Horse's Ass

  Chapter Thirty

  With only a few weeks before the Board Meeting at which Mike, Cuddy, and Mary, were to present their results, Shap called Mike to ask for his help in working out a détente between the warring parties. It was pretty clear to Shap that he, along with Cuddy, Mary, and Mike, were going to lose their jobs if they didn’t finish the tasks Doug assigned. Without computers, it was obvious the system project remained incomplete. No computers also meant there were no reports, so no one knew whether Cuddy’s plan to drive productivity, by forcing the consumption of office supplies, was working, or where they stood against bad debt. G.O.D. had not produced a financial report since Mary castrated the computer.

  Regardless of the pending consequences, Mary and Cuddy were making no effort to work together, and as always Mike remained clueless. Having grown up in Detroit, Shap was well versed in unemployment, and with the economy in its current state he knew it could be years before he found another job. As unrewarding and degrading as he found working for G.O.D., he wanted to avoid being fired. Mike answered on the first ring.

  “Mike, you must be the change you wish to see.”

  “Shap?” Mike asked concerned he might have been caught playing on the Internet. He quickly checked behind him to make certain no one was watching him fritter the morning away, and then closed out of Facebook. From his desk he pulled a yo-yo and began to play quietly.

  “Peace is a very complicated concept. All I am saying is let’s give peace a chance. When the rich wage war, the poor die. We’ve got to resolve this war between Cuddy and Mary before we are all fired. Seek me on four, in the southeast corner.”

  “Wait. Aren’t you on the sixth floor? You want me to come down? You’re not making a lot of sense. We’re all going to get fired? Why are we all getting fired?” Mike began to panic that his senior management run might be coming to a close.

  “It’s far out man. Cuddy had Wayne move me back to four. He’s hell bent on figuring out who keeps pissing all over his office so he’s rotating people on and off of six. He’s trying to solve the problem by process of elimination, so to speak.”

  “I didn’t realize someone was pissing all over his office, but that goes a long way towards explaining that weird smell. I’ll be right there.” The thought of continuing to live in his parent’s basement, absent income and sex, while driving the Yugo, was more than Mike could endure, and he agreed to meet, even if it meant he might be asked to do something.

  “Groovy,” Shap ended the call.

  Stepping off the elevator, Mike was taken by how different the fourth floor was. There were no computers and the office supplies that hindered passage for the last ten months, or so, were down to a few neatly stacked boxes in the corner. The click clack of typewriters echoed down the halls. From a turntable and speakers in the corner, the psychedelic, bluesy, stoner rock of Robin Trower boomed. The atmosphere was smoky from the stick incense that burned within a half dozen glasses liberated from the cafeteria. Much of the staff was wearing bandana headbands, bell bottom jeans, and jean jackets. At the end of the hallway, an employee fed a stack of computer punch cards into a card reader.

  “Christ,” Mike thought, “it’s 1969 down here.”

  A couple of employees walked by Mike, and as they passed they asked Mike, “Can you dig it?”

  “Dig it!” Mike answered. Turning to watch them walk away, Mike noticed the taller of the two had a giant pink comb in his back pocket. Both wore their hair in huge afros.

  Orienting himself after exiting the elevator, Mike turned and began walking toward Shap’s office. As he passed a large conference room two young customer reps, a guy and gal, opened the door unexpectedly and stumbled into the hall. Her hair was mussed, blouse unbuttoned a button beyond business casual, and her bra looked undone. She was wearing hot pants and go-go boots. He looked slightly catatonic, and the smell of sex on the two was pronounced. Seeing Mike the guy nodded coyly, and reached back to flip the vacancy sign to vacant. Turning around the guy swatted the girl on the ass, and then chased her down the hall. Both giggled as they ran.

  As Mike watched the late morning lovers run down the hall, three guys walked toward the now vacant room. Mike wouldn’t testify in court, but he was pretty certain the guy at the tail of the group was hiding a bong under his coat. The guy that maybe had a bong entered the room last, flipped the sign to occupied, and closed the door. Mike was not aware of the new incentive program Nels had dreamed up: Stoners & Boners.

  Moving past the conference room Mike found Shap’s office in the southeast corner and knocked on the door frame. The door had been removed and in its place hung a row of light reflecting glass beads. Shap was holed up and sitting cross legged on the floor in a lotus position, a sitar in his lap. His hands rested comfortably on the inside of his knees, palms up. Shap’s eyes were closed, and he didn’t stir when Mike knocked.

