The Assistants (15 page)

Kevin put his hands on my bare arms, and they felt so warm. He slid them up to my shoulders, then back down to my elbows, and pulled me in toward him. He kissed my cheek, then my neck, and then whispered into my ear, “I love you so much.”

Love
, he said.
Love.
For the first time.

He reached for my face and kissed me with a passion that brought even the tickers to a stunned halt. If a photo of the moment hadn't been Instagrammed, I would have been sure I'd imagined it. I would have been sure I'd imagined the entire night.

I
AWOKE
the morning after the launch party to the sounds of hipsters gossiping their way to Sunday brunch, which told me I'd slept till at least eleven. My alarm clock verified this and Emily arrived shortly after, still wearing last night's dress.

“Walk of shame?” I asked.

“I didn't walk.” Emily reached for my coffee cup and finished what was inside. “The young gentleman I went home with last night was the most generous lover I've ever known. I think his father is some sort of Russian metals tycoon? He bought me a thirty-dollar breakfast.” She unzipped the back of her dress. “Eggs Benedict.”

“Congratulations,” I said, reaching for an Oreo from the stack on my nightstand.

Emily waddled into the kitchen on bare feet, her dress wide open in the back. She returned with a fresh cup of coffee for
herself and resumed her striptease, ceremoniously stepping out of her dress and then wrapping herself in a silk kimono robe that my mother surely would have described as Oriental.

“Have you looked at the website?” she asked. “How much money did we raise last night?”

“I don't know,” I said with my mouth full. “I haven't checked.”

“Are you kidding me? You're just lying there eating cookies and didn't even think to turn on your computer?”

“Why didn't
you
check?” I shot back in the vicious manner of voice I usually reserved for the a-holes who worked at the South Williamsburg post office.

“My phone is dead or I would have. What the hell is your problem?”

“Kevin told me he loved me last night.”

“Whaaat?” Emily pulled her silk kimono tighter and took a seat on the edge of my bed. “And what did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I guess I panicked. I was so caught up in the moment.” I knew what Emily was going to say: that I was socially inept, emotionally stunted. And she was right. I was basically the Holden Caulfield of adult dating.

I sat up to shoo away the cookie crumbs that had gathered on my chest just as the apartment's buzzer rang out.

“Oh my god.” I locked eyes with Emily. “I bet it's Kevin. He's been doing this supposedly romantic thing lately called ‘surprising' me.”

“Or he just wants to hear you say
I love you
back, you idiot.” Emily glanced out the window and then back at me. “You can't let
him see you this way. You're a goddamn mess. You have Oreo all over your mouth.”

“What do I do?”

“Go hide in the bathroom and run the showerhead. Quick!”

I did as she said. I could have probably used an actual shower, but instead I put my ear to the bathroom door, trying to hear the action over the whooshing water.

The apartment door opened with a squeak, followed by heavy footsteps.

A gruff voice penetrated the quickly rising steam, nothing like Kevin's consistently agreeable baritone. “You're not who I came to see.”

Emily called out to me. “False alarm!”

I skulked out of the bathroom to find Wendi sitting down at our kitchen table. She eyed Emily from head to toe. “This robe you're wearing,” she said. “It's bordering on racist.”

Emily swept her hands down the front of her robe's silky, cherry-blossomed surface. “It's not like I taped my eyes back or something.”

“I will let that one slide because today is such a happy day.” Wendi reached across the table for Emily's laptop, pecked it to life, and tapped at a few keys, bringing up the Assistance website.

“Holy cannoli!” I said, sounding like the Italian version of the chick from
Fifty Shades of Grey
. “Look at all the money!”

The
Money Raised
ticker had hit $406,813.54.

“This happened overnight?” Emily scrambled for the chair closest to Wendi. “While we were asleep? Do you think people were drunk-donating?”

“Still counts.” Wendi scrolled through the thousands—thousands!—of members who'd already submitted their debt statements to the site.

