Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 01 - Kitchen Addiction! (27 page)

We
held our breath and our noses while Bauser carded us through the glass doors. 
Inside was worse.  A lot worse.  “Cripes, haven’t they heard of air ionizers?” Norman coughed.  “Or Air Fresh?”

“Aah,
there they are, on time as usual,” Howard cried.

We
looked down the hall and realized we’d stepped into the middle of something,
and it wasn’t flaming feces.  It was a company meeting, which Howard liked to
hold in the main corridor.  Howard thought this was a brilliant management
technique because it made everyone stand up and force them to be succinct. 
This might have worked really well if anyone else but Howard talked.  As it
was, How-weird’s various elevator speech narratives usually morphed into
full-blown water cooler treatises.

Norman
pushed his baseball cap back
from his forehead.  “Oh boy,” he said.  Bauser and I gulped.  Since Bauser and
I were already fired, we didn’t really have much at stake.  But Norman usually slid under the being-late radar mostly because he normally works about 75 hours
a week – and is pretty much incredibly indispensible.  But How-weird was in a
full-blown mode of some kind.

“As
I was saying,” Howard sneered at us, “it’s obvious we’re not working in ideal
conditions.  But we’re not a charity, either,” he added.  I looked around and
saw a sea of folded arms, deadpan stares and thin lips.  And I saw Lee, taking
notes, sitting on a chair next to Howard.

Hey,
wait a minute.  Sitting?!? I never rated a seat, even back when I had to run
that stupid 45 minute slideshow presentation of Howard’s: ‘Toilets and You: The
Bottom Line on Restroom Hygiene’. Which, of course, we all had to watch while
standing.

“Now,
just to clarify,” Howard smirked, “it’s perfectly understandable if you have
documented medical reasons that prevent your working in the office until the
landlord mediates the, uh, air quality issues.”

“That
explains it,” Norman whispered.  “They didn’t spring for renting air cleaners
because they’re foisting it on the owner of the building.  They really are that
cheap.”

“However,
unless you have bonafide work which can be done from home – and of course
approved by your manager –” Howard all but winked at the managers a.k.a. his
golf buddies – “well then your time is not considered HW – Home Work,” he
finished.  He put his thumbs under his make-believe suspenders – his armpits –
and waddled down the center of his employee lineup.  “Now, of course, we are
all professionals, and most of us, luckily, are able to do some work at home.”

“Except
for the golf course,” an anonymous voice grumbled from behind a cubicle wall.

Howard
heard.  “Ha ha ha. Well some business meetings are more pleasant than others,”
he said.

Uh
oh, I thought.  Howard didn’t break into a rage.  He actually tried to be
pleasant.  This was going to be pretty bad.

“However,
EEJIT’s policy is an Effhue policy,” he continued, “and in these circumstances,
especially as our corporate offices are going through similar difficulties, the
HW policy has changed. From now on, an HW day does not count as a full working
day. An HW day will now accrue 5.6 working hours.  This means that if you enjoy
an entire work week of HW days, you’ll owe EEJIT – and Effhue – 12 working
hours for that week.”

I
was starting to feel light-headed.  I couldn’t believe my ears.  Was this kind
of Dickensonian stuff legal?  Where was Bob Cratchit when you needed him? Or
Father Christmas?  Then again, it was only August. Wrong time of year, I
supposed.

“Also,
HW days will now accrue 0.435 benefit hours, and not the 0.63 hours of an
office working day.”  This prompted a buzz of mumbling and a lot of expletives
in various languages.  ‘Dirty dog of a flea bitten llama’ in Hindu was the only
one I recognized.

“Now,
now,” How-weird said, and smiled, “we also know many of you, as salaried
business professionals, occasionally work over the appointed 40 hour work
week.  And while many of you take this in stride, some of you feel your ‘extra
time’ should be compensated.” Howard’s smile drew even wider.  I noticed he had
spinach in his teeth.  Probably from gnawing on a vegan programmer.   “In these
instances, you are encouraged to discuss comp time with your manager.”

There
was a lot more mumbling and more ‘dirty dogs’ about that.  Everyone knew
How-weird didn’t hire or appoint a manager who didn’t buckle under his fat
little thumb.

“Also,
ALSO,” Howard shouted, trying to break through the now very loud non-mumbling,
“comp time will no longer be a day for a day.  If you work the entire weekend,
your manager can approve one day of comp time to you,” he said.

Silence. 
This was bad.  Very, very bad.

“Of
course, with a two weeks request notice,” he ended.

