Revenge of the Cube Dweller (18 page)

I grab my jacket from the back of my desk chair and head out for an early lunch. Maybe I won’t return at all. What are those two going to do about it? They are probably too focused on their own futures to give me a second thought. When layoff rumors permeate an organization, all productivity comes to an abrupt halt. People spend days speculating when, who, and how much—how much being the primary issue. Some people would love to be let go and take the package; others are completely torn up about the uncertainty of being unemployed or the stigma of being let go. I wonder which type I am, really.

As I walk through the Bishop lobby on my way to the garage, I see Baldwin and a younger man heading out together. The younger man’s lightbulb shape marks him as a Bishop, and I wonder if perhaps this is Brandon about to get an earful from
Uncle Baldwin on the sorry state of the maritime segment. They are involved in conversation and don’t acknowledge me as they briskly walk by.

“I made reservations at the French Hen,” I overhear Baldwin tell his companion. Baldwin’s black Cadillac is waiting for him in the front, and I see them get in it as I cross the street on my way to the garage.

With traffic, that gives me about a two-hour window, so I take the opportunity to go to the public library and do more snooping, knowing that Baldwin will not be on his desktop when I hijack it. My login attempt fails, so I try again but get the same result. I remember being bumped from the account yesterday and try not to panic. Obviously Baldwin has changed his password, but I wonder what else he might do. I take a deep breath and think about what to do next. I debate whether I should take a chance and log in as Marla. What if she is eating lunch at her desk? I punch in the familiar numbers on my phone.

“Bishop Group,” the cheerful receptionist answers.

“Marla Walters, please,” I say.

“Just a moment while I connect you.” And with that the line rings over and over until the voice mail message kicks in.

“Brilliant,” I congratulate myself. I hang up before the beep and log in to the Diva Lady account.

I scan her inbox looking for anything that involves the Houston explosion. I spot a notice for a meeting at 5:30 that evening with Sullivan and the VP of insurance and risk management. All parties are on-site, so I cannot call in like I did earlier that morning. How I would love to be a fly on the wall in that meeting.

I go to my favorite Utica Square restaurant, which has an attached market that sells specialty meats and gourmet items.

As I munch on my salad, I go over the events of the past days in my mind. In retrospect, they seem crazy. I am starting to get so caught up in this snooping thing that it has become an obsession with me. It is risky, and I love it. It will even be better with Lucy on board.

There have been so few challenges in my life. While I was married to Winston, I devoted my time to bettering my golf game, and that became a twenty-year obsession. I worked at it hard and with laser focus. I was club champion seven years out of ten and the consistent runner-up once Vivian Campbell joined our club. She had played on the women’s team at the University of Texas. Young and strong, she could get to the green on some of the par fours on a single drive. She took three days off from her job as an investment banker to play in the club championship every May and kick my ever-growing ass. It sort of foreshadowed my future, being dethroned by a younger woman and all. Still, at that time I had a respectable single-digit handicap and lived for the high that came from competitive golf. Since moving to Tulsa, I have not had anything to challenge me, and this spying stuff brings back those old feelings in a big way.

An idea begins to take shape in my head—suddenly I know how I could spy on the meeting that evening.
Be careful
, I tell myself, knowing I’m probably not going to listen.

A
fter wandering around Wal-Mart for what seems like forever, I find what I need—all for less than $25—and head back to my condo. I change into dark blue Dickies and sneakers, pulling my hair back into a ponytail fastened by a rubber band. I wash the makeup off my face and stare at the darkeyed frump in the mirror. My pants are tight, given my recent weight gain, and the muffin top peeking out at the sides of my cleaning smock gives me an authentic look. I shove a rag into my back pocket and push the elastic coil holding the office keys up to the middle of my forearm. To the untrained eye, I look exactly like any member of the janitorial staff who roams around the Bishop building after hours and on weekends.

I drive up to the Bishop building against the outbound five o’clock traffic, parking a couple of blocks away. I don’t want anybody noticing the cleaning lady getting out of the late model Lexus with Texas plates. My heart is pounding as I get
on the elevator. There is still time to back out, but in my mind I am committed.

I get out on thirty, just as the executive administrative assistants are packing up for the day. No one gives me a second look as I take my rag and start to dust the decorative bookcase that flanks the entrance to the executive conference room. I push open the glass door and survey the room, looking for the perfect spot. A decorative bronze of a roughneck with a huge wrench in his hand sits high on a knickknack shelf. Checking to make sure no one is looking, I reach up, place my iPhone behind it, and stand back. This placement allows for fairly good sound reception, and the statue base completely eclipses my device. It is high enough on the shelf and so close to the wall that even the exceptionally tall Bishops could not see it without considerable effort. I am careful to turn my sound off after the near miss with Lucy’s text when I was under the desk yesterday.

This is risky, for sure. If my phone were discovered, they would probably find out that it belongs to me, even with its password protection. It occurs to me that they might actually engage Internal Audit to find out who owns the phone, and I smile at the thought. I step back and look around, comfortable with my decision but a little nervous nonetheless. I am absolutely confident that the phone will not be noticed, and my disguise as a cleaning lady is flawless. Unlike yesterday, I have meticulously planned this surveillance and will not be relegated to the underside of a desk.

