Spur of the Moment (2 page)

2

Psycho Murderers, Mold, and Other Lurking Menaces

C
helsey McGuiness' day had not started well. She got home at six in the morning after spending a luscious evening with a gorgeous man she'd met at the club the night before, only to discover that her window had been broken.

“Shit.”

She warily unlocked the door to her townhouse, looking around for signs of theft. The TV and the VCR were still there. She didn't have any jewelry that was worth more than ten bucks or so, except the thirty-dollar watch she was wearing, so she didn't have anything to worry about there.

It had been so depressing when she'd gone to get homeowner's insurance on her new home. The insurance agent went through a series of questions that made Chelsey feel progressively worse about herself.

How much are your paintings worth?

Well, let's see, if you count the Scotch tape I use to hang my unframed
posters,
I don't know, maybe fifty cents?

How much is your jewelry worth?

A hundred bucks, she said, overestimating significantly. She figured if her house burned down, she'd at least get a little extra cash to buy a new watch.

Furs?

Nope.

Firearms?

Good God no.

Computer equipment?

She had a 286 PC she'd bought with student loan money in 1990 that she used as a paperweight. If she needed a computer to write a scene, she used the one at Spur of the Moment. Ten bucks, she'd estimated.

When all was said and done, Chelsey had absolutely nothing of value. What did the insurance agent want from her? She was a single, twenty-seven-year-old female who'd used every last shred of her savings to buy this place.

Usually she didn't mind being single. Just now, though, she'd really like to be married. If she were married, she could force her husband to seek out the armed assailants lurking in the closets or under the bed instead of having to do it herself. Really, what else was a man good for but to seek out the burglars and take the bullet wounds while the woman stealthily sneaked out the window and called the police?

But who knew, maybe the Native American she'd spent the night with would actually call. He'd said he would. And maybe things would work out, and one day he would be the one defending her from organ-eating psychos.

She hadn't meant to sleep with Rob, but he'd been so cute and such a good kisser and he'd told her how hilarious and beautiful she was so many times she'd become delirious with compliments. Also, she had a tendency to go through a slutty phase each time she broke up from a serious relationship. Maybe it was a reaction to enforced monogamy, maybe it was simply research she could draw on when she at last became a staff writer for a show like
Sex and the City,
the greatest show ever with the coolest lead actress ever. Sarah Jessica Parker was Chelsey's absolute idol. Chelsey even looked a little like SJP. She was a size two, with well-defined biceps and a perfectly flat stomach. She had long, curly, highlighted brown/blond hair circa SJP seasons one through four. Where she went horribly wrong, though, was that instead of having a nose with character, a memorable nose, a nose with a little kink, a little curve, a little jut, she had a cute, small button nose that was the bane of her existence. It was a nose that made it impossible for her to be the seductive sexpot she aspired to be. She had forever been and would forever be described with heinous words like
adorable
and
cute.
It made her want to gag.

Chelsey went first to inspect the bathroom for would-be attackers, where the shower curtain was pulled closed as always. She always pulled it closed because it looked nicer, and also, if she left it open, all scrunched together at one side, it couldn't dry out and had a tendency to mold. Chelsey had very strong feelings about mold.

Chelsey steeled her nerves, threw the curtain open, and screamed herself hoarse at the sight of the creature lurking there.

“Meow,” her long-haired black-and-white cat, Mo, said, looking curious, as if to say, “What's all the fuss, Mom?” Mo liked to sleep sprawled in the cool tub when it was hot out.

Chelsey gripped her chest and tried to catch her breath as her heart rate returned to something like normal.

When she was passably composed, she went to the front hall closet where, assuming there weren't drug-addled attackers ready to leap out and assault her, she would be able to get a tennis racket and patrol the rest of the house. Granted, sports equipment wasn't the weaponry of choice to protect oneself from blood-thirsty psychopaths, but it was better than nothing.

The closet was clear. She grabbed the racket and went to investigate the rest of the house.

Her heart pounded like bongos in a movie set in a remote African village, all scary and ferocious so you just
know
somebody is about to get sacrificed to the gods or otherwise about to bite it in a particularly vicious way.

Chelsey loved her new home, every bit of it, even her dark, unfinished basement. Being a first-time home buyer had been quite an experience. The racists had come out of the woodwork when she'd been looking to buy a place.