I
heard some rustling behind me, and then heard Achmed hissing at Mohammed in
Arabic.  Out of habit I hissed back, “Huh?” at them while keeping my eyes
straight forward.

“I
have said, that even while working in the times of the Tyrant, the hours of our
lives were respected more during imprisonment,” Ahmed hissed back.

“Or
terminated gracefully,” Mohammed whispered back sagely.

“I
work in kabutz more sympathetic to hard work,” grumbled Tevloh.

I
shrugged philosophical.  “Well, at least it’s no worse than phone sales,” I
said.

“You
have done the phone sales?”

“Were
you that desperately poor?”

“You
were prostitute of the phone?”

“Did
they arrest you?”

“Did
you sometimes wish to kill yourself?”

“Yes,
yes and no, no no!  ” I answered. “Hey, I paid my way through college with that
job,” I said. 

Some
muttering and clucking went on behind me in Arabic, Hindi, Israeli and what I
think I recognized as Norwegian.  Then I felt various pats on my shoulders. 
“You should be very much impressed,” the anonymous hands patted, while we all
maintained eyes forward.  I nodded thanks and felt very, very proud indeed.

CHAPTER 9

(Wednesday afternoon)

“Well,
seeing as
we’ve
all broken out into our little side bar conversations, I guess our new policies
are clear to everyone.  So quit wasting time and get back to working,” Howard
hollered.

I
looked and saw Chandtishe Pakashakaswyswaami’s cane plunk smack dab into the
middle of How-weird’s foot.  Chandtishe is about 1,000 years old, has a limp,
and was literally counting the days toward his retirement a.k.a. Emancipation
from EEJIT. Thanks to EEJIT’s legal system, it had only taken about 10 years
for him to receive a bonafide green card.  15 years later – just last year,
actually – he had attained U.S. Citizenship through EEJIT’s legal counsel,
after working an additional sixteen months of twelve-hour days.  Now, at long
last, he was due to retire in February.

I
smiled and waved to him.  He smiled and waved back, and leaned down hard on the
cane, piercing Howard’s instep.  Howard gritted, picked up Chandtishe’s cane
and removed his shishkabobed foot.  Chandtishe faked an elaborate apology and
then gave me the thumbs up as How-weird turned and bent over his foot. 
Chandtishe had always liked me.  I figured How-weird was in for a lot more sore
piddy’s once Chandtishe got wind I got fired via answering machine.

I
watched How-weird grit his teeth at Chandtishe and start to limp our way.

“Hey,
Norman, you might want to get lost now,” I whispered at him.

Norman
rocked back on his heels, pulled
his cap down and folded his arms.  “You know, I’ve been thinking,” he said
slowly.  “I’ve been thinking that maybe Betty’s girls are old enough to get their
own jobs.”

I
looked carefully over at Bauser.  He was as wide-eyed as I was.  Jim wagged his
tail back and forth at us all and fell over again.

“Well
if it isn’t the two Losers,” How-weird jeered.  I gulped.  I was already fired
by proxy, which was bad enough.  Now I had to get fired in duplicate? 
Publicly?  Yeeshkabiddle.

“Just
give us our paperwork, Howard, and we’re out of here,” Bauser said.

“We
just came to give you these back,” I said and handed over the envelope with the
insurance papers.  Bauser rolled his eyes at me.  I stared back at him and
shrugged.  What was I supposed to do, eat them?

Howard
snatched the envelope from my hand.  “You’re welcome,” I quipped.  Well… sort
of quipped. Kind of.

“What
have you done with these papers? Nothing! That’s what!” Howard shouted at me,
and that’s when Jim, for the first time ever, growled.  Howard took a step
back.

“Actually,
Mina’s contacted the insurance company, forwarded the accident information, and
you’re due to be inspected by an insurance claims representative any day now,”
Bauser said.

I
looked at Bauser, amazed.  I didn’t know I’d done all that.  Maybe the konk on
the noggin made me more productive?  Not likely.  So I figured Bauser had done
it, since he had worked at EEJIT since Day One.  And I was okay with him
talking to the insurance company and saying he was me, unless he used
falsetto.  “Mind you, an arsonist is at fault.  However, the contract you
signed says that if EEJIT is in non-compliance of just one code requirement,
Mid-Atlantic Liability and Culpability, PLC can default for breach of
contract,” Bauser added.

“Yeah,
sure,” Howard shrugged.

“Which
means they won’t pay a plug nickel,” Bauser explained.

Howard
spluttered.

