Alan Lennox and the Temp Job of Doom Read online

  He IS spotting him, she wrote. He’s spotting every inch of him.

  I thought you couldn’t use facebook at work? he texted back.

  Its lunch im on my phone. Why aren’t you working?

  Don’t ask stupid questions. Whats for lunch?

  Tweaked chicken.

  *teriyaki, she corrected before Alan could ask.

  Ive got to go, Alan sent. This is way more obvious than facebook. See you at home. Save me some tweaked chicken.

  No.

  Alan shoved his phone in his pocket and went back to his computer. He debated trying the spreadsheet again, then saw that it was only quarter past one. Plenty of time for work later, he decided. He closed Facebook and opened Jumpa, a games site. He was addicted to Work It, a workplace simulator hosted on the site, and wanted to check on his Drone. Alan’s office worker avatar was asleep, face down on his virtual desk. Alan clicked the coffee pot, woke him up, and started him collating presentations. Another few hours of game play and he’d have earned enough Jumpa Beans to buy Little Fake Alan the Business Casual reward outfit.

  “Excuse me, um...oh, Alan?”

  Alan minimized his browser and spun around to face Elsa. Elsa was some kind of manager or vice president or something at Dutton Foster. She was presumably an accountant, but she looked more like a Valkyrie. She was a tall Nordic goddess with a permanent blissful expression on her face. Alan found her somewhat disconcerting to talk to, as the faraway look in her eyes, her frequent soft sighs and the disjointed stops and starts in her speech made her sound as if she were trying to carry on a conversation while someone was gently massaging her nipples.

  “Oh, hi, Elsa. What do you need?”

  “Hi, Alan. I...oh...was wondering...uhhh...” She gave a quick, sharp intake of breath. “...how you’re doing with...ahhh...that file?”

  “Great! Great. I mean, I just started. I only just got back from lunch.”

  “Oh...oh. Okay. I know that Jerry...” She giggled softly. “...he needs it. Um. Fairly quickly.”

  “Right. Jerry.” Jerry was another of Alan’s supervisors, who could be seen peeking at their conversation through the blinds of his office. “What...sorry...what exactly does he want me to do with the file? Sorry.”

  The fog on Mount Elsa parted briefly. “Oh! You don’t...uh...didn’t he tell you? I thought...heh....I thought he told you this morning. That’s what he...mmm...told me.” She turned towards Jerry’s office, which was all the prompting Jerry needed to burst out and join them.

  Alan tried to remember the contents of his morning briefing with Jerry. Jerry spoke very loudly and very quickly and Alan had spent most of the conversation trying not to stare at the tiny blob of spittle that was constantly bubbling from the corner of his supervisor’s mouth.

  “Hey! What’s going on what’s the problem Elsa you look concerned about something is that spreadsheet done buddy I need those numbers.”

  “He says...ummm...he says you didn’t tell him what you nuh-nuh-needed.”

  “What? Buddy we talked about this this morning I would have left this for when Latrice comes back if I could but I need this today do I really need to go over this with you again we need to start using a different temp agency no offense okay one more time I just need you to compare the debits in the file Elsa sent you with the numbers in the accounts receivable file which should be in the folder Latrice left for you on her desktop there are a bunch of accounts receivable files but this should be the only one in this folder you need to look at the amounts in the file she emailed you but only the ones on the second and third tab you can ignore the ones in the first tab because those have already been checked you’re just comparing amounts and making a list of discrepancies for me then you’re taking all the amounts including the ones from the first tab but not anything from the file on Latrice’s computer and making it look nice you’re familiar with Spread ’Em right because we told the temp agency you needed to know Spread ’Em I just need it to line up right and maybe color code it or something you know make it look professional maybe you can find an old file of Latrice’s and just copy how she did it yeah just do that she always makes it look right do you got that I really don’t want to have to go over it again.”

  “He was playing games!” came a shrill screech from the cubicle next door. Margaret, Alan’s neighbor, was prairie dogging over the top of their shared wall, the chain attached to her glasses rattling as she shook in righteous fury. Margaret was an executive assistant, aide to Mr. Dutton himself, and had been with the business since day one.