  Mike knocked again. At the second knock Shap opened his eyes and nodded slowly. The office was barely lit. In the darkness, Mike saw a girl’s sting ray bike in the corner. On Shap’s desk sat a brass Buddha, next to which burned several incense cones which filled the office with hazy, strawberry scented smoke. The walls were decorated with black light posters, two of which Mike recognized from his childhood; a hippie caterpillar on a mushroom, and Bruce Lee Enter the Dragon. On the bookshelf a lava lamp bubbled and bathed the room in a red hue. Not certain if Shap was stoned, or exiting a dream, Mike asked, “Shap, may I come in?”

  “Enter my brother.”

  “What are you doing on the floor?”

  “Seeking calm in a storm,” Shap answered enigmatically.

  “Are you stoned?”

  “No Mike, but as a top performer I could be.”

  “What’s going on? What’s happened to the fourth floor?”

  Shap answered as if he’d been preparing for the question. “When Mary killed the computers it led to a more primal state. A de-evolution, if you will. Without the computers, nobody could play their music. To right that wrong, Nels dragged in an old turntable and set of speakers along with a couple of milk crates jammed with vinyl LPs. About a week after the music started Wilma dropped off a couple boxes of incense she found in her mother’s garage. I guess her mom and dad used to run an old head shop. Soon after, everyone piled on and started shopping at vintage retail shops. I’m not sure where all the black light posters came from or the lava lamps. They were here when Wayne moved me in.” Shap set the sitar down, leaned to his right and lit another cone of incense. “Our working conditions influence who we are, and what we become.”

  The obvious suddenly dawned on Mike, “It’s like 1969. You’ve become a hippie! Oh my god, you’re a hippie!”

  “Down here we’re all hippies, man.”

  “What happened to the computers?”

  “In an effort to force Cuddy’s surrender Mary tore the plug from the server’s cord rendering the computers useless,” Shap answered, not fully out of his dream state. “The computers housed the customers, prescriptions, financials, reports, and clinical data. You probably don’t remember, being a busy executive, but a couple months ago you signed a purchase order for a few thousand gross of punch cards and a punch card reader. It was for about five grand. Today, we manage our business with punch cards.”

  Mike remembered. Other than read the neatly summarized totals on a series of reports when he first became CFO, it was the only thing he’d done since replacing Alan.

  “Punch cards? The punch cards they used for programming in the seventies?”

  “The same. It’s extremely and surprisingly effective. Operations have it down to a science. They publish an updated guide every other day that lists the patients needing medication and the data we need to collect to provide pharma. As they work the service reps punch the data into the card. No programming is required, no business requirements, no testing, and no test cases. They simply list the questions, and the rep
s punch out the appropriate chads on the card when they talk to the patients or doctors. At day’s end we load the cards into the card reader and print the reports we need for the next day.”

  Mike stood in wonder at the simplicity of their solution. “Why are we spending millions on a computer system when we can manage the business on a few thousand dollars worth of punch cards and card readers?”

  “I’m not blessed with an executive mind. I don’t know. Anyway, that’s beside the point. This battle between Cuddy and Mary is going to cost us all our jobs. We’ve got to figure out a compromise that gets Mary what she wants, Cuddy what he wants, and lets us go back to our normal day to day. Or at least as normal as it will ever be around here. Doug’s not a bluffer. He will fire us to save his ass.”

  “What does everyone want?” Mike asked. He was clueless, and growing concerned Shap expected his insight.

  Shap explained the obvious, “Mary wants Cuddy to quit hiring ugly sales reps. She also needs him to sign-off on the computer system. She’s sick of seeing embarrassing shots of her on the monitors. And crazy pissed about the thumbs on her French gloves. She wants them back.”

  “Cuddy s convinced if he signs off on the system Mary will become the next CEO. She already parks right next to Doug.” Mike objected.

  “Doug’s not going anywhere, he owes the IRS millions. He’ll be here forever, or, on the off chance the stock price rises, Cuddy has enough options and he can retire. We must switch Human Resources and Information Technology and restore balance.” Shap shivered at the idea he expressed next. “I must face my karma and go back to working for Cuddy. Then, maybe, he’ll stop hazing me. Mary can work with HR to hire who she wants. Cuddy doesn’t have any open positions he’s trying to fill, he only wants HR to bust Mary’s balls. With IT under Cuddy’s control he’ll sign-off on the system, and that’ll keep Mary from getting full credit. If they split the credit neither will change their position for the top spot.”

  Mike shook his head implying it wouldn’t work. “He won’t sign-off until it manages customer pets, and I don’t think anyone is going to fund the do-over. Customer pets are the wave of the future. “The ridiculousness of the requirement was lost on Mike.