Norman
chimed in, “Yup, even if the
fire was caused by an arsonist or act of war or terrorism.  Apparently, some
EEJIT representative signed, and continued, a contract with these limitations.”

“Which,
by the way, Howard, was you,” Bauser finished.

I
made to shoot him a worried glance, but held it at bay.  Was he bluffing?  He
certainly was acting very melodramatic movie-like.  But he was still wearing
his shades.

“Ha
ha, Bauser, that’s a good one.  Let’s just see,” Howard smirked, and pulled out
the 4-inch thick tome of contract negotiations between EEJIT, Effhue and Mid-Atlantic
Liability and Culpability, PLC.  I sighed.  We would be standing here for
years.  Even if Howard could read.

“Page
558, paragraph 7, item AAAA.aaaa.iiii.09.iv.aa.4,” Bauser responded
confidently.

Yeesh. 
I guess my concussed head had me knocked out so long that Bauser got bored
enough to read through all this stuff.

“Okay,
well, let’s just see here,” Howard muttered, riffling through the pages.

Norman
peered over his shoulder.  “Page
558 comes after page 555,” he said.  “Here, let me help you.”

So,
for what I guessed was our brief flash of glory, Howard stood there
semi-publicly humiliated with some proverbial egg – a la flaming feces – flung
at him.  Norman read out loud, “Paragraph seven, item AAAA.aaaa.iiii.09.iv.aa.4
clearly states, ‘In the event of any kind of fire, by natural or unnatural
events including arson, war, terrorism or insanity,’ ” (yes, it really said
that – I figured whoever drafted the document had met Howard) “ ‘Mid-Atlantic
Liability and Culpability, Ltd. will hold this contract null and void.  Also,
this contract will be non-negotiable and void upon inspection and proof of
non-compliance of all and any applicable local or national fire and electric
codes.’”

Howard
started sweating.  “So? What does this prove?”

“I’ve
been telling you for six years now that the server room and cooling units don’t
comply with code,” Bauser said.

“Yeah,
well, uh….you never gave me the particulars,” Howard faked.

“Yes
I did, Howard.  I emailed them to you, and copied in Effhue. I’m sure you’ll be
able to find them in your past emails.  I know I’ve kept my copies.” Bauser
smiled.  Which was more than a little disturbing.  Because I had never, ever
seen Bauser smile before.  Not a real toothy smile, anyway.  For the first time
I noticed the very large gap between Bauser’s front teeth.  It was wide enough
to spit through. Ack.

“Heh,
heh, heh, well jokes on me,” Howard said awkwardly.  “Hey, listen, we’ve all
been under a lot of stress lately.  How about I treat you to a nice lunch? 
Say, uh, the Fiesta Flamingo?”

The
Fiesta Flamingo is a sandwich shop that is adored by Lancastrians for serving
really huge Southwest style sandwiches really cheap.  A real big spender move
on Howard’s part.

Bauser
said, “I don’t think so, Howard.  But thanks anyway.” Jeez.  He really did fit
into Lancaster; he was even nice when he was getting the heave-ho.  “How do we
get our termination papers processed?” he asked.  “I mean, normally we’d go to
Mina.  But you fired her, too,” he said.

“Hey,
wait a minute, you know I was only joking.  I panicked,” Howard said.

“I
know.  You panic a lot.”

Howard
stared into Bauser’s mirrored shades for what seemed a long time.  His image
stared right back at him.  “Fine, fine!” he yelled at last, throwing up his
hands.  “I’ve had enough of the Mod Squad anyway.  Just go see Lee.  She’ll
take care of you!”

He
backed up, bumping into Lee.  “Ah! There you are!” he squealed.  “Great!  Just
take care of these losers and process their termination papers,” Howard
shouted, pointing at me and Bauser.  Jim growled again at Howard and barked. 
Howard leapt backward on his stabbed foot, and then hopped off onto his good
one.  I started to think that for my next job interview, I should probably take
Jim along.  He’d be able to sniff out in a few minutes what would probably take
me a few years to figure out about the next crazy boss.

“Of
course, Howard,” Lee said.  “My pleasure.” There was a cruel edge to her
voice.  Clearly, she wasn’t from Lancaster.   “Follow me,” she said over her
shoulder as she started waddling down the corridor.  Bauser and I looked at
each other and shrugged.

“C’mon,
Jim,” Bauser said, and we started to walk away.

“And
where do you think you’re going?” Howard bellowed as Norman followed us.  We
both turned around. Norman stood shaking his head and opening up his backpack.