  “He was playing games and talking to Facebook!” She came out from her cubicle and joined them, frowning so hard her nostrils flared. “I was glaring – glaring! – at him and he didn’t even notice. He had already taken a full hour for lunch – Latrice only takes a half-hour.”

  “Oh...uh, Alan...you shouldn’t...hummm...”

  “No work ethic! That’s the problem with...” She took a breath, and then spat out in disgust, “...temps. If they were capable of genuine productivity, they’d already have a real job!”

  “Yes...ummm...well, that’s...”

  “Temporary employment,” Margaret sneered, shaking her head. “Employment is meant to be permanent, young man! A job ends when you’re either too old to be useful or you’re fired for failure, not when you get bored and feel like swanning off to the video arcade!”

  “Vuh...video? That’s not...”

  “You’re not supposed to enjoy your job! Jobs require suffering, that’s why God named them after Job!”

  “I...uhh...don’t think...”

  “And he answers the phone ‘Sutton Foster!’ It’s Dutton Foster! He says it like it’s a joke but I don’t know what’s funny.”

  “Yes...oh, yes...thank you, Margaret...”

  “This is a very important time for Dutton Foster,” Margaret continued, “what with the sale. We can’t tolerate this kind of behavior. Mr. Dutton wouldn’t approve.”

  The day before, some big company had expressed an intention to buy Dutton Foster – why anyone would want to own this pit of despair Alan didn’t know, but it seemed they wanted to move very quickly on it. It was supposed to be a secret outside the top brass, but the rank and file had gotten wind of it, and anyone whose name wasn’t Dutton, Foster or Margaret was worried about their job. Alan hadn’t paid the whole thing very much attention, but Elsa and Jerry tensed up as soon as Margaret said the word “sale.”

  “Oh...um...Margaret, I don’t think we’re supposed to...ah...”

  Jerry barreled over her in an attempt to return to the original subject. “Kid kid kid you can’t go goofing off I get it it’s boring you’re young you don’t want to work nobody wants to work I’d rather be playing video poker but if you want to be considered for a real job here you need to start taking this seriously I tell you this for your own good and I don’t mean just here I mean in life wherever you work you can’t piss the day away goofing off if there’s work to be done you’re letting me down you’re letting Elsa down you’re letting yourself down you’re a smart kid I can tell I mean I don’t know but I assume and you could get a real job here or somewhere like here if you didn’t...”

  “Holy crap, stop. I’m sorry, I can’t do this.” Alan stood up. “I have to go. This is awful. You’re awful. I’m sorry.” He put on his jacket. “I know I’m leaving you in the lurch. I’m sorry. I’ll call the temp agency and tell them to send someone else over.”

  “Are you...uh...are you all right? Mmm. Alan?”

  “I’m fine. I’m sick. No, I’m fine. I’m sorry, Elsa, you’ve been very nice to me but I have to go.” He moved past them, starting towards the elevator.

  “You can’t just leave!” Margaret looked simultaneously outraged and triumphant. “You made a commitment! You have work to do!”

  “Sorry! Sorry!”

  As Alan rushed to the lobby, he fumbled with his phone, texting his three roommates: Meet me at slot machine for happy hour 911. He got on the e
levator and hammered at the “close doors” button.

  “Really, I apologize profusely!” he called back.

  As the doors closed, he leaned back against the wall of the elevator, exhaled, and slumped slowly to the floor. He banged his head against the rear of the elevator in frustration.

  Shit, he thought. I’ve done it again.

  Chapter Three

  Caitlin auditioning

  Caitlin Ross was a pretty blonde white girl in a room full of pretty blonde white girls. She looked over the sea of heart-shaped faces and sighed. Every open call was the same, a swarm of female actors putting the lie to all of her father’s ungrammatical assurances that Caitlin was “very unique.”

