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Part 1
Whatever
Part 1 of 3
“Half of everything? You’ve got to be kidding.”
Greg Hensley had made the same observation any number of times during the past twenty-four hours or so, ever since he had received the latest poison correspondence from Monica’s lawyer. Monica’s attorney was a chain-smoking harridan who, he was quite sure, literally wished him dead.
He was sitting at his desk, killing the last ten minutes of his lunch hour. The purchasing department of Apex Machinery was filtering in from the nearby fast food places and the company cafeteria. Colleagues prodded each other with last-minute lunchtime banter. Others rushed to complete quick personal phone calls before one o’clock.
They could afford such frivolities; they were not being shafted for half of their net worth.
Greg tried not to look at Jessica Tanner as she arrived, but she seemed to draw his gaze like a magnet. He could not deny himself the indulgence of at least a brief glance—although he despised himself for this weakness.
Jessica sauntered in as if she owned the world, carefree in every way that he was not. Her summertime dress clung to her taut abdomen and slender curves while she walked. Each step seemed precisely calibrated to torture him.
How many hours does she spend in the gym each week? Or is it simply good genes? Greg wondered, not for the first time. He had not seen the inside of a gym himself for at least twelve years.
Greg furtively watched her take her seat, his gaze lingering on her suntan. He was careful; Jessica sometimes seemed to know when he was observing her. This made his compulsion to observe her all the more maddening.
Back to work, he thought. Greg was the manager of the die cast components purchasing group at Apex Machinery. Despite his title, his power was diluted by a management structure that included two purchasing general managers and a vice president of purchasing. He wasn’t exactly Lee Iacocca and he knew it. Greg’s authority was mostly limited to day-to-day procedural matters.
He did not even have much input into hiring decisions. Otherwise, the company would not have hired Jessica Tanner six months ago, he thought ruefully.
Greg’s manager title did confer a certain real estate advantage, though: he had a desk at the front of the room, where he could monitor the three purchasing agents who occupied the boxes beneath his on the company organization chart. He also had a full view of the long window that ran the length of the office—a simple but enviable perk on a bright summer day like today.
The pages from Monica’s attorney lay amid the wrappers of the two Pizza Hut six-inch pizzas that he had devoured for lunch. The pizzas should have made him feel guilty but they did not. His doctor had recently told him to lay off the pizza, the ice cream, and the chocolates.
Greg, you’re reaching an age where your cholesterol is going to start catching up with you, the doctor had said. A forty-two-year-old man can’t eat like a twenty-year-old, you know.
At the moment, however, Greg believed that women and lawyers (or possibly a female lawyer) were far more likely to kill him than the fat content contained in a Pizza Hut box. Did his doctor really want to save his life? Then the good M.D. ought to start shooting lawyers—beginning with the one employed by his soon-to-be ex-wife.
Not that his own attorney—a counselor named Hal Greene—was much more helpful than Monica’s hired gun.
“We live in a community property state,“ Hal Greene had explained. “Community property means that once you sign the marriage certificate, you each own half of the other’s assets. The fact that you came into the marriage with more assets than Monica had doesn’t mean jack, Greg. Monica’s side is asking for half—and that’s what they’re likely to get.”
Three years of marriage and she takes half my stuff? We didn’t even have any kids, Greg thought sourly.
“Hey, Greg.”
That’s what I get for having a sex drive. I ought to do Greg Hensley and the world a favor, and simply neuter myself now.
“Hey, Greg. I don’t want to shout at you.”
Greg did not need to open his eyes to know that the voice belonged to Jessica. Moreover, he did not want to look at her, not up close, like this. He only felt safe looking at her from a distance. And even that could be dangerous.
Nevertheless, he had to talk to Jessica. According to the company organization chart, she was his subordinate, after all.
“Yes, Jessica.”
Jessica stood before his desk. He was taller than her when standing; but she towered over him now.
She is looking down on me, he thought. In more ways than one.
Greg exercised discipline so that his eyes would not wander. Jessica’s skirt was an inch shorter than it should have been and a bit too tight for the office.
Just get through it, he told himself.
“You’re cheating,” she preempted.
Greg was tongue-tied at Jessica’s latest ambush.
“What do you mean? I—“
“You’re cheating,” she repeated.