  “I talked to the junior consultant. The former high school intern, who looks like he stays out all night partying. He’s the one who recommended changing the company’s name and holding the holiday parties. He also installed The Hand Job. Anyway, he said customer debts, not pets. The system already does that. It tracks patient receivables. I told him to talk to Doug and tell him that he meant debt, not pet. The IT project is done. It was done when Doug refused to sign-off. It’s been done for over a year.”

  Mike smiled at the possibility Shap had solved what seemed an insurmountable problem. “You called because you needed my insight into the business problem, and my help convincing Mary and Cuddy?”

  “No.” Shap was well aware Mike was absent any influential powers and not exceptionally bright. “What I really need is a ride. This meeting must be offsite. Anything in the building is going to foster their posturing and will never get this conflict resolved.” Pointing at his daughter’s bike in the corner Shap explained, “Situations beyond my control have forced me to embrace alternative transportation. I’ve booked a lunch reservation at Bistro de Champagne, the spendy French bistro downtown. Cuddy’s not known for a discriminating palate, and if it’s expensive and French Mary will be sure to attend.”

  Mike wrung his heads together, excited at finally having something of value to do at work. He also hoped this would tip the scales in his favor at his annual review. Wikipedia did not mention car service as a standard job responsibility of the CFO, and he felt he should receive extra compensation for going above and beyond the call of duty.

  Shap extended his hand and Mike pulled him to a standing position. Mike noticed Shap’s head was covered in perfectly spherical purple splotches. Mike pointed quizzically at Shap’s head. Shap shook his head no. He didn’t want to discuss whatever events had led to his spotted appearance. To change the topic Shap moved to the second reason he’d called Mike. He wanted Mike to type up the terms of the treaty.

  Mike squirmed at the thought of work and accountability. “You want me to type the treaty? How long is it? Do CFOs do a lot of clerical work?” As enthusiastic as Mike was moments ago at having something of value to do at work, he quickly reconsidered his position; it might simply be better to hang around, learn French, and play with his yo-yo.

  Handing Mike a single page of neatly hand written notes, Shap answered, “It’s a page. Don’t think, just type. CFOs do that all the time. It’ll take you five minutes. And take this typewriter, you’ll need it. The computers don’t work.” Shap told Mike he’d stop by after he met with Mary and Cuddy, and confirm they were willing to meet for lunch. He’d also let Mike know if there were any last minute changes to the treaty.

  Mike headed back to the staircase, typewriter under his arm. As he walked, he considered the demands he’d make on G.O.D. Carrying a typewriter was also clearly outside his job description. On the way he passed the Stoner & Boners conference room. The pungent smell of pot hung in the air, yet the three employees Mike had passed earlier were nowhere to be seen.

  Looking in the room, Mike noticed the conference table and chairs were missing. In their place sat a cluster of large bean bag chairs and oversized pillows. On the white board, “Whatchoo talkin' 'bout Willis?” was asked in rainbow letters. It looked as if someone had held a stack of markers in one hand when they wrote. On the wall farthest the door someone had written on the paper easel in bold strokes with purple ink, “Stoners & Boners is a privilege, clean up your mess.” Crossed out were the alternate endings the author had considered, including; Clean up after you; Clean up after yourselves; and, Wipe up whatever you get on the carpet. Given a say in the matter, Mike would have definitely gone with alternate ending number three: Clean up whatever you get on the carpet.

  Mike walked up the two sets of stairs to his floor and re-entered the calm atmosphere of the executive floor. Exiting the staircase, he elected to walk the long way around the floor to avoid Mary’s office. He then cut through the pantry to hide from Doug, who was running toward the elevator dribbling a basketball. Per their agreement, it was Shap’s job to corral Cuddy and Mary and get them to the lunch. Mike would focus on driving to the meeting and typing the treaty. With Doug gone, Mike resumed his journey only to find himself quickly ducking into an open office to hide from Cuddy, who ran by, low to the ground, on his way to the vending machine.

  At about the time Mike was entering his office, Shap paused a couple dozen feet from Cuddy’s door. Shap braced himself as he summoned the courage necessary to approach the pig man in his sty. As he steeled his nerves, his nose wrinkled like a rabbit, his right eye scrunched, and his tongue stuck out the side of his mouth. Shap proceeded, only to find Cuddy’s office door closed. This was unfortunate. Shap was hoping for an informal interaction. Shap knocked.

  “Hold your britches. I’m putting my pants on.”