  The audition was for an all-white musical adaptation of A Raisin in the Sun, which the producers were re-titling Caucrasian. It would undoubtedly be horrible and it didn’t pay, but Caitlin hadn’t been working lately and was getting desperate to appear in something. When she had emailed the company her headshot and résumé she had claimed that a reviewer had once described her as “like a young, white Debbie Allen,” and almost immediately she was asked to come in and read for the part of Beneatha.

  She weaved her way through the lobby of the rehearsal studio toward the small folding table with the sign-in sheet. She had arrived early for her time slot, but it looked like they were running way behind – there were at least fifteen girls ahead of her who were yet to audition. She found an open seat, popped in her earbuds and started quietly going over her audition piece. Finding an appropriate song had been difficult – she had considered something from The Color Purple, but eventually decided a selection from The Wiz would be marginally less offensive. She hadn’t yet reached the sixteen bars she’d be singing when she felt an elbow in her side.

  “Hey, stranger!”

  Caitlin paused her music and turned to look at the pretty blonde white girl who had greeted her. She wasn’t at all surprised to see Tamsin Walker seated next to her. The two of them looked so much alike that they were constantly going up for the same parts. They had never done a show together but were always running into each other at auditions. Caitlin considered Tamsin a good friend, but sometimes felt a little guilty about it – Tamsin was her competition, and pretty blonde white girls were supposed to hate their competition.

  “Tamsin! Hey! Are you here for the musical?”

  “The White Raisin, or whatever it is? Yeah. Beneatha?” Tamsin asked.

  “Yup. Of course. What time are you scheduled for?”

  “I’ve gone already, I just got out. They’re running super late, I should have been out of here ages ago.”

  “I noticed. There are a ton of girls ahead of me. How was it?”

  Tamsin grimaced. “They’re making you do improv.”

  “Oh, Jesus. Should I leave? I don’t want to wait around all afternoon for nothing.”

  “No, stay, stay! Don’t let me put you off. You know I’m hypercritical.”

  Caitlin slumped back against the wall. “Shoot. I got called in for another audition today at the same time. I should have gone to the other one.”

  “What was it for?”

  “I don’t know,” Caitlin replied, “they wouldn’t say. I was afraid it might be sketchy. It was in an office building or something. I didn’t recognize the address.”

  “Porn.”

  “Probably. I might have gone anyway if it didn’t conflict. I haven’t been having much luck lately. Porn’s starting to look like a viable career choice.”

  “Don’t hang the ‘For Rent’ sign on your vagina just yet,” Tamsin said. “We all go through dry spells.”

  Caitlin smiled, but didn’t respond. Tamsin didn’t seem to have very many dry spells.

  “Hey,” Tamsin continued, “are you going to Derek’s party on Friday? You know Derek Wallace, right?”

  “Yeah, we did a show together. Did he send a Facebook invite? I never look at those anymore.”

  “I don’t know, I don’t either. I ran into him, he was here earlier auditioning for something. You should come, we can compare notes on your audition.”

  “Okay, sure. I’ll let you know.”

  “Great. Good to see you, hon. Break a leg!” Tamsin got up and headed out the door, bag in one hand, water bottle in the other.

  Caitlin was about to put her earbuds back in when her phone vibrated. The number wasn’t in her address book, but it looked familiar. She grabbed her bag and ducked out into the stairwell, getting there in time to wave goodbye to Tamsin as the elevator doors closed, then answered the call.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Miss Ross? This is Martin Santos, we spoke yesterday?”

  “Oh, yes, hi.”

  “You said you couldn’t come in today because of a conflicting audition – did you say it was at Bowery Studios?”

  “Yes, Bowery Studios. I’m there now. Were you able to reschedule me?”

  “Here’s the thing – our audition location got moved at the last minute, we’re actually at Bowery Studios ourselves. I’m calling you from the fourth floor. If you can come in now, we’re wide open.”

  “Oh, wow. Okay.” Caitlin peeked back into the fifth floor lobby. It didn’t look like anyone had come in or out of the studio where the musical’s audition was being held. “I think I have time. I’ll see you in a few seconds, I guess.”

  “Fantastic! See you in a minute.”

