Four
The first day after I get fired, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling.
The second day after I get fired, I brush my teeth and very carefully, without looking at it, tuck the termination letter facedown under a pile of laundry. Then I call a bomb threat in to Todd’s office.
I wish. Instead I go back to bed, pull the covers up, and watch Netflix until my eyes burn. I don’t remember which shows.
The third day after I get fired, I text my friend Anjali and ask her to come over. I don’t have a lot of friends, probably because I never manage to put in the time and effort necessary to maintain them. Anjali has always been different. I can drift in and out of her life, and each time we start talking, it’s as if we never left off. She says she’s too busy at work to deal with high-maintenance friends and I know I never have to worry about her yelling that she loves me when we say goodbye, forcing me to say it back. But I depend on her, or at least I depend on knowing she’ll be there.
When she gets to my place, she has a bag of chips, two bottles of wine, and an acid expression. “That asshole,” she says as she brushes by me. “Did you talk to a lawyer?”
“Before I got fired.”
“Did you sign the letter yet?” She kicks her sandals off at the door without me asking. Both of us find wearing outdoor shoes in the house disgusting. “Hold up, did you say before you got fired? Did you see this coming?”
I take the wine from her and stay silent.
“Don’t sign until you give it to the lawyer to look at,” she advises. “You can probably get more severance out of them.”
“Enough to cover the lawyer’s fees?”
She shrugs and heads to the kitchen. “Five bucks ahead is still ahead,” she calls over her shoulder. “Plus it shows Garnet you’re no pushover.”
That’s an Anjali thing to say because her zodiac sign is Leo and her Chinese zodiac is monkey, meaning she’s smart and tricky and belligerent. I’m an Aries and a monkey and I’m supposed to be those things, too, instead of a Pisces rabbit: ducking confrontation and never pushing back.
Anjali doesn’t know the whole of the Todd story. I only told her that he’s a terrible boss. I couldn’t tell her about the way he made me feel because it’s too humiliating to admit I didn’t stop him when I know I should have. I should have reported him to Human Resources. I should have kneed him in the balls. I should have said screw my job and stood up for myself. I should have… I shouldn’t have…
She hands me a glass of wine and pours the chips into one of my mixing bowls. “Sit, eat, and drink,” she says. “How are you feeling?”
“Numb?”
Anjali swirls the wine. “To be expected. Would you like some advice or to figure it out yourself?”
She’s being good, asking before piling in, and it’s not her usual approach. I laugh and my throat feels rusty. “How hard was that to do?”
“So fucking hard.” She grins. “I’m getting better. The life coach is helping me be more intentional and think before I act because apparently not everyone wants me butting into their business.”
I don’t want Anjali to help me with a list—I’d prefer to talk—but helping makes her happy so I push over my sheet. “This is what I have so far.”
She pulls her black hair behind her shoulders. “You have two things on this list.”
“Yep.”
“Brush teeth,” she reads. “Find job.”
“I can check off the first one.” I brushed my teeth before she came over, and now the wine tastes terrible. “I should change the second to ‘find money.’ I could win the lottery.”
“Not a viable option.” She sighs. “Let’s talk for a bit before we tackle your nonlist.”
“Fine.”
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
I don’t have the energy to keep it secret anymore and tell her the story. Anjali’s eyes narrow until they almost close. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”
“What do you mean?” I’d glossed over the grosser stuff, unwilling to linger on it long enough to even say the words or to bother her with the details.
“You said he was a bad boss,” she says gently. “This is far beyond some insecure micromanager, Gracie.”
“I know.”
She frowns and moves her glass from hand to hand. “Again, why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“You would have told me to quit.”
“Right, and?”
“I need that job. Needed. I’ve been looking for months and there’s nothing out there. You would have kept asking me about my job search.”
“I’m not that bad,” says Anjali. She grimaces at the look I shoot her. “Sorry, maybe I am. But I’m upset you didn’t want to talk about it with me.”
“I didn’t want to talk to anyone about it. Ever. At all.”
“Problems don’t go away because you ignore them. We could have thought of a plan together.”
“Like what, a sting?” It’s easier to turn this into a joke.
“We’d mic you up in the bathroom before sending you into the boardroom.” She cranes her head left to pretend-whisper into the fake mic in her lapel. “We have eyes on Walrus.”
“Subtle.”
“Thanks.” She sips her wine. “Seriously, tell me next time. It’s better to talk it out.”
“Next time I get sexually harassed by my boss and fired? Definitely I will call you.”
“Good.” Anjali nods, satisfied, but then her expression changes. “That’s not what I meant.”
I start laughing and she hits me with a pillow.
“There won’t be a next time,” she bellows. “That’s the fucking point.”
We calm down and I sigh. “I don’t want to talk about work anymore.”
“Okay. How’s your mom?” Anjali only met her a couple of times back when we were in university but she knows the story. Part of the reason our friendship rekindled is that I saw her social media post on helping an aunt with Alzheimer’s.
“Good.”
Anjali glares at me. “Are we about to have the same talk about your mom as we did about your boss? The trust-your-friends talk I gave twenty seconds ago?”
She’s right. “She lives in the past more often. Her Alzheimer’s is slow but it’s progressing.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me, too.” That’s the best I can expect now, and I don’t want to go into the mess of feelings I have about Mom because I’m not even sure about them myself. I’ve been dealing with the situation rather than analyzing it, and I’m happy with that. Anjali senses this and turns the conversation to a workplace drama that we happily dissect as we assign outlandish ulterior motivations to all players.