  Shap stood quietly in the hall. While he waited, his face involuntarily and spasmodically contorted and he tried not to lose his nerve. It was in Shap’s best interest to give Cuddy whatever time he needed. A couple minutes later, the door flew open and Cuddy’s enormous head filled the doorway; a pink Good & Plenty stuck to the side of his head. The office reeked of urine, and behind Cuddy the Health Builder clinked and popped as the bearings cooled.

  “Get in here Injun, no sense standing in the hall like a dolt.” As he spoke, Cuddy stepped behind his desk, flopped into his chair, and propped his feet up on his desk. “Let the little piggies breathe. Now what do you want, boy?”

  Cuddy didn’t invite him to sit so Shap stood. As Shap tried to decide the best approach to get Cuddy to lunch he struggled for focus. Cuddy’s socks were riddled with holes, from which his toes protruded. Han
ging from the wall behind Cuddy was a stuffed pug. The dog was strangely deformed and looked to be the canine equivalent of a pressed rose. The dog gazed skyward; its last moments captured forever in a terrified look of shock and awe on the little mug. Shap assumed it was the pug from the party and with that in mind laid out why he’d knocked on Cuddy’s door, “Cuddy we need you and Mary to enter a truce. We’re all going to lose our jobs if we don’t deliver on Doug’s directives.”

  Spinning quickly around, feet now off the desk, Cuddy pointed at the pancaked version of man’s best friend. Tears began to fall from his eyes. “She killed my best friend. She murdered Pugsly.”

  “Cuddy, you and I both know you landed on the dog.”

  “She made me do it.”

  “We’re not bringing the dog back. He’s in a better place.”

  “Pugsly,” Cuddy corrected.

  “We’re not bringing Pugsly back,” Shap restated. “But I can guarantee it’s a tough job market, and none of us will be the richer if we’re fired.”

  Between the restaurant tab, QVC channel, mortgage on the McMansion, and his and hers matching Escalades, Cuddy struggled to make ends meet. Cuddy turned to face Shap, “What are you proposing, boy?” He returned his feet to his desk and waited Shap’s answer.

  “You, Mary, and I, meet for lunch and work this out. I’m typing up the terms of the treaty. You and Mary read and agree to the terms, and we spend the next few weeks completing the goals Doug outlined.”

  “No way I’m having lunch with that murderer.”

  “We’ll pay for your lunch.”

  “You’ll pay? I want two lunches.”

  “Fine, you can have two lunches.”

  “I want my priceless holiday sweater cleaned.”

  “Bring in the receipt and we’ll pay for that too.”

  “This is the office of the COO, not a public restroom. I want whoever is pissing in my office to stop.” Cuddy’s eyes again welled with tears. As Cuddy fought to keep from crying, Shap realized the pink hockey pucks stacked in the corners of the office were urinal cakes.

  “I’ll see what can be done about the urination.”

  “Alright, I’ll meet. Where and when?”

  “One pm sharp. It’s on Lincoln Avenue. The restaurant is called Bistro de Champagne. I’ll ask Wilma to give you a map.” Relieved that Cuddy had agreed, Shap turned about face and quickly left Cuddy’s office. In the hallway Shap ducked his head and ran to minimize the chance of being shot with the dart gun. A dart whizzed by and missed him by inches.

  Shap caught Wilma at her desk filing her nails. “Can you print out and give Cuddy the directions to Bistro de Champagne? We’re meeting for lunch.” Shap looked behind him, nervous another dart was soon to follow.

  Wilma frowned cautiously, “The computers don’t work, but I can e-mail his Blackberry with the directions from my iPhone. I’m not going into his office. I keep catching him in his tighty-whities, and it smells so nasty in there. I don’t make the kind of money that warrants intimacy with Cuddy. For Christ’s sake, I stapled the crotch of his pants.” She balled her fist and pressed it tightly to her mouth. “Have mercy,” she begged.

  “Okay, e-mail him. But, call to make sure he knows how to open the e-mail. Maybe you could hand write the directions and throw them into his office as a paper airplane?”

  “I’ll do my best, but I’m not walking to the door if the plane doesn’t make it.”

  “Deal.”

  Having secured Cuddy’s commitment to engage in peace talks, Shap decided to check on Mike. History had shown that Mike overpromised and under delivered, and Shap wanted to make certain the treaty was typed and ready for signature. As Shap had guessed Mike sat staring out the window, mindlessly playing with a paddle ball, and muttering French phrases. The handwritten treaty sat in the corner of Mike’s desk, as did the unused typewriter.

  “Mike, how is the typing of the treaty going?”

  “Excellent, I’m getting right on it.”