  Caitlin put her phone away and climbed down one flight. The fourth floor was quiet and dim – several lights in the lobby were out, and the studios were empty. There wasn’t a soul in sight. She walked cautiously down the hallway, and past the turn at the end she saw a light coming from an open doorway.

  “Hello?” she called out.

  After a moment, a tall, bearded, bored-looking man stepped out. “Hello? Can I help you?”

  “Um...I think so? Are you Martin?”

  “Yes.” He yawned.

  “I’m Caitlin? Caitlin Ross? We spoke...a few seconds ago...?”

  His bored expression vanished, but Caitlin couldn’t quite put a name to the expression that replaced it. For a moment, he just looked vacant and blank. Then he smiled.

  “Caitlin! Of course, I’m so sorry. It’s been a long day. Come in, come in.”

  Caitlin followed the man into the small studio, dropping her bag by the door. Another man sat behind a folding table, a laptop open in front of him. Cables led from the laptop to a small video camera mounted on a tripod. Martin walked to the table and started rifling through a pile of papers.

  “What’s your name?” asked the seated man.

  “Caitlin...”

  “Into the camera.”

  Caitlin looked into the lens. “Caitlin Ross.”

  “On the mark, please,” he said.

  Caitlin stepped onto the small X laid out in tape on the floor. “Caitlin Ross,” she repeated.

  The men ignored her, Martin still poring through pages, the other man engrossed in the laptop.

  She hesitated. “Did you want a headshot?”

  “No, thanks,” Martin replied, not looking up. “Just give me a minute, sorry.”

  He continued to rifle through the stack, unable to find whatever he was looking for. After a moment, the seated man looked up and slammed his hand down on top of the papers.

  “They’re all the same,” he hissed through gritted teeth. He grabbed the top piece of paper and handed it to Martin. “Just take one and give it to her.”

  Martin stared at the outstretched paper for a moment. His face went blank again, and then his broad smile returned. He took the paper with a peppy thanks and handed it to Caitlin. “Here’s your copy. Whenever you’re ready.” He returned behind the table and took a seat, staring at her expectantly.

  “Oh. Okay.” She glanced at the script he had handed her, then looked up. “Sorry, what is this for, exactly?”

  “We’re not disclosing that at this time.”

  The man at the laptop muttered something under his breath, wh
ich sounded to Caitlin like, “Because we don’t know.”

  She looked back at the script, then up again. “But this is...what? A commercial? A voice-over?”

  Martin blinked. “Yes. A commercial voice-over.”

  The man behind the laptop glared at her. “Could you just read the damn thing, please?”

  Martin shot him a nasty look, then turned to Caitlin. “I am so sorry for his attitude. He’s new.”

  Caitlin wasn’t sure what being new had to do with being an asshole, so she just nodded.

  “We had a last minute change to this location,” Martin continued, “and some of the people we called this morning didn’t get the message in time so we had to wait for them to get here from uptown, so they were all...” He threw his hands up over his head and waved them around. “...aaaaahhh! It’s been a crazy day.”

  “Sounds like it,” Caitlin agreed.

  The man at the laptop rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to bite your head off. Not your fault I’ve spent all day listening to actors spouting nonsense.” He threw a sidelong glance at the other man. “Or non-actors spouting nonsense. Take your time, look it over. When you’re ready, look directly into the camera and speak slowly and clearly.”

  He wasn’t exaggerating when he described it as nonsense. The text was just a random string of letters broken up into groups. She started sounding them out, and realized she recognized them. “This is the phonetic alphabet.”

  “Oh, you’re familiar, terrific!” Martin said. “The symbols are on the back, if that’s useful to you. When you’re ready.”

  “Start with the consonants, please,” the other man said.

  Caitlin looked back at the page. It was the International Phonetic Alphabet she had learned in her Voice and Speech class in college. The page they had given her had all the consonant and vowel sounds commonly used in standard American English. She flipped the page over and saw the same letters, but with their corresponding IPA symbols and sample words to help with pronunciation. She looked back at the men.

  “Sorry, what company are you with?”