The Boy Next Door

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To: Mel Fuller

From: Human Resources

Subject: Tardiness

Dear
Melissa Fuller,

This is an automated message from the Human Resources Division of the
New York Journal
, New York City’s leading photo-newspaper. Please be aware that according to your supervisor,
managing editor George Sanchez
, your workday here at the
Journal
begins promptly at
9 AM
, making you
68
minutes tardy today. This is your
37th
tardy exceeding twenty minutes so far this year,
Melissa Fuller
.

We in the Human Resources Division are not “out to get” tardy employees, as was mentioned in last week’s unfairly worded employee newsletter. Tardiness is a serious and expensive issue facing employers all over America. Employees often make light of tardiness, but routine lateness can often be a symptom of a more serious issue, such as
and any number of other conditions. If you are suffering from any of the above, please do not hesitate to contact your Human Resources Representative,
Amy Jenkins
. Your Human Resources Representative will be only too happy to enroll you in the
New York Journal
’s Staff Assistance Program, where you will be paired with a mental health professional who will work to help you achieve your full potential.

• alcoholism
  
• drug addiction
  
• gambling addiction
  
• abusive domestic partner
  
• sleep disorders
  
• clinical depression
  

Melissa Fuller
, we here at the
New York Journal
are a team. We win as a team, and we lose as one, as well.
Melissa Fuller
, don’t you want to be on a winning team? So please do your part to see that you arrive at work on time from now on!

Sincerely,

Human Resources Division

New York Journal

To: Mel Fuller

From: Nadine Wilcock

Subject: You are in trouble

Mel, where were you? I saw that Amy Jenkins from Human Resources skulking around your cubicle. I think you’re in for another one of those tardy notices. What is this, your fiftieth?

You better have a good excuse this time, because George was saying a little while ago that gossip columnists are a dime a dozen, and that he could get Liz Smith over here in a second to replace you if he wanted to. I think he was joking. It was hard to tell because the Coke machine is broken, and he hadn’t had his morning Mountain Dew yet.

By the way, did something happen last night between you and Aaron? He’s been playing Wagner in his cubicle again. You know how this bugs George. Did you two have another fight?

Are we doing lunch later or what?

Nad :-)

To: Mel Fuller

From: Aaron Spender

Subject: Last night

Where are you, Mel? Are you going to be completely childish about this and not come into the office until you’re sure I’ve left for the day? Is that it?

Can’t we sit down and discuss this like adults?

Aaron Spender

Senior Correspondent

New York Journal

To: Mel Fuller

From: Dolly Vargas

Subject: Aaron Spender

Melissa—

Don’t get the wrong idea, darling, I WASN’T spying on you, but a girl would have to be BLIND not to have noticed how you brained Aaron Spender with your bag last night at Pastis. You probably didn’t even notice me; I was at the bar, and I looked around
because I thought I heard your name, of all things—weren’t you supposed to be covering the Prada show?—and then BOOM! Altoids and Maybelline all over the place.

Darling, it was precious.

You really have excellent aim, you know. But I highly doubt Kate Spade meant that adorable little clutch to be used as a projectile. I’m sure she’d have made the clasp stronger if she’d only known women were going to be backhanding the thing around like a tennis ball.

Seriously, darling, I just need to know: Is it all over between you and Aaron? Because I never thought you were right for each other. I mean, the man was in the running for a Pulitzer, for God’s sake! Although if you ask me, anyone could have written that story about that little Ethiopian boy. I found it perfectly maudlin. That part about his sister selling her body to provide him with rice…please. Too Dickensian.

So you aren’t going to be difficult about this, are you? Because I’ve got an invite to Steven’s place in the Hamptons, and I was thinking of inviting Aaron to mix Cosmos for me. But I won’t if you’re going to go Joan Collins on me.

P.S.: You really should have called if you weren’t going to come in today, darling. I think you’re in trouble. I saw that little troll-like person (Amy something?) from Human Resources sniffing around your desk earlier.

XXXOOO

Dolly

To: Mel Fuller

From: George Sanchez

Subject: Where the hell are you?

Where the hell are you? You appear to be under the mistaken impression that comp days don’t have to be prearranged with your employer.

This is not exactly convincing me that you are columnist material. More like copyedit material, Fuller.

George

To: Mel Fuller

From: Aaron Spender

Subject: Last night

This is really beneath you, Melissa. I mean, for God’s sake, Barbara and I were in a
war zone
together. Anti-aircraft fire was exploding all around us. We thought we’d be captured by rebel forces at any moment. Can’t you understand that?