  “That needs to be ready when we leave, and you need to add a clause outlining the cessation of urination in Cuddy’s office.” Mike looked perplexed not understanding Shap’s directions. Shap wrote the specifics down and then drew a line with an arrow indicating where this clause should appear in the final document. “I’ll let you know if anything comes out of the meeting with Mary as well.”

  Shap left Mike’s office and walked down the hall to Mary’s office. He found Mary sitting at her desk, thumbing through a fashion magazine. Shap knocked on the door, and Mary looked up, clearly perturbed at the interruption. “What the fuck do you want? I’m in the middle of something.”

  Shap explained his proposal to which Mary responded with a litany of curse words, the most frequent of which was her much loved F-bomb. At the end of her tirade Mary agreed. She didn’t want to wait for the passing of Adonus’s parent’s before she upgraded the bengal for an actual African wild cat. Her participation, however, came with three conditions.

  Mary leaned forward in her seat and poked Shap hard in the chest, a stabbing jab from her index finger, “First, I’m not buying Cuddy’s lunch. I’ll be no party to the continued fattening of America. “Second,” she jabbed Shap again as she wriggled to keep from sliding off the front of her chair, “I’m not sitting across from the human garbage disposal.” Then, poking him a third time, she poured on the demands, “I want the Goddamn thumbs of my gloves returned. I don’t want to be on the corporate TV unless I approve it, and,” having slid to the front of her seat and about to fall to the ground, Mary jumped up to untangle her pantyhose and left her unfinished sentence hanging in the air, “I want my fucking chair fixed!”

  Shap left Mary’s office rubbing his chest and returned to check on Mike. Everything was as before with the treaty still waiting to be typed. “Mike this needs to be ready when we leave and you need to add some clauses for Mary.”

  Mike looked nervous at the change in scope. “A lot more typing? Christ almighty Shap you’re becoming a taskmaster. I don’t know if I can get all this done in time.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll write everything down.” Shap wrote down the specifics and drew a line with an arrow indicating where they should appear in the final document. “Call me in fifteen minutes and we’ll sort out the drive downtown.” Shap left Mike’s office, concerned the treaty wouldn’t be typed in time for the meeting.

  A little after eleven, Mike sat on the corner of his desk and dialed Shap. He was anxious to leave the office, and planning to go directly home after lunch. The sooner he finished lunch, the sooner he’d be in front of the TV in his parent’s basement. On the third ring Shap picked up, “Shap, why do you always answer on the third ring?”

  “The first ring could be a wrong number. The second ring tells me that the phone is likely for me and I rise from the lotus position. At the third ring I reach the phone,” Shap answered languorously, his persona again influenced by the working conditions on the fourth floor.

  “My car isn’t safe above forty miles an hour and we’ve got to drive downtown so we need to leave ASAP.”

  “Five minutes, man. Right on,” Shap confirmed.

  Realizing he’d forgotten to type up the treaty, and with only a few minutes before he’d need to meet Shap in the lobby, Mike found himself cornered like a rat and forced to perform. He yelled for Wilma. She joined him in his office, sat in his chair, and typed the charter that would establish peace in the hallowed halls of corporate America. As she typed Mike stood idly by and played with his paddle ball. When she finished typing, Mike tore the page from the typewriter and shoved it into his briefcase. Bag in hand he then ran to the stairway and down the stairs.

  Mike exited the bottom of the stairwell to find Shap in the middle of the lobby with one hand balancing his daughter’s pink stingray, the other holding his computer bag. Shap rang the little pink bell on the bike’s handlebars absent mindedly. At Mike’s approach, Sh
ap asked if there was room for the bike.

  “Yeah, no problem.” If it was an adult’s bike it’d never fit, but Mike figured the kid’s bike could sit in the Yugo’s diminutive hatchback, or it could sit half in the hatchback and half out the back window.

  Leaving the building Mike exited through the revolving doors. Right behind him Shap hit the handicap button for the side door and wheeled out the bike. They quickly walked to Mike’s car. They wouldn’t get a second chance at brokering peace in time to complete the goals they’d been given. Upon reaching Mike’s car it took a couple minutes of fumbling, but they were able to wedge the bike half in the car. The handlebars and basket rested on the outside of the hatchback door. With the bike taking up the back, Shap sat in the passenger seat and set the computer bag on his lap. With no other option, Mike gave Shap his bag as well. Squished beneath both bags, Shap could hardly be seen.

  Mike started the car and was about to shift into drive when he placed his hand on Shap’s forearm, “Shap, let us pray before we undertake highway travel.”

  Shap wasn’t particularly religious, but understood the importance of prayer in conjunction with the daily commute. Shap often prayed before he drove given his repeated encounters with the law, and nodded his head affirmatively.