“You don't want to live in that neighborhood, black people live there,” they'd said.

“I'm not afraid of black people,” she'd protested.

“You have to think about resale value,” they'd insisted.

“I'm really not worried.” But her arguments had fallen on deaf ears. So, too, had theirs.

She'd ended up buying a small house in Baker, a historically Italian and later Hispanic part of Denver. The ad for the place had said, “Be an urban pioneer!” She'd seen that phrase often during her house hunt and had deduced that it meant, “Young white urban professionals, move into this historically black/ Hispanic neighborhood and jack up the housing prices!” She couldn't decide if she felt bad about becoming an urban pioneer. On the one hand, she believed diverse neighborhoods were a good thing, but on the other hand, she felt like she was part of the reason housing prices were skyrocketing in Denver. The truth was, this was what she could afford and she liked the house and the neighborhood, so she tried not to worry too much about it.

She flicked on the basement lights and jumped from side to side, from backhand to forehand stance, as if waiting for a serve, looking from corner to corner. She saw nothing. The coast was clear, at least down here.

Next she went back upstairs to check the two bedrooms. She took every step slowly, painfully, fully expecting her life to be cut short at any moment. She checked out the closet in each room, she checked under the bed. Nothing. No panting, salivating lunatic carrying various sharp implements of torture.

She went back into the living room again, and that's when she saw it. In a very Soylent-Green-is-people moment of horrified discovery, she saw the baseball on the floor in the corner of the living room. There was no psycho murderer lurking in the shadows, waiting to gut and flay her, just an errant baseball of some neighborhood kids. She looked at the window critically. What had she been thinking? No human being could have crawled through a hole that size. Maybe a creature from
The X-Files
could have stretched his arm eight feet like Silly Putty to unlock the door, but otherwise, the only creature she had to fear coming in through that window was a squirrel.

Now that her life wasn't in danger, her emotions turned from fear to annoyance. She was going to be late for her job as a personal trainer, and she didn't even have the excuse that she'd been fighting off murderous perverts. Also, she did not have the money to replace the window, nor did she have any idea how to go about installing one. Maybe Rob would call her and after another sweaty romp session, she could put him to work. Yes, Chelsey decided, it was a brilliant plan.

3

The Cluster Fuck, Part One

“W
here have you been?” Scott asked when Ana finally returned to her desk. “I've been here since forever.”

“I had to make an emergency run to the store. So much for my plans to get my work done early so I can head over to the theater early. Hang on, I've got to call Marin so she doesn't miss work and I have to cover her rent again.”

She called Marin. Ana had to call and hang up four times to avoid getting voicemail before Marin finally answered, sounding groggy.

“What?” was how she answered.

“Get your ass out of bed. You have fifteen minutes to get to work. Where are you going today?”

“Met Life I think. Today and all next week at an insurance company. I could do cartwheels of joy.”

Ana would have hated Marin if she didn't love her so much. Marin's problem, in Ana's opinion, was that she had rich parents. Who else but a rich kid would major in something as impractical as theater? A person's chances of getting a job after college with such a degree were the same as their odds of going on
Survivor
and making it out with a shred of dignity intact. Rich kids also knew that when they messed up, as Marin frequently did, Mom and Dad would swoop in just in the nick of time, checkbook in hand, pen at the ready.

“It's called being a grown-up. It's called being responsible,” Ana continued.

“I hate being a grown-up. I hate being responsible.”

“Yes dear, we all do, but them's the breaks.”

“Well I'm up. Mission accomplished.”

“No way. Not until you're actually up and have consumed at least one cup of coffee.”

“I do not have the energy to make coffee.”

“Of course you don't. That's why I made extra and there will still be some waiting for you. You can nuke it for thirty seconds to warm it up.”

“I hate nuked coffee.”

“Right, but it's either that or make a fresh batch. What's it going to be?”

“Nuked.” There was something reassuring to Ana about her friend's consistently lazy behavior. Ana knew she could always count on Marin to take the path of least resistance, and she appreciated her friend's unerring predictability.

Marin got up and shuffled to the kitchen. She got a cup down, poured the coffee, and drank it, cold.

“I drank my coffee. I'm officially up. I'll get to my stupid temp job. Thanks for your help, Mom.”

“Did you really drink the coffee? I didn't hear the beeping of the microwave.”

