Chapter Sixteen
Mike’s non-committal ending to their brief meeting rattled Mary, and she realized she needed to sort out how best to handle this situation while she plotted Cuddy’s downfall. With Adonus and Romulus both home on Sunday morning, Mary headed to church. Mary had found that church was the best place to plot, return calls, and answer e-mails. She also found it a damn good place to paint her nails if she didn’t have time to get to the salon.
Church wasn’t Mary’s idea. Her life coach thought it might provide a necessary avenue to rebuild some of the glamour Mary had lost in her battle with Cuddy. Her coach was certain Mary could win the Parishioner of the Year award, if she lobbied hard and wore a skimpy bikini top to mass. Mary was hesitant, until she realized that with twelve months prepaid church dues she had her choice of a designer bible with gilt cover, or pink handled revolver with a mother of pearl cross inlaid on the handle. She chose the revolver. It’s what Jesus would have done.
As Mary sat plotting in the front pew it became clear to her that she needed to end Cuddy’s blight on the earth. The nose picking incident cost her dearly in the glamour department, and she was itching for payback. No more screwing around. First, she would remove the last vestiges of computer support and drown his staff in manual labor. She’d make him beg for a new system. Second, she’d make certain to park in the spot nearest Doug and send the subliminal message she should be the next CEO. “Christ,” she thought, ironically, as she never thought about religion when she was in church, “she’d kill his career if she could pull this off. Who would promote a bumble that couldn’t put things in boxes, or parked in the wrong spot?”
With her plan now before her, Mary called Shap at his home. The preacher was mid-sermon, but that wasn’t her concern and she spoke in her cell phone voice. The congregation, preacher, and chorus shared in her half of the conversation. “Shap! I need you at the fucking office.”
“It’s my daughter’s birthday. It’s Sunday. We’re going to have a birthday party,” Shap answered, already resigned that his argument wouldn’t sway Mary and he’d end up at the office in the very near future.
Rising slightly from the seated position to better use her abdominal muscles to raise her voice, Mary shouted into the phone, “I don’t give a fuck if you ride the short bus sitting next to a kid in a hockey helmet licking the window. Get your ass to the office. It’s not my problem.” Returning to a seated position Mary adjusted her bikini top and retied the string behind her neck.
“It’s my daughter’s birthday, it’s Sunday,” Shap pleaded, a last ditch effort.
“Shap, I swear to fucking God I will beat you like a red-headed step child. Do not give me cause.” With that she hung up, set the phone in her pocketbook, and began filing her nails.
“Watch my coffee you Goddamn klutz,” she barked as her pew mate’s child moved to kneel and pray. Looking around, Mary realized almost all the parishioners were glaring at her. Many of whom held their mouths open in shock. With all eyes on her, Mary was certain she was a shoe-in for Parishioner of the Year award and quickly reached for her lipstick and compact.
Among the reasons Mary might not garner all the votes she expected from her fellow church goers in her pursuit of the award, her prolific use of the finger was sure to be cited. Twice, she’d given the preacher the finger while peeling out of the church parking lot. She didn’t realize who it was until after she’d driven past him. “Who the hell stands in the middle of a parking lot waving to people?” she’d asked herself as she swerved to miss hitting him while screaming, “Dumb ass,” out the window. She also thought most of these Sunday pansies drove their minivans way too slow. Time and again, she’d been forced to pass on the shoulder, or weave through traffic. She wasn’t shy about a little confrontation with another in her flock if it meant she’d make the light. Or, at least be the first in line at the intersection.
Shap borrowed his daughter’s bike and rode the ten miles to the office. He couldn’t risk another encounter with the law, plus his wife had the family car and she wouldn’t be home for a couple of hours. The bike was a pink sting ray with three speeds and a flowery basket on the handlebars. He placed his briefcase into the basket and began pedaling. His knees came above his chin each revolution of the crank, but he forced himself to clear his thoughts and keep a positive attitude. He focused on his gratitude at not being unemployed in Detroit. An hour later he walked into Mary’s office to find her skirt pushed well above her knees, and Mary bitching about sliding off her chair. It was clear Mary was in a foul mood and the atmosphere toxic.
“What the fuck happened to your head?”
“Cuddy shot me with a dart gun.”
“He fucking what?” Mary jumped up, excited at the possibility of legal recourse. As she stood she adjusted her skirt and panty hose.
“Shot me in the head with a dart gun. Said Doug dared him to do it.”
“Did you take this to Doug?” Mary asked as she returned to her seat.