  The car idled roughly as Mike prayed, “Dear Gods above please allow this soviet era terra-plane, assembled by workers likely held at gunpoint, to grant safe travels.”

  Shap closed the prayer, “Amen.”

  Mike stepped on the accelerator, the car sputtered forward, and they began the long dangerous journey downtown. As they pulled from the lot Mike told Shap if he could spare a hand they could accelerate to forty miles per hour, but he needed him to help push the windshield outwards to keep it in place. Given the state of affairs Shap felt it a reasonable request and pressed his left hand to the windshield. Working together they sped to a heady forty two miles per hour. Driving down the highway, half in the right lane and half on the shoulder with the hazard lights flashing while their hands pinned the windshield in place, they finally reached their exit and pulled from the highway. At the tail of the exit Mike stopped for the red light, looked over at Shap, and commented how well the drive had gone.

  Shap looked to be in shock. Mike’s repeated exposure had acclimatized him to highway travel in the Yugo. Shap wasn’t used to the horns, obscene gestures, and profanity, aimed at those that impede progress on the nation’s highway system. Most disturbing to Shap were the drivers of minivans. The blue-green Dodge Caravan, from which all three blonde hair, blue eyed toddlers, the mom and grandmother, gave them the finger burned in Shap’s mind. He’d have loved to have returned fire and given them the finger back, but keeping the windshield in place and briefcases from blowing out the back window required both hands.

  Mike’s prayer worked, granting safe passage on the highway. At the light, however, the car would not budge. Horns began to blare, and Mike stepped from the car to open the hood and begin the diagnostic process. The engine didn’t appear to have anything wrong; at least nothing was on fire and it hadn’t fallen from the car. He jiggled a few wires and returned to the driver’s seat. The car would not move.

  Shap pointed at the fuel gauge: Empty. Mike addressed the Yugo’s issues in the order with which they were likely to kill him and at the bottom of the long list he’d overlooked the obvious. They had about three miles to go and it was twenty minutes before the appointed time at which they’d agreed to meet. There was no way Cuddy and Mary would hang around waiting for them.

  Shap looked at Mike, “Let us take the bike.”

  Mike nodded his concurrence. It really was the only option.

  With the Yugo now pushed onto the shoulder, Shap and Mike, dressed in nearly identical dark pinstripe suits with red ties and white shirts, straddled the pink stingray bike. Shap asked for Mike’s participation in prayer and spoke solemnly for the second time that day to the Gods, “Dear Gods we thank you for our safe travels to date, and beseech of you continued safe travels.”

  Mike shouted fervently at the blue sky, “We beseech you!” then sat on the banana seat and leaned against the sissy bar.

  Shap stood to pedal. As Shap pedaled, Mike’s legs stuck out to either side of the bike in an inverted V to keep his feet from dragging on the ground. Shap rocked the bike back and forth as he pedaled, accelerating slowly, and clearing the sidewalk of all pedestrians. Mike flipped his tie over his shoulder and it trailed behind and flapped in the wind.

  Almost twenty minutes later Shap skidded to a stop in front of the restaurant’s main entrance. A busy lunch spot, their arrival caused a lull in conversation from the large group standing on the sidewalk waiting to be seated. It wasn’t everyday two men in matching business suits arrived at an expensive French restaurant on a girl’s pink bike. Before Shap could explain to the crowd what was going on, Cuddy and Mary approached. They eyed each other cautiously and Cuddy reached forward to shake her hand.

  As Cuddy extended his hand to Mary, he noticed that she was looking at his behind. Thinking her look of disgust a question, Cuddy explained what was going on. “The curse is killing me, I been itching like a sum bitch. I didn’t face this demon before I nearly died on the golf course. Gift of life appears to be the gift of a scratchy bung hole.” Of late, and in arguably his least flattering move to date, Cuddy had begun to strap an inflatable, tartan patterned, hemorrhoid donut to the back of his pants as a means of managing whatever bottom troubles his large carcass had succumbed to on the golf course.

  Mary couldn’t believe she was touching his hand without a latex glove. Her discomfort caused her to squeeze tighter than normal, and she heard bones pop in Cuddy’s hand. Cuddy’s head turned bright red.

  Shap ushered them inside. It was necessary to keep the momentum in these types of situations. At the reservations desk the maître d’ looked suspiciously at the strange group. Shap spoke quickly, “We have a reservation for four, at one pm. The first name is Shap.”