By 5:30, the floor is deserted except for the general counsel, Baldwin, and Bennet. The elevator dings, and a tall guy with salt-and-pepper hair and a shorter fellow who is completely bald walk past me and down the hall to Baldwin’s office. The
two return and enter the conference room, where Baldwin, the general counsel, and Bennet join them almost immediately. The doors close. I keep my head down and continue to dust out of earshot of the meeting, knowing that the record feature on my phone is capturing every word. My presence is as noticeable as the fly on the wall I was hoping to be. I silently congratulate myself on my ingenuity.

I wait out the time in the executive ladies’ room, taking off my smock in case the real cleaning crew comes by. There are no female executives at Bishop, so there is zero chance of being discovered by anyone. I am getting bored after the first hour and decide to emerge for a quick look. With my smock back on, I walk casually by the conference room. All parties are still in deep discussion. I can’t make out the words through the glass, but the tone sounds hostile to say the least. So it’s back to the bathroom again, where I sit and wait some more. At one point I climb onto a toilet to see if I can hear anything through the exhaust fan, but no dice. When I put my ear to the wall I hear nothing.

Around 7:30 I venture out again. The main lights are still on, and I make my way to the executive coffee bar for a change of scenery. I decide to wash out the coffee pot just to have something to do. I jump at the sound of footsteps headed my way as I am drying the green-handled carafe, but manage to stay calm and in character when in walks the short bald man. He abruptly takes the coffee pot out of my hands and begins to make a fresh pot, opening and closing drawers before finding the Starbucks bag, which he opens and pours into the paper filter. I find a spray bottle under the sink and begin to clean tabletops while the man waits for his coffee to brew. To my
amazement, he never acknowledges me or makes eye contact. My heart pounds and I’m sweating again, but the man doesn’t notice. I am a nobody. Perfect.

A moment later, the salt-and-pepper-haired man comes in. He grabs a blue Bishop-logoed mug from the cupboard above the coffeemaker.

“It’s going to be a long fucking night, Sully,” he complains to the bald man.

The salt-and-pepper-haired man removes the coffee pot midcycle and fills his mug, sending a steady stream of coffee from the coffeemaker splattering onto the burner, onto the counter, and then to the floor.

“Shit!” he yells, jumping back. Instead of putting the pot back to stop the flow, he pours Sully a cup and then shoves the pot back into the brewer with an angry slam. Both men leave the break room, stepping over the mess they have left for me to clean up.

After I clean up the coffee, I retreat to the ladies’ room to continue the waiting game. I stay put for another hour or so, killing time reading a day-old
Wall Street Journal
retrieved from the coffee bar trash can. I continue to periodically sneak out of the bathroom to see if the meeting is still going on, worrying that my phone battery will die or that the meeting will go on past ten and interfere with my plans for picking up Lucy later tonight.

Around 9:15, I can tell the meeting is breaking up, and I guess only Bennet and Baldwin remain in the conference room because I hear the other two men talking as they get on the elevator. I wait another twenty minutes or so before I come out from hiding in the restroom to find them gone and the conference room dark. I can hear the vacuums of the real janitors, but they
take no notice of me as I enter the conference room to retrieve my phone. I quickly board the elevator and get out of Dodge.

Alone in the elevator, I tear off my smock and cram it into my purse. As calm as I was during my reconnaissance, I begin to shake at the enormity of what I have just done. I took a huge risk but came out on top for the first time in a while. In the past few days I have been on an emotional roller coaster. Excitement, sorrow, betrayal—but the feeling I have at this moment is of power and success. I never want it to end.

By the time I get to my car I am having trouble controlling myself. I do a victory dance before I get in. I can’t wait for Lucy to arrive so she can share the euphoria. It has been a long time coming.

My phone battery is just about spent, so I can’t listen to the whole meeting until I charge the phone, and even with all my meticulous planning, I have forgotten to bring my charger with me. My incredible high continues as I drive back to my condo, plug in my phone, and head out to my balcony for a celebratory smoke. No glass of wine this time, since I have to stay up late and drive to the airport. With just about four hours of recorded conversation, I elect to wait until Lucy arrives so we can listen together.

I scarf down a microwaved frozen meal and head to the Tulsa International Airport. There is nothing international about the Tulsa airport unless you consider Texas a foreign country, which many Okies do. I have been told that the international refers to private plane facilities, which, unlike the commercial carriers,
fly in from Canada or Mexico and require a customs representative upon arrival.

I haven’t seen Lucy in a couple years, but she hasn’t changed a bit. She’s tall and slim with flaming red curls that fall almost to her waist and the perky bust line of a woman half her age. From the back she looks like she could be twenty-five; from the front, while it is clear she is no teenager, she does not look at all like a fifty-three-ish farmer who spends most of her time in the sun herding sheep and cultivating organic crops. Lucy wears no makeup and has not a single gray hair to cover up with product. She’s extremely fit from her active lifestyle and is one of those timeless beauties who are attractive at any age. Once again, I find myself in the presence of someone who looks much better than I, and it makes me momentarily jealous.