Desperate Measures Just Before Lunchtime
There's not much oxygen under my desk, oh no. But that's where I'm staying today, and that's where I'll be if you need me. I've taken the phone under it with me, so I can answer it and even have a conversation if I keep my voice low. I figure I can come back up for air at about six or so. And then I may just drive right to the airport and fly home to Michigan where I belong.
Oh, why did I decide to become a financial planner, and why did I agree to come to Los Angeles to handle the legal end of the bigger accounts? The second I saw Flitsy Little go by in the hallway six weeks ago, I should have made a run for it. Flitsy, star of three crappy teen films and "co-producer" of her first excruciating pop album, Loving You Is Like Homework. She was in Reggie's office for so long that day.....they talked for two hours as he sat there with that smile plastered on his face....and then this morning the call came. Fingers pointing in my direction. Hushed whispers about unknown things. Sad, pitying looks into my office. My boss needing to "talk" to me before the day was through. It was then that I knew the worst was headed my way. And without any proof of what it really was, I got right under my desk, and if I die here from dehydration, then so be it. But I did not, I repeat, I DID NOT GO TO LAW SCHOOL AT NIGHT FOR FOUR YEARS AND THEN SPEND THREE MORE AND EIGHTY-FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS OF MY SAINTED MOTHER'S RETIREMENT MONEY GETTING AN M.B.A. FROM ONE OF THE FINEST BUSINESS SCHOOLS IN ALL OF EUROPE SO THAT I COULD SPEND AN AFTERNOON LISTENING TO FLITSY LITTLE'S IDEAS ABOUT SETTING UP A COMPANY THAT WILL MANUFACTURE APPAREL BASED ON HER DUMBASS TEENAGED IDEAS FOR CLOTHING DESIGNS, TO BE CALLED 'FLITSY'S MAX' OR 'THE EDGE OF FLITSY' OR WHATEVER DAMN THING SHE WANTS TO CALL IT BECAUSE SHE SAW A NICE SHIRT AT NORDSTROM LAST TUESDAY AND SUDDENLY DECIDED THAT OF COURSE SHE HAD ALL KINDS OF GREAT NOTIONS FOR EVERYTHING FROM HANDBAGS TO SKIRTS TO THE KIND OF HAIR NETS CAFETERIA WORKERS WEAR, SO BY ALL MEANS COME INTO MY OFFICE, FLITSY, AND TELL ME ALL ABOUT YOUR 'VISION' AND SHOW ME YOUR MEAD NOTEBOOK WITH THE FIRST TWO PAGES HALF-FILLED WITH INCOMPETENT PENCIL DOODLES OF JEANS FROM ONE FIFTEEN MINUTE BRAINSTORMING SESSION WITH YOUR SKANKY FRIENDS AND OH WON'T YOU PLEASE TELL ME HOW YOU ALONE WILL RE-DEFINE FASHION FOR A GENERATION OF GUM-CHEWING GIRLS SO BRAINLESS THEY'LL SPEND THEIR BABYSITTING MONEY ON ANY SLAVE LABOR-PRODUCED CRAP THAT HAS YOUR SUSPICIOUSLY LARGE-CHESTED IMAGE ON IT.
I hear my co-workers giggling. I'm sure they'll mock me for the rest of my life for this. A forty-three year old man, a respected professional with a wife and children, a decorated veteran of the first Gulf War, hiding under his desk. But I am not exposing my head, not for the world. What Flitsy can't see, she can't talk to. And if she does spot me somehow under here, well, if I have no ears, I can't hear her speak, right? Right? I'll take the ears right off, I really will. Watch me. Watch me.