  The maitre d’ slowly ran his finger down the spiraled register, and tapped the book twice when he found Shap’s name midway down the page. Realizing passage through the crowded restaurant likely to be problematic the maitre d asked, in a snooty French accent, “Monsieur would you like to check your inflatable donut?”

  “Hell no, boy! It isn’t for pleasure. I got the curse.” Cuddy had taken an instant dislike to the maitre d. He looked suspiciously like the man at Doug’s holiday party who had worked the dining station that killed his beloved Pugsly. That man, who might be this man, was already listed in Cuddy’s, Mighty List of Slights.

  “I see.” The maitre d’ held his hand up, palm facing Cuddy to discourage further elaboration. He then turned to Shap, his eyes drawn to the purple circles that adorned Shap’s head, “Sir, would you like to check the child’s bicycle?” Shap didn’t have a lock and had brought the bicycle into the crowded restaurant with him, jostling patrons from his path.

  “Yes, please.”

  The bike safely stowed in the coat room, claim check in hand, Mike, Shap, Mary, and Cuddy, followed the maitre d to their table. As Cuddy waddled his donut bounced off the backs of those dining, knocking food from forks and spilling drink from glasses. As they went all eyes fell on this motley crew, and conversation ceased.

  As previously agreed Cuddy, Mary, and Mike, sat on the same side of the table with Mike between the warring parties. Shap sat directly across from Mike. When all were seated the waiter approached, introduced himself, doled out the menus, and explained the daily specials.

  Menu in hand, Mary ordered quickly. She planned to make this lunch as quick and painless as possible. “I’ll have a croquet madame, without the egg.”

  “Tres bien. Un croquet monsieur,” the waiter politely corrected.

  Mary dropped the menu loudly on the table. “What the fuck do I look like? A man?” She grabbed her tits and squeezed them at the now mortified waiter. ?
??You see these funbags, dickhead?”

  “Pardon madame“, the waiter whispered urgently, hoping to avoid any escalation of the misunderstanding. “The croquet monsieur is the same sandwich as the croquet madame absent the egg.”

  Mary wasn’t finished, “And don’t go sticking your dick in my mashed potatoes, or French fries or any of my Goddamn food for that matter.” At this point all conversation in the restaurant ground to a halt. With all eyes focused on Mary she pulled her lipstick and compact from her purse. As she applied her lipstick she smiled at herself in the small round mirror, thrilled to be the center of attention.

  Mike knew better than to demean the wait staff. Whatever went in your mouth was in their immediate control. Year’s before Mike had been fired from a bartending stint at Captain Parrots, a cheesy chain that catered to suburbanites visiting downtown Chicago. The faux Caribbean bar looped Jimmy Buffet and showcased an upside down margarita. Mike had been the bartender on duty when a group of rowdy twenty something young professionals began giving him shit for not having a real job. The protagonist wouldn’t let it go and to get them off his back Mike offered the group free upside down margaritas. The group lined up in sets of two and sat side by side in matching barber chairs. With the chairs fully reclined, and their heads slightly below horizontal, Mike draped a large white towel over their eyes to protect them from the concoction he would mix directly into their mouths. Blinded, and with their mouth wide open, Mike poured tequila, a fruit juice mix, a splash of salt, and a squeezed lime into their mouth.

  The odd numbered group ended with the protagonist as the last to go. By this time a large group had formed to watch. In the chair, eyes covered with a towel and mouth open like a baby bird, sat the leader of the pricks. As the seconds passed, and anticipation grew, the leader opened his mouth wider and wider. Instead of a margarita, Mike dropped a giant, raw bratwurst into his mouth. In life, few things are as certain as the response that is received when tubed meat, especially pork, is shoved deep into the mouths of the unsuspecting. Gagging, as he scrambled from the chair, the leader ran headlong into a large load bearing wooden post. He slipped to the ground, unconscious as blood streamed from his forehead. From across the bar Mike’s Manager watched; there would be no severance pay.

  With this in mind, Mike politely ordered the steak frites in perfect French. At thirty six bucks he was glad he wasn’t paying. Shap followed suit and nodded knowingly at Mike. He too was glad they would be sticking this meal to the G.O.D.

  Cuddy grew uneasy when it came time for him to order. The menu was in French and he wanted two chicken sandwiches akin to those served at Kentucky Fried Chicken. A supersized portion that included four chicken patties and two buns integrated into one offering. Rather than misspeak, and end up with something he didn’t want, Cuddy felt a short dramatic mime performance would best communicate his order. With his thumbs tucked under his armpits, elbows flapping, Cuddy bobbed his head to and fro. He pecked at the menu with his nose as he flapped his elbows up and down. The bounce of the inflatable donut added to the overall effect, providing a vertical dimension and loud plastic squeak to the world’s first five hundred pound chicken. Terrified and confused, but assuming the fat man was attempting to order some form of chicken the waiter spoke, “I speak English.”