“I drank it cold, all right? Geesh. I just didn't have the energy to mess with the microwave.”

“Okay. Have a good day at work. See you tonight.”

“Smooch smooch, babe. See you later.”

The second Ana hung up the phone, she heard her boss say, “Scott, Ana? Can I see you in my office?”

Scott and Ana followed him to his office, a short little trek from their microscopic cubes down the mottled-gray carpeted corridor, which had been designed to look stained and trampled so that by the time it actually was stained and trampled, it wasn't noticeable, to The Weasel's palatial corner office with actual windows and a view of the world outside. Well, a view of the parking lot anyway. At least he knew what the weather was doing and didn't come to work on a bright sunny morning only to emerge nine hours later into a strange blizzardy world like a mole blindly making its way through life. As soon as they sat down, Scott said, “So what's up?”

“I wanted to know where we stand on the collateral for the tradeshow,” said The Weasel.

“I'm very glad you asked,” Ana said. “I just need you to review the copy for the brochure and approve the graphics for the tradeshow murals, and I actually need you to approve it today, because otherwise we won't be able to get it back from the printer in time for the tradeshow.” Ana's least favorite part of her job was having to project manage her boss.

“Not getting it done on time is not an option.”

“Of course not, but I can't go to the printer until you approve the copy.”

“I haven't seen the copy yet.”

“Actually, I gave it to you three weeks ago, both electronically and in hard copy.”
And I've asked you about it four times since then, remember, you Big Stupid Weasel?

“Why don't you make some copies of the brochure and graphics and bring them to me.”

“I actually have copies right here.” She'd been carrying the copies around with her for the last week, most of which she'd spent stalking her boss, hoping to trap him in a hallway somewhere and get him to approve the damn copy already.

Ana handed it to him. “Doesn't the artwork Scott did look great? It's so eye-catching and colorful!” It was true she thought Scott was a talented artist, but she was gushing to sell The Weasel on it, not to bolster Scott's self-esteem. Ana often called upon her years as a cheerleader and her training as an actress at the office. Cheerleading had been great practice for Ana's future as a performer. She hated sports and didn't give a hoot about who won, who made a basket, or if Danny did in fact sink it after she encouraged him to “Sink it, Danny/Sink it!” Ana just liked tumbling and leaping around. The whole pesky business of encouragement and whipping crowds into a froth of excitement she could have done without.

The Weasel's phone rang.

“Wayne, Wayne! Good to hear from you. Missed you on the golf course this week. Is that right?”

Ana looked at her watch. She hadn't gotten a single thing done and it was already after nine. She glanced at Scott, who made a facial expression that probably nobody else would have even noticed—raising his left eyebrow ever so slightly, his lips pursed in an old-lady smile—that made Ana bite her lip to keep from laughing. Scott was the king of facial expressions, but it wasn't just his elastic ability to contort his face, it was also that Ana knew exactly what he was thinking, exactly how he would mock The Big Weasel's car salesman-fake conversation voice at lunch later that day.

After The Weasel had been on the phone for another three or four minutes, Ana stood up and pantomimed that he should call her when he was free. He shook his head and put his hand out, palm facing her, indicating that she should stay. So she sat down again and studied her watch, careful not to look at Scott lest he crack her up and get them both fired, as the longest five minutes of her life passed. Of course
her
time wasn't valuable. It wasn't like what
she
had to do was important.

At last he hung up the phone. “Where were we?”

“You were reviewing the brochure and tradeshow graphics so I could get them to the printer today,” Ana said.

“Right, right.”

He skimmed over what she'd handed him.

“You know what this needs? We need to offer them a gift. Have a whole theme. Really grab their attention.”

“Huh, that's interesting, because when we first talked about this project, I suggested we say on the postcard that if they bring the postcard to the booth, we'll give them some kind of gift, and you said you were concerned that would make us look desperate.”

“The thing is, every marketing campaign needs to have a measurable ROI (return on investment). If we have a card that they can turn in, we can gauge the success of the campaign, and make sure we're getting our money's worth.”

“Okay then. What sort of gift are you thinking of? What sort of price range?”

“Something classy, but not that expensive. Ten dollars each, say.”