It meant nothing to me, Melissa, I swear it.

My God, I should never have told you. I thought you were more mature. But to pull a disappearing act like this…

Well, I’d never have expected it from a woman like you, that’s all I have to say.

Aaron Spender

Senior Correspondent

New York Journal

To: Mel Fuller

From: Nadine Wilcock

Subject: This isn’t funny

Girl, where are you? I’m really starting to get worried. Why haven’t you called me, at the very least? I hope you didn’t get hit by a bus or something. But I suppose if you did, they’d call us. Assuming you had your press pass with you, that is.

All right, I’m not really worried that you’re dead. I’m really worried you’re going to get fired, and I’m going to have to eat lunch with Dolly again. I was forced to order in with her since you’re MIA, and it nearly killed me. The woman had a salad with no dressing. Do you get where I’m coming from here? NO DRESSING.

And then she felt compelled to comment on every single thing I put in my mouth. “Do you know how many grams of fat are in that fry?” “A good substitute for mayonnaise, you know, Nadine, is low-fat yogurt.”

I’d like to tell her what she can do with her low-fat yogurt.

By the way, I think you should know that Spender’s going around saying you’re doing this because of whatever went down between the two of you last night.

If that doesn’t get you in here, and pronto, I don’t know what will.

Nad :-)

To: George Sanchez

From: Mel Fuller

Subject: Where the hell I was

Since it is apparently so important to you and Amy Jenkins that your employees account fully for every moment they spend away from the office, I will provide you with a detailed summary of my whereabouts while I was unavoidably detained.

Ready? Got your Mountain Dew? I hear the machine down in the art department is fully operational.

Mel’s Morning:

7:15—Alarm rings. Hit snooze button.

7:20—Alarm rings. Hit snooze button.

7:25—Alarm rings. Hit snooze button.

7:26—Wake to sound of neighbor’s dog barking. Turn off alarm.

7:27—Stagger to bathroom. Perform morning ablutions.

7:55—Stagger to kitchen. Ingest nourishment in form of Nutrigrain bar and Tuesday night’s take-out kung pao.

7:56—Neighbor’s dog still barking.

7:57—Blow dry hair.

8:10—Check Channel One for weather.

8:11—Neighbor’s dog still barking.

8:12—Attempt to find something to wear from assorted clothes crammed into studio apartment’s single, refrigeratorsized closet.

8:30—Give up. Pull on black rayon skirt, black rayon shirt, black sling-back flats.

8:35—Grab black bag. Look for keys.

8:40—Find keys in bag. Leave apartment.

8:41—Notice that Mrs. Friedlander’s copy of the
New York Chronicle
(yes, George, my next-door neighbor subscribes to our biggest rival; don’t you agree with me now
that we really ought to do something to draw more senior readers?) is still lying on the floor in front of her apartment door. She is normally up at six to walk her dog, and takes her paper in then.

8:42—Notice that Mrs. Friedlander’s dog is still barking. Knock on door to make sure everything is all right. (Some of us New Yorkers actually care about our neighbors, George. You wouldn’t know that, of course, since stories about people who actually care for others in their community don’t make for very good copy. Stories in the
Journal
, I’ve noticed, tend to gravitate toward neighbors who shoot at, not borrow cups of sugar from, one another.)

8:45—After repeated knocks, Mrs. Friedlander still does not come to door. Paco, her Great Dane, however, barks with renewed vigor.

8:46—Try handle to Mrs. Friedlander’s apartment door. It is, oddly enough, unlocked. Let myself inside.

8:47—Am greeted by Great Dane and two Siamese cats. No sign of Mrs. Friedlander.

8:48—Find Mrs. Friedlander facedown on living room carpet.

Okay, George? Get it, George? The woman was facedown on her living room carpet! What was I supposed to do, George? Huh? Call Amy Jenkins down in Human Resources?

No, George. That lifesaving class you made us all take paid off, see? I was able to tell that not only did Mrs. Friedlander have a pulse, she was also breathing. So I called 911 and waited with her until the ambulance came.

With the ambulance, George, came some cops. And guess what the cops said, George? They said it looked to them as if Mrs. Friedlander had been struck. From behind, George. Some creep whacked that old lady on the back of the head!

Can you believe it? Who would do that to an eighty-year-old woman?

I don’t know what this city is coming to, George, when little old
ladies aren’t even safe in their apartments. But I’m telling you, there’s a story here—and I think I should be the one the write it.

Whadduya say, George?

Mel