  Cuddy stopped his performance and explained his vision of French bistro food. The waiter cautioned he wasn’t certain if the widow maker was possible, but agreed to let the chef know.

  As the waiter walked away, Cuddy cupped his mouth, “Bring extra catsup, and show the love on them fries, boy.”

  The waiter gone, Shap called the meeting to order and quickly summarized the reason all four were gathered. He repeated himself several times in his opening remarks, reiterating the need for a peace accord if they had any hope of remaining employed. “It’s a bitch of an economy, and Doug will fire us all if the goals he outlined are not met by the time we convene at the upcoming Board Meeting.”

  Cuddy and Mary stared in silence neither agreeing, nor disagreeing, with Shap’s assessment of the situation. In front of Shap sat the document Wilma had typed up that outlined the terms of the treaty. Shap verbalized the key points one at a time, beginning with the IT project.

  “First, Cuddy will sign-off on the new system. Operations will not be required to use the new system, however, computers will be returned to the employee’s desks to create the illusion of a company that runs on computers.

  Second, Cuddy will not feature pictures, videos, or any likeness of Mary on the monitors unless Mary has pre-approved; Cuddy will have Wayne fix Mary’s chair so the seat is horizontal to the ground; Cuddy will use best efforts to persuade whomever has the thumbs of Mary’s gloves to return them to Mary.

  Third, Mary will use best efforts to dissuade whoever is responsible for pissing in Cuddy’s office from continuing to do so.”

  Unable to control herself, Mary snickered when the topic of pissing in Cuddy’s office was raised. Cuddy glared to his left, his hypotheses proven wrong. “Horse’s ass,” he muttered. He thought it was either Doug pissing in his office, or Doug and the cleaning crew.

  Shap retuned to the topic at hand. “Fourth, Mary will assume responsibility for Human Resources. Cuddy will assume responsibility for IT.

  “Fifth, Cuddy will park in the spot on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, the first and third weeks of the month, and Tuesday and Thursday the second and fourth weeks of the month. Mary will park in the spot on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, the second and fourth weeks of the month, and Tuesday and Thursday the first and third weeks of the month.

  And finally, Cuddy and Mary will cease all hazing of Shappa, including but not limited to unauthorized application of bumper stickers to his automobile and the use of dart guns.”

  Pointing across the table at Shap, Cuddy reacted to the final term of the treaty, “I never shot that little injun in my life. I been unjustly accused.” Cuddy’s eyes blinked open and closed as they shifted left and right. He was a terrible liar. As he squirmed nervously, the waiter hastily dropped off their food.

  “Alright, alright, I’ll amend the final point to indicate your denial.” Scribbling with a ball point pen, Shap modified the document and added, “Cuddy vehemently denies he is responsible for shooting me with a dart gun, but in the interest of peace has agreed to the term and conditions.” Shap initialed the modification, Cuddy and Mary signed the treaty, and an accord was reached.

  Cuddy, Mary, and Shap, it appeared, would meet the goals given by Doug and likely keep their jobs. With the signed document sitting in front of him, Mike suddenly remembered Doug had assigned him the task of reducing bad debt. “What about bad debt? How do we fix that?” asked Mike, when he realized his problems weren’t addressed in the treaty and remained unsolved.

  Cuddy answered with his mouth full of food, “Bad debt ain’t my problem, boy.”

  Mike looked at Mary, hoping for some help. Mary answered his stare, “What the fuck you looking at? Bad debt is certainly not my problem.”

  Finally, Mike looked at Shap who responded, “Sadly Mike, my powers aren’t infinite. You’ll need to figure that out yourself. If I start today, I’ll be lucky to have some rudimentary financials in time for the Board Meeting.”

  Their food now on the table they ate in silence. The accord didn’t mandate chit chat.

  Suddenly, in a concerned voice as she held her plate up for all to see, Mary asked the room at large, “Motherfucker! Does that look like somebody stuck their dick in my potatoes?”

  Mike stood alone now, with no plan to reduce bad debt, and it looked like his senior management run was rapidly coming to a close. In the near term, he’d need to see if Cuddy, or Mary, would loan him a few dollars for gas since he and Shap had spent all their cash on lunch. As it turned out, Mary and Cuddy wouldn’t loan him any money, and Mike quietly resigned himself to the long ride home on the back of Shap’s daughter’s bike.
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