“I've got to hand it to you, Tina,” Wendi said. “This was not my original vision for my program, but it's working out pretty nicely.”

“This wasn't my original vision for becoming a millionaire either.” Emily's face shone with the radiance of her laptop screen. “But it
is
working out nicely. It's like, who even remembers anymore what we took from Titan?”

For a moment, I feared Wendi might gore Emily with her horns.

“It's okay.” I cautiously touched the elbow of Wendi's hoodie. “She knows not to talk like that outside of this apartment.”

Wendi contorted her face into a sneer and then shifted the laptop away from Emily and closer to me. “Let me show you how the new site works.” She continued scrolling through our many members. “Until we can make this a more perfect science, I suggest just picking a winner at random, like a lottery. Watch me now.”

She double-clicked to open a debt statement for $81,101 that belonged to a twenty-nine-year-old woman in Chicago.

One click, two clicks, three clicks, and an e-check for $81,101 was sent to the woman's account. The ticker labeled
Money Donated
flipped accordingly.

“That's all there is to it,” Wendi said. “The only tricky part is to pace yourself with the money.” She turned the laptop toward me. “Your turn.”

It was so idiotically simple a Gen X monkey with no computer
training could have done it. I clicked on a debt statement for $108,023 that belonged to a twenty-six-year-old woman in Portland, Oregon.

One click, two clicks, three clicks, and an e-check for $108,023 was sent to her account.

The
Money Donated
ticker flipped to $189,124. It made me light-headed, like my first adolescent drag of a cigarette, which by the way was not electronic.

“This could get addictive,” I said.

“Let me do one.” Emily slid the laptop back toward herself.

“Just a moment, Memoir of a Geisha.” Wendi placed a bullying hand on Emily's silken shoulder. “You have to be careful to limit the amount you give out each day. It has to be a ratio, so people recognize there's a direct correlation to the giving and receiving. Like supply and demand, understand?”

Emily glanced up from the screen. “Do you honestly think there'll ever be a supply to meet this much demand? That's absurd.”

Wendi erupted in inexplicable high-pitched laugher. “You've got a better head for business than one would think. You're correct, this site is the technological equivalent of throwing a bunch of money onto the street. There's not going to be any left over when you walk away.” She turned to me. “But the more money we take in with time, the more we can distribute. For now, send out five checks a day. No more, no less. This'll make people excited about it, like a contest or a sweepstakes. Try to mix it up, some small debts with some large ones each day. But obviously you can't exceed the amount we've got in the
Money Raised
bank at any time.”

“That's it?” I'd already snatched the laptop back from Emily and was scrolling through the statements, searching for our next winner. “Only five a day?”

I felt like God, or what I sometimes imagined God to feel like when he was blowing off steam: scrolling through people's lives on his iPad like an old lady at a Vegas slot machine. Cherries-orange-apple—you'll get hit by a car today. Lemon-grapes-banana—sorry, that's cancer. Triple sevens—jackpot; someone just paid off all your student-loan debt.

It felt good, playing the Almighty. Because like the Tibetan Buddhists who don't even believe in Him claim (and who, by the way, threw awesome concerts with the Beastie Boys in the late nineties), real happiness just might come from putting others first.

Though the Buddhists would probably insist that the “real happiness” also be egoless—and this was definitely not that. No, this was a way more Americana type of happiness, steeped in pride and self-regard.
Happy as a pig in shit
, Robert might have called it. Or maybe that's what I'm calling it, I don't know. Because something about it was sort of shitty. Yeah, I was happy I was helping others. And I was happy I'd struck upon something I was good at, and even got applauded for. And I was happy to really feel like somebody for the first time in my life. But more than all that, I was happy that we'd gotten away with it.

Emily was right. It was like, who even remembered anymore what we took from Titan? But I remembered. And somehow seeing how all this was turning out—how at times I'd catch myself being genuinely excited and hopeful and optimistic about my
future, and then remember—it was making me realize the person I could have become if only I hadn't . . .

. . . what?