We drink another glass of wine and finish the chips and talk about my new skincare routine (now including double cleansing, toner, and a shitload of moisturizer that guarantees smooth skin into my crone years) and Anjali’s crush on the guy at the gym that she decided she’s never going to pursue. “If it’s a mess, I’d have to find a new gym and this one’s cheap as hell,” she says.
Anjali slops more wine into our glasses, then grabs a notepad and a pen. “Enough of this. I came here to drink wine and organize your life, and it looks like we’re almost out of wine.”
I snuggle back into velvety pillows that were specifically bought for the purpose of snuggling. “What’s first?”
She taps the pen on the paper. “We can go about this two ways. Practical or blue sky.”
“Practical.”
“Boring but okay.”
I tip my glass back and frown at the ceiling.
“You need money,” Anjali prods. “How much fuck-you money do you have?”
Fuck-you money is the money you save for whenever you need to tell your boss or your partner where to go as you blow out the door. Except I used my fuck-you money to pay the extra fees for Mom’s private room at Glen Lake. The government only pays the cost for shared rooms and Mom would hate that. We once visited my grandfather in a shared room—he liked the company—and she came out and whispered to me that she’d rather be left in a forest to be eaten by animals than have to deal with a stranger’s noises all day. Mom needs quiet.
“Enough for one month and they offered three months of severance.”
“Get the lawyer to boost that. Not bad, though. You have time.” She writes Find new job on the list and then under that, without asking my opinion, four things I need to do to achieve it. She looks up.
“Aren’t you obsessed with those to-do list apps? Seems like a good time to bust one out.”
“I decided I don’t like any of them.” None of them do exactly what I want, but what ever does?
“Make your own, then.” She tosses this off like it’s no big thing and bends down to write:
Clean apartment.
Get Todd cursed.
Call Fred about termination.
Exercise every day.
Assassinate Todd.
Visit Mom.
The last makes me catch my breath. What if Xin Guang has a room available soon? It’s impossible to know when a room will come free, as it depends on…well, someone dying, which is awfully morbid. They only give you six hours to accept before it goes to the next person on the list. I need to have money ready for a deposit, and I won’t have it without a job.
Anjali taps the pen against her leg. “Do you do a monthly budget?”
“Of course.” I meant to do one, at least.
She stops tapping. “If I asked, could you provide it in paper or digital format?”
“It’s more of a mental tracking.”
She doesn’t bother to answer. Her pen flies over the paper as she lists out my expected monthly expenses. With each line, my breathing gets a little shallower. Rent. Food. Phone, utilities, Mom’s private room. Transit. Clothes. She purses her lips and crosses that out. “Better get used to shopping your closet,” she says.
I have no job. No income. No recruiters banging on my digital door to hire a woman who can only offer an average skill set and termination letter instead of a glowing reference.
Suddenly Fangli’s offer seems more appealing. I empty my glass and open my mouth to ask Anjali her opinion, then shut it fast because I don’t want her answer. I know what it will be.
Instead, I take the paper she hands to me and look it over before adding an invisible task.
Call Wei Fangli.
Anjali leaves an hour later, and with the daring of almost a bottle of wine in me, I text the number on the card.
I’m interested in learning more.
I don’t even hesitate before I hit Send. This isn’t like me but, again, wine.
I pose in the bathroom mirror, trying to imitate Fangli’s serene smile and confidence. Both are unsuccessful.
We’ll see what tomorrow brings. Probably more failure.
* * *
The hangxiety hits at exactly four in the morning. I jerk out of sleep, heart hammering and dread breaking over me. I had a few drinks and my entire body knows I fucked up and humiliated myself. What? What? What did I say? I curl up and bury my head under the covers. Anjali came over. We drank wine, made my list. I emailed Fred to set up an appointment about my termination agreement. Anjali read it over, so I know that was fine. When she left, I texted Wei Fangli and very proudly put a thick, black mental line through that task.
I texted Wei Fangli.
My body instinctively coils up tighter as I pinpoint my tragic error. Why didn’t I wait until the morning and sober reflection?
It’s too late now. I reach out and find my water bottle empty so I stumble through the dark apartment to fill it up. In the kitchen, I drink deeply, then refill the bottle and return to bed. My phone is lying facedown on the night table, and I grab it. Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me; I only thought I sent the text.
Hotel Xanadu, Room 1573. Noon tomorrow. Wear a hat and sunglasses.
The text had been sent. The text has been answered. I’d put this in motion with wine courage. It’s only for more information, I argue with myself. I don’t have to take the deal. I can walk out at any time.
Right, that’s so like me.
I put the phone down and start an interior conversation I know will take me to dawn. It’s not so much a dialogue as it is my brain on a carousel circling through the same thoughts.
You don’t want to do this.
You must have wanted it if you sent the text.
You can say no. It’s not a blood contract.
Maybe it will be worth it. It’s a lot of money.
This is a bad idea. You don’t want this. This is a huge risk. Too many things can go wrong.
It’s not like things are going right at the moment.
What if you mess up? Everyone will know you’re an idiot. They’ll make fun of you and you’ll go viral and there’s no one you can turn to for help. You’ll never be able to go outside again, and every time you apply for a job and they search your name, they’ll find out and think you’re some desperate narcissistic poseur. Mom would be appalled if she knew you were contemplating sticking your head up like this. Who do you think you are?
The thoughts keep hammering me. In the end, it’s not dawn before I fall asleep. I don’t get back to sleep at all.