“Here,”
he said, handing various notebooks, papers and CDs to Howard.  He zipped his
backpack up and started away.

“Hey,
I don’t need you to babysit those two.  I need you to work out the algorithm
faults,” Howard called after him.

Norman
turned around.  “There are no
algorithm faults.  There are data faults.  And no thanks, Howard,” he said.

“This
isn’t a request, moron.  This is a directive!”

Norman
stopped and turned back once
more.  “That’s nice, Howard.  But directives only apply to employees.  I quit,”
he said, and walked toward us, smiling.

This
was scary.  Aside from the obvious, it was more than a few times in just a few
days I’d actually seen Norman not unhappy.

“Dude,
are you out of your mind? You can’t get unemployment if you quit,” Bauser
whispered.

“Maybe
you can un-quit. You know Howard needs you,” I stammered.

“Yeah,
then all you need to do is just screw up on purpose and get him to fire you.
Then you can collect,” Bauser added.

“It’s
okay,” Norman said.  “I never needed their paycheck, anyway.”

“Huh?”

“Look,
besides my Masters in Software Engineering, I’ve actually got a PhD in
Astronautical Engineering.”

Wow.
“Really?”

“Yeah,
I don’t like to talk about it much.  It’s a little embarrassing.”  Bauser and I
looked at him.  “Rocket doctor jokes,” Norman explained.  We nodded.  “So the
work here was pretty interesting, and everyone used to be pretty friendly.  And
it got me out of the house. But after Effhue took over, it seemed like things
just kept spiraling downward, all across the boards.  And without both of you
in the picture, that’s a lot more ugly than I can handle.”  Bauser and I looked
at each other.  I knew we were both wondering if the BB-shot wound had caused
more damage than we’d realized.  Or the Krumpthfs.

“Umm,
dude, that’s cool, but like, what are you going to do to get paid?” Bauser
asked.

“Like
I said,” Norman continued, “I never needed the paycheck.  Haven’t either of you
wondered about my last name?”

“You
mean Mudd?” I asked.

“So?”
Bauser questioned.

“Like
Mudd of the Mudd-Tee teabag.  That TeaWorld, Inc. bought,” Norman finished.

“Isn’t
TeaWorld, Inc. owned by another huge company?” Bauser asked.

Norman
sighed.  “Doesn’t really
matter.  My old man was Manny Mudd.  He was really into food engineering.  One
day he came up with the design for the Mudd-Tee teabag, and made sure to patent
it. ”

“Designer
teabags?” I asked.

Norman
sighed.  “For the design of a
one of a kind teabag.  I found out after he passed away in 1992.  Back then he
was worth over $400,000,000.”

“Four
hundred million dollars?” Bauser gasped, like I’d wanted to.  My mouth worked,
but no sound was coming out.  I get a little speechless when the words
‘hundred’ and ‘million’ are used in the same sentence as ’dollars’.

“Yup. 
Since dad passed away, I’ve never needed my EEJIT paycheck,” Norman added. 
“Mostly I’ve used my EEJIT salary for charitable giving, or the girls’
allowances,” he said.

“Jeez,
you mean you could afford to actually hire someone like Vito to clean and cook
for you?” Bauser asked jealously. 

“Yeah,
I could.  But my wife would kill me.”

Bauser
shook his head.  “Well, I better get processed out of here.  Jim’s Whoof-O dog
food alone definitely needs my unemployment comp,” he said.

I
sighed.  “Agreed,” I said, thinking about my 25-pound mountain lion cat and my
cockatiel’s sometimes freakish calcium dependency.

Norman
shrugged.  “Let’s go,” he said.

We
walked to my old cubicle just in time to find Lee sitting in my chair and
tweezing a hair out of the mole underneath her chin. Bauser, Norman and Jim
collectively cringed backward.  But I thought nothing about it and grabbed for
the bottom file drawer.

“Hey,
what the!” Lee stammered, hastily trying to shove her tweezers and compact
mirror out of sight.

“Under
‘U’ for ‘Unemployment Comp’,” I answered, yanking the drawer open and into her
shin.

“Excuse
me,” Lee yelped, “but these are the papers you need to fill out.” She shoved a
wad of EEJIT bureaucracy at me.

Bauser
grabbed the papers and sorted through.  “There are no Unemployment Compensation
forms in here,” Bauser said.

Lee
smiled. “Oh, they’ll send that to you in the mail.” Bauser looked hard at her. 
She sighed.  “Look, an Unemployment Rep will call you, at about the same time
they send you their papers,” she answered.