If only I hadn't stolen? Broken? Made a bad choice? Made a dozen bad choices? But we'd gotten away with it, and I have to admit that I was really fucking happy about that.

A
RRIVING AT WORK
on Monday morning, I was struck by how similar it felt to my first day at Titan. The tingling in my belly, the good nerves mingling with bad, the way I was thinking as I rode the escalator up to the elevator bank,
Do I have time to run and grab a bagel at the café?

But unlike my first day, today there were people greeting me and smiling at me. Both in front of and behind me on the escalator there were girls craning their necks to catch my eye and wave. On the escalator parallel to mine, Gwendolyn Clark, a producer who was a known starfucker, paused midsentence in her conversation with one of Titan's most celebrated newscasters to acknowledge
me
. I'm not gonna lie, it felt pretty good, because attention, even the whorish kind, can seriously boost one's endorphins.

In the elevator—elevator B—there were women who I was pretty sure had been instructed by the central kiosk to proceed to
elevator A or C but filed into mine anyway. I didn't even know what to do with all these women batting their extra-long eyelashes at me. Should I be aloof and check my phone? Pretend to look for something in my bag? And then it hit me: This was why people walked around wearing giant headphones all the time. Because when you're popular, it's the easiest way to ignore everyone who wants you to notice them. It wasn't about the music at all, was it?

When I reached the fortieth floor, it was pretty much business as usual, but Robert wasn't in yet. Which meant I could have totally run to the café for a bagel after all.

I settled in at my desk, logged on to everything I had to log on to, checked the phone messages, and then got to the real business of the day: opening the Assistance page and allocating the day's checks to our five lucky winners.

When Robert walked up behind me, he didn't make a sound.

“Tina.”

I jumped an inch from my chair.

“Robert!” I shouted.

“What's that you're looking at?”

“Nothing.” I X'd out every window on my screen like a game of computer Whack-A-Mole.

Robert took off his suit jacket and draped it over his arm. “Will you come into my office, please?”

I reached for my pen and notepad and didn't feel the least bit nervous.

For months now, every time Robert had asked to speak to me I'd nearly lost control of my bowels. But not this time. This time I gave Robert the usual three-step head start, watched the carpet
into his office, and closed the door behind me, thinking the whole time about getting back to my desk to send out those checks.

“Please sit,” he said.

I sat, anticipating great praise. Maybe a good ol' boy's smack on the back for a job well done. Perhaps a
Man oh man, your site took off like a greased sow
. Or a
You're as smart as a hooty owl, aren't you?

Instead he leaned on his elbows with his hands enfolded in front of him. “Is there anything you feel you need to say to me?” he asked.

I was a master at deciphering Robert's tone, but whatever it was I was hearing now was entirely new. It didn't strike me as the falling timbre of disappointment. More the enfeebling tonic of sadness.

“No,” I said.

We sat staring at each other for a moment. From the outside, any stranger could have mistaken us for lovers, or, more appropriately, father and daughter when the daughter has done something wrong, but she isn't sure which wrong thing the father knows about.

What did he want from me? Did I do something at the launch party that rubbed him the wrong way? Robert could be so impossible when it came to how much he relied on my knowing what he was thinking without his having to tell me.

Fine. I would have to be the one to speak first.

“Have I done something to upset you?” I asked.

He broke eye contact then, which I didn't know what to make of. Breaking eye contact was something Robert did not do. Ever.

He looked down at his desk, and then at his shoes, which had remained securely on the floor. When he returned his eyes to me, he said, “It's been great working with you, Tina.”

I said, “What?”

“Really. I'm going to miss you.”

“Wait. You're firing me?”

“No, no,” he said. “But you can take a few minutes to clear out your desk and all that.” He tossed an envelope at me. “This is a generous severance package. It'll keep you afloat for a while.”

So he wasn't firing me, but he was?

His words, the envelope, the room, all swirled around me in slow motion. I was afraid if I tried to talk it would come out sounding like stroke-speak, all loose lipped and tongue addled.