“Doug laughed, and said Cuddy showed him the dart gun. He said he didn’t realize Cuddy was serious, but that it was a pretty damn good shot and I should appreciate fine marksmanship.”
Mary leaned forward; excited that something this common might prove to be Cuddy’s end. “We’re taking this to Legal. We will sue his ass and have his balls forcibly removed.” Her shift in posture slid her bottom toward the front of the chair, and she quietly mumbled, “Fuck,” while readjusting herself. She stood and again smoothed her skirt.
“I have no witnesses. He’ll claim I walked into crown molding, or some damn thing.”
“Crown molding? Do you know what crown molding is?” she asked. “What did you do when he shot you?”
“Nothing at the time, it hurt like a son of a bitch. But after he left, I pissed all over his desk and a little on his chair.”
“Nice. Well played. I’ve pissed in there many a time myself to mark my fucking turf.” Mary nodded approvingly and sat back down. “Look, I know for a fact Cuddy is plotting to send you back to India, and castrate me.”
“India? I’ve never been to India in my life. You understand I’m Native American? I’m feathers not dots. Born and raised in Detroit. My family’s been here a thousand years longer than Cuddy’s. How do you know?” He nimbly avoided commenting on the planned castration, while his mind worked overtime and subconsciously blocked her urination comment.
“I fucking heard him screaming his plans to Mike. You think he has a modicum of common sense? You think he shuts his door when he plots? Fuck no! He is an idiot. The only part of his plan I didn’t hear was whatever he’s schemed with Wayne. That mixer he straps himself to was starting to strain and I couldn’t hear him over the ball bearings coming to the end of their life,” She grew hysterical as she jumped from her chair a third time to undo the wedgie and smooth her skirt back into place. “This fucking chair sucks!” Cuddy’s plan to tilt the seat of Mary’s office chair downward, like a slide, was working.
Standing and picking the hose and its tangled mess out of her backside, she looked up and found herself surprised to see Cuddy and Wayne staring at her from the doorway shaking their heads in disgust. “It’s the curse. You done got the curse!” Cuddy pointed at Mary as she picked at her rear end. Wayne started to giggle, Cuddy followed suit, and both ran off like little school girls before Mary could respond.
Mary walked to her door and slammed it shut, then, angrier than before, laid out her plans, “I want Cuddy’s team working off pencils and paper. All the systems are to come off line and you’re going to show me what needs to be unplugged. I want his sorry, sack of shit, worker bees here night and day filling orders.” As she sat back down she nearly slid off her chair. Mary caught herself on the chair’s armrests, just before she fell onto the carpet. “Fuck!” She again stood to push her skirt back to its rightful position, and undo gravity’s relentless reign on her undergarments.
r /> “Mary the computer system is built. You just need sign-off. The only function it doesn’t have is pet tracking, and no one can explain what this is. It enrolls patients, sets up their orders, tracks shipment, collects data for pharma and handles billing and payment.” Shap counted on his fingers as he listed all the work that had been completed. “It does everything. Doug and Cuddy have no idea what’s been built. That’s the problem! There’s nothing left to build.” Shap grew anxious thinking of the year he’d wasted on the cursed project, and repeated himself, “The IT project is complete. It’s finished. It’s done. There is nothing left to do!”
Mary waved her hand dismissively. “That’s not important. I don’t give a fuck what’s built or not built. What’s important is Cuddy surrender, and to make that happen he needs to be beaten. And not just beaten, but humiliated, shamed, and made to grovel. Now show me what needs to be unplugged.”
Shap knew nothing could be done. A few weeks ago it occurred to him that perhaps he’d simply been misunderstood, and Doug and company didn’t understand all that was needed was their sign-off to take the computer system live. For weeks he’d tried to get on Cuddy’s calendar, but Cuddy categorically denied his meeting requests. He tried Mary, but she too declined his invitations. This was the first time Mary was even willing to broach the subject. When he tried to reach Doug, the number listed in the directory went unanswered and his e-mails bounced back.
Defeated, Shap led Mary to the computer room and unlocked the door. Inside the small room sat a couple of servers, fans whirling to keep them at the appropriate temperature. Shap pointed guiltily at a server a couple feet from where they stood.
Mary pointed to confirm and then walked to the machine. As she sang, “Momma had a baby and her head popped off,” Mary unplugged the server and violently tore the three pronged plug from the power cord. The frayed wire fell to the floor, and she pocketed the plug. The fan quickly stopped spinning, and G.O.D. no longer ran on computers.