What kind of miracle worker did he think she was? You couldn't get anything classy and logoed for ten dollars each. Twenty maybe, but ten dollars meant a very mediocre grade of pen or desk clock. “So we're sending out a thousand cards. At the high end we can expect a ten percent return, which means we'll have to get at least a thousand dollars of premium items. We have that in the budget?”

He waved his hand as if to say, sure, of course. But Ana knew that when The Big Weasel actually calculated how much he was spending on this tradeshow, he'd be way over budget and looking for scapegoats, and he would never remember this conversation with her.

“Anything else? Is the brochure copy good to go other than adding the bit about the gift?” Ana asked.

“The copy needs more pizzazz. And the artwork needs to be more vibrant. We really need to grab their attention. These are busy executives. They get so many pieces of mail, so many phone calls, so many emails, that we really need to wow them.”

Thank you for the marketing 101 lesson, asshole.
“Um, Scott and I thought our graphics and copy did have pizzazz. Do you have any
specific
suggestions for how to improve things? Is there anything
specifically
you don't like or would like to see added?”
Because if you think you're fooling me into thinking you're competent by spouting off clichéd rules for marketing, you're not.

“You and Scott can fix it. You're almost there.”

“Okay, we'll make some changes. Can you mark me in your calendar for this afternoon? We have to be sure you can approve the copy today so I can get it to the printer today.”

The Big Weasel looked at his Palm Pilot. “I'm really booked up. I've got an opening between four and four-fifteen. It'll have to be quick.”

“I'll be here at four sharp.”

Ana and Scott returned to their desks. She vowed silently not to change any of the text. She knew he hadn't really read it. Her text was good. She'd add the bit about bringing the card in and getting a gift, she'd change a few words in the headline, Scott would change a few graphics around, and that would be it.

Ana's phone rang. “Hello?”

It was Marin. “Guess what my parents spent eighty-thousand dollars for me to get a college education to do? To hit Control, F7, Print, Next. Control, F7, Print, Next. For nine dollars an hour. This is a new low.”

“Lower than when you dressed up as a hotdog to lure small children into Top Dog Hotdogs?”

“At least then my identity was concealed.”

“I feel for your plight, but I have got to get this stupid project done by four o'clock today. Think of it this way: you can turn all this pain into comedy on stage.”

“I don't see any humor in this situation. I can't believe they're making me print all this stuff out. I mean I'm killing a zillion trees today so they can have hard copy backups. Jason would have a heart attack.”

“Look, I've got to go so I can keep my job so
someone
in the house can have a steady paycheck.”

“Don't go! Don't go! I'm going to
die
of boredom.”

“Hold on.” Ana transferred the call to Scott, telling him, “It's Marin.”

“Hey, girlfriend,” he answered. Ana looked across the makeshift hallway at Scott, who sat in a cubicle facing hers. Ana was glad she worked with him. She didn't like her job, her boss, and most of the people she worked with, but Scott did a great job of keeping her from jumping off the deep end, keeping her laughing and reminding her not to get so worked up over the management practices that drove her batty.

Scott was tall, 6'3”, a full foot taller than Ana. He had curly hair that was long enough to spring all over the place, giving him the absent-minded-professor, I'm-an-artist-with-too-many-things-on-my-mind-to-be-bothered-with-getting- my-hair-cut look. He was good-looking, but his goofy grin made it difficult to see him as anything other than the giant goofball that he was. Ana had enjoyed making out with him one drunken night at Spur of the Moment, but there was no way she could date someone so tall—there were neck-cramping issues to consider. (She never took their little romp seriously. The occasional smooch session between cast members was practically a prerequisite of the job. Sometimes their skits called for them to crawl around on each other, or to kiss or to be married couples or teenagers just falling in love for the first time. There was bound to be some sexual tension released occasionally, particularly when aided by alcohol.)

Ana couldn't help but laugh as she listened to Scott talk to Marin, having a conversation with himself, pretending to alternately be an employee who had a voice like a Muppet and a boss who talked like Cameron in
Ferris Bueller's Day Off
when he posed as Ferris' dad.

Boss: “But does it
live the brand?”

Employee: “But, but . . . we don't have the
bandwidth
to make it
live the brand.”

Boss: “Well, we'll have to
interface
with the
key players
to make sure we have the
buy-in.
Let's make sure we've
covered all our bases.”

Ana wiped the smile off her face and forced herself to stop listening to Scott and get back to work.