“Don't look so unhappy,” he said. “I'm kicking you out of the nest because I know you'll never leave on your own. And it's time.” He stood up and extended his hand for a firm shake. “You're welcome,” he said. “Now go on.”

Everything was spinning.

Had I been caught or hadn't I? I honestly wasn't sure.

Lurking at my desk were two jar-headed Titan security guards. Robert gave them a nod and I knew that was my cue to get up and leave quietly and immediately, with my dignity intact. They had already placed an empty cardboard box on my chair to speed up the process. These guys knew what they were doing.

I scanned the office as I collected my belongings. Dillinger had his headphones hanging sideways off his head and his mouth was a speechless O. All the guys on the floor appeared equally flabbergasted. Nobody made a sound.

One security guard flanked me on either side to escort me into
the elevator and down to the lobby. “Titan policy,” they told me. “Legal reasons.”

“I don't have a gun,” I joked.

They didn't laugh.

The elevator dropped and its doors slid open to a small crowd of inquisitive eyes. I clutched my cardboard box of stuff to my chest—an image that would hit Twitter and the like within minutes—and watched the textured floor tile, step by step, to the top of the escalator.

It was incredible how quickly word had spread, via IM most likely, from a few nosy, gossip-hungry coworkers on my floor (Jason Dillinger, I'm looking at you) to all corners of the Titan building.

I could hear Kevin pleading with my security guards. “What's going on here?” he asked, louder each time he repeated it. “Roberto,” he said. “Sal. What's up?”

A few cell-phone cameras documented it all. One followed me in a diagonal parallel down the opposite escalator.

Another cluster of onlookers lingered around the front doors. I searched for Emily or Ginger, or Wendi or Lily—or even Margie Fischer—but there was no sign of any of them.

Lobby security dispersed the boldest looky-loos blocking my exit and escorted me out of the building, to the curb, where a black sedan waited with its door ajar.

Roberto and Sal guided me into the backseat, careful not to bump my head, and shut the door behind me. Those who made it out to the sidewalk watched me get driven away through their LCD screens.

“I'm going to Williamsburg,” I said to the driver.

He nodded. “I know where you're going.”

—

T
WENTY MINUTES LATER
I was inside my apartment, sitting at my kitchen table, staring at my cardboard box of stuff, which wasn't much stuff at all really. My cell phone was blowing up, but I was too catatonic to answer. Kevin, Ginger, Wendi, Lily—they all left voice mails I didn't bother to listen to.

Since the day I deposited that first check, I'd created dozens of different renditions of what it would look and feel like for Robert to sit me down and fire me. Sometimes the police were involved. Sometimes Glen Wiles was involved. Usually I cried. A few times Robert cried. But things never turn out how you picture them, do they? I never imagined it would end so vaguely.

Or had it still not ended? Was there more to come? What if this was only the beginning of the end, or in the way of a too-long Scorsese film, only the end of the beginning?

My front door swung open then, and Emily stormed in looking like she had an approximate blood pressure of heart attack.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“What the hell do you think?” She tossed her purse into the bedroom.

Emily wasn't carrying a cardboard box, which indicated to me that she, at least, hadn't also been fired. She sat down across from me at the kitchen table, too upset to even think of first fixing herself a drink.

“What happened?” she asked. “What did Robert say to you?”

I felt my cheeks go hot. “He said he was letting me go because he knew I would never quit on my own.”

“He didn't mention anything about . . .”

“No,” I said.

“Well don't let that trick you into a false sense of security. You're likely to be wearing an orange jumpsuit by next week.”

“But he gave me a severance package,” I said. “Would he have done that if he—”

“Fontana, if you want to pull that cardboard
Just Fired!
box over your head and leave it there, be my guest. But we're caught. There's no other explanation.”

Emily unlatched her necklace, unclasped her bracelet, and slid off her rings. “You know I hate having to get real with you this way,” she said, speaking to me in her lower-class accent now. “But we've got to figure out our next move before it's too late. You get me?”

