a car that took $150,000 to custom refit and has a value of half a million dollars, or at least had a value of half a million dollars.”
I turn green as I think of my planned pawn escapade. My imagination, in regret overdrive, delivers images of $1,000 dollar bills winging away, with some of them laughing derisively at me as they flutter out of my reach.
I freeze as the blonde continues, “The car was recompense for my sound decision but brash delivery last Monday. But, considering the current circumstances, now I’m wondering what kind of compensation I’m entitled to from you.”
“Entitled?”
“You just broke a CEO’s arm.”
“I no longer work for you. I owe you nothing.” I try to keep stone-faced as my eyes travel over the wreckage I created.
“My lawyers would disagree.”
I can feel the blood draining from face. My mind is rambling…The fire…the expensive car with bad breaks, and a randomly slick road leading to what appears to be his estate…
“But I’m not an unforgiving person. In fact, I am perfectly willing to forget about all of this…on one condition.”
Did he set this all up?
As I look back at him, I’m greeted with his customary half-smile and this time I feel my body openly reacting to him. A shudder runs down my frame, as he says, “I want you to be my personal assistant. With one mobile arm, it’s going to be difficult to get around.”