I hate cats. They’re kind of evil-looking, don’t you think? Like they’re just waiting for you to fall asleep so they can smother you with their fur or piss in your ear.
“Hi, Drew. Did you need something?” she asks me with phony benevolence.
Her fingers tap rhythmically on two gigantic hardcovers. “You know…help? Advice? Directions to the public library?”
I swallow my response. And frown at her. “No. I’m good.”
“Oh. Okay, great. Bye-bye, now.” And with that, she disappears back down behind the literary mountain.
Brooks—two.
Evans—zip.
After that, things get nasty.
I’m ashamed to say that both Kate and I sink to new lows in professional sabotage. It never actually wanders over to the realm of the illegal. But it’s definitely close.
One day I come in to find all the cables missing from my computer. It doesn’t do any lasting damage, but I have to wait an hour-and-a-half for the IT guy to show up and reconnect it.
The next day, Kate comes in to discover that “someone” has switched all the labels on her disks and files. Nothing was erased, mind you. But she pretty much has to look through every single one if she wants to find the documents she needs.
A few days after that at a staff meeting, I “accidentally” spill a glass of water on some information Kate has compiled for my father. Something that probably took her five or so hours to put together.
“Oops. Sorry,” I say, letting the smirk on my face tell her how very unsorry I am.
“It’s fine, Mr. Evans,” she assures my father as she wipes up the mess. “I have another copy in my office.”
How very Boy-Scoutish of her, don’t you think?
Later—about halfway through the same meeting—do you know what she does?
She f**king kicks me! In the shin, under the table.
“Hmph,” I groan, and my hands fist reflexively.
“You all right, Drew?” my father asks.
I can only nod and squeak, “Something in my throat.” I cough dramatically.
See, I’m not about to go crying to Daddy either. But sweet Christ it hurt. You ever been kicked in the shin by a four-inch pointy shoe? For a man, there is only one area that’s more painful to be kicked.
And that is a place that dare not speak its name.
After the throbbing in my leg dies down a bit, I hide my hand behind some upturned papers while my father’s speaking. Then I flip Kate the finger. Immature, I know, but apparently we’re now both functioning at the preschool level, so I’m guessing it’s okay.
Kate sneers at me. Then she mouths, You wish.
Well—she’s got me there, now doesn’t she?
We’re in the home stretch. A month of mortal combat has passed, and tomorrow is my father’s deadline. It’s around eleven o’clock, and Kate and I are the only ones left in the building.
I’ve had this fantasy a hundred times. Though, I have to say, it’s never included us in our respective offices, glaring at each other across the hallway—accompanied by the occasional obscene hand gesture.
I glance over and see her reviewing her charts. What is she thinking? Is this the Stone Age? Who the hell uses poster board anymore? Anderson is definitely mine.
I’m just putting the finishing touches on my own impressive PowerPoint presentation when Matthew walks into my office. He’s heading to the bars. Never mind that it’s a Wednesday night; that’s just Matthew. A few short weeks ago, that was me too.
He looks at me for the longest time, saying nothing. Then he sits on the edge of my desk and says, “Dude, just f**king do it already.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, my fingers never pausing over the keyboard.
“Have you looked at yourself lately? You need to just walk over there and get it done.”
And now he’s annoying me. “Matthew, what the hell are you trying to say?”
But all he comes back with is, “You ever see War of the Roses? Is that how you want to end up?”
“I have work to do. I don’t have time for this right now.”
He throws his hands up. “Fine. I tried. When we find you two in the lobby under the fallen chandelier, I’ll tell your mother I frigging tried.”
I stop typing. “What the f**k do you mean?”
“I mean you and Kate. It’s obvious you have a thing for her.”
I glance over at her office when he says her name. She doesn’t look up. “Yeah, I do have ‘a thing’ for her. An extreme dislike of her. We can’t stand each other. She’s a pill. I wouldn’t f**k her with a ten-foot dildo.”
Okay, that’s not true. I’d so f**k her. But I wouldn’t like it.
Yeah—you’re right. That’s not true either.
Matthew sits in the chair across from my desk. I can feel him staring at me again. Then he sighs. And says, like it’s supposed to be some awe-inspiring revelation, “Sally Jansen.”
I look at him blankly.
Who?
“Sally Jansen,” he says again, then clarifies, “Third grade.”
The picture of a small girl with light brown pigtails and thick glasses comes to mind.
I nod. “What about her?”
“She was the first girl I ever loved.”
Wait. What?
“Didn’t you used to call her Smelly Sally?”
“Yes.” He nods solemnly. “Yes, I did. And I loved her.”