I nodded.

“So the only remaining question,” she said, “is what do you think of Mexico?”

I stared at the pile of gold and jewels on the table. “Are you asking me to Thelma and Louise it with you?”

“The alternate version, where the car lands safely over the border?” Emily said. “Yes, I am.”

I tried to imagine what that would be like. Emily and me living the south-of-the-border fugitive life. Would it be all Coronas and avocados? Or would it be more like Montezuma's revenge? And, from this point on, would I always frame my questions-to-self in the style of a Carrie Bradshaw column?

Emily pulled her hair back into a ponytail, which she tied in place using only the hair itself.

“There's about four hundred fifty K on the site right now.” She watched my reaction closely. “We can take it and run. It's enough
to start a new life, and then we can, like, open a fruit stand or sell handmade bracelets or something.”

“You're serious,” I said.

“
Sí
,” Emily answered. “
Mucho.
”

“I don't know,” I said. “I'm so pale, and I've never been good at crafts. I need to think.”

“Well think fast, Fontana. Because we're just about out of time.”

I shut myself into my bedroom to do just that: think. If thinking mostly consisted of crying out to the ceiling rain bubble, “How did this happen? What am I supposed to do now?!” I'd never been great when it came to tragedy or decision-making, and this was both. This was like having your dog hit by a car and having to choose a paint color for your vestibule at the same time. I tried going over my options. Run away? Stay and confess? Take a Xanax and a long nap and hope for the best?

Later that night, I met Kevin at Diner in South Williamsburg because I refused to leave Brooklyn and he insisted on taking me out to dinner so we could “talk.” My true intention was to do as little talking as possible. Really I was only buying time till I figured out what to do next, and I figured I might as well have a decent meal in the interim.

Diner is in no way a diner. I want that to be clear. Like all things Williamsburg, it's ironic and expensive and you're either in on the joke or you're not. After a forty-minute wait, we were finally seated.

“I still don't understand,” Kevin said, squeezing into our tight booth.

“Neither do I. Why is this stupid place so crowded?”

“I was talking about Barlow firing you.”

“Oh.” I made a quick scan of the knitted hats and scruffy beards on either side of us to be sure no one was hiding a tape recorder. Then I remembered tape recorders were rendered obsolete in 1991, and with a minimum of two iPhones on each tabletop, my caution was pointless.

“Has anyone ever understood why Robert Barlow does the things he does?” I said.

“I thought you did,” Kevin said.

Suddenly, our waiter squeezed into our booth beside me, to tell us about the menu. There aren't any menus at Diner because their food options are seasonal. If you insist on seeing a menu, or pretend to be deaf, they'll belligerently scribble down the names of a few food items onto your paper tablecloth. This is intended to be authentic. Authentic what, I don't know.

We had a short chat with our abundantly tattooed waiter about how organic and grass-fed everything was, and then he asked us what we wanted and I realized I hadn't been listening to him at all. I'd completely zoned out on our verbal menu options.

Kevin ordered some kind of fish. He actually just said, “I'll have the fish,” which signaled to me that he'd also zoned out and taken a shot in the dark.

“Soup?” I said.

“Soup's out of season,” the waiter replied.

“Burger,” I said.

“And some beer,” Kevin added. “Whatever you recommend.”

This date was swiftly turning into the blooper reel of a Food
Network reality show. Our craft beers arrived, and I immediately knocked mine over. Another thing about Diner is the tables aren't level. Diner's too artisanal for unslanted surfaces.

Our waiter dutifully brought me a new beer and I sipped it carefully with both hands.

“Do you think Robert fired you because of your website? Because he disagrees with it politically?” Kevin rubbed at the condensation on his glass. “You might have legal standing, if you think that's the reason.”

I gazed around the restaurant's interior, which resembled the inside of a zeppelin airship. “I spy three separate girls wearing tights for pants,” I said. “Can you find them?”