The specific nature of his infraction was obvious; it was spread out on the desk before him. Greg regarded the pile of greasy Pizza Hut wrappings and legal correspondence, noting that he felt suddenly guilty about the two Personal Pan pizzas. He had practically reveled in his indulgence only a few minutes ago.
The scent of Jessica’s perfume mingled with the cheesy smell of the pizza boxes. The mixture both aroused and nauseated him.
She was his subordinate; and here she was addressing him as if he were a child. He knew that he would be within his rights to reprimand her; but that was beyond his capabilities at the moment.
“That’s right, Jessica. I’m eating pizza. Or to put it more accurately, I ate pizza.”
The tomato sauce smeared on the cardboard and cellophane wrapping looked vaguely bloodlike. His desktop might have been a murder scene.
“You don’t need to be defensive. I’m only doing what you asked,” she said. “You told us in staff meeting that you had to lose weight. You said it was an order from your doctor.”
Indeed it was. And in a foolish moment of misplaced camaraderie, he had confided this information to his three buyers. A brief lapse of caution that was coming back to bite him now.
“And you said that we should help you,” she added. “So that’s what I’m doing. But if you’re going to bite my head off then tell me and I won’t ever mention it again.”
Greg sighed. Whatever pleasure he had experienced from the two pizzas was gone. They formed a wet, leaden ball in the pit of his stomach. He could practically feel raw triglycerides and cholesterol surging into his veins.
“And anyway, you can’t lose weight eating pizza. Everyone knows that.”
His belt pinched his waistline like an iron band. Was he actually growing fatter as Jessica talked?
Greg experienced a surprise twinge of appreciation for this soon-to-be-ex-wife. At least Monica had never pestered him about his eating habits. But then, Monica was on the plump and frumpy side herself. She looked nothing like Jessica.
“Yes, Jessica, that’s correct. I’m not supposed to eat pizza. And I don’t have as much willpower as I should. So shoot me; I’m weak. And yes, I do remember saying something like that in staff meeting. But I’m sure that’s not what you really want to talk about.”
“No.”
“So what is it?”
“I wanted to tell you that I have to leave at two-thirty this afternoon.”
“You left early yesterday. And one day last week.”
“And?”
“And I can’t let you leave early so often. Not unless you schedule vacation time.”
“Why does it matter how long I stay if I get my work done?”
“Did you finish the bid analysis I asked for?” he shot back, hoping to trip her up.
She answered him by dropping a small stack of papers onto his desk, barely missing one of the Pizza Hut boxes.
“Take a look. It’s all there,” she said.
Greg picked up the pages of the bid analysis and began to flip through the 8.5” x 11” sheets.
“There’s no way I can approve this while you’re standing here, Jessica, you’ll have to—“
He was stopped cold by a single page that was hidden in the middle of the stack: a copy of the Apex Machinery’s Substance Abuse Policy.
It protruded at him like an accusatory finger.
“What the heck is this?” he stammered, his voice cracking on the last word.
He cringed as he realized that he had practically shouted. Several heads bobbed up from their desks. Curious faces assessed him as if he were mildly insane.
“What is this?” he asked, in a lower voice this time.
The Substance Abuse Policy enumerated its regulations at him in bold 12- and 14-point font:
(“Alcoholic beverages and intoxicating substances are strictly forbidden on company property.”)
“What are you talking about, Greg?”
(“Any violation of this policy may be grounds for immediate dismissal.”)
Jessica smiled ever so subtly. Was that a knowing smile? Or was his imagination going into hyperdrive again?
He tried to assess the situation rationally. She might not even realize that the Substance Abuse Policy was wedged within the pages of the bid analysis. The printer was a communal resource for the entire purchasing group. She could have picked up another person’s printout by mistake. It was certainly possible; that sort of thing happened all the time.
Yes, but what are the chances? And why would anyone else print out the company’s Substance Abuse Policy?
“Nothing,” he replied. “Not a thing.” He pretended to peruse the bid analysis.
“Is it okay, then?”
He noticed that his hands were shaking, and he decided to extricate himself from this conversation in the easiest way possible.
“Okay, Jessica, you can leave at two-thirty today; but please try and keep this sort of thing to a minimum.”
She returned to her desk without acknowledging his permission or his admonition. But he would have expected as much.
Once Jessica was safely gone, Greg discreetly slid open his bottom right-hand desk drawer. The flask was hidden beneath a stack of manila folders. Right where he had left it.
No one had access to Greg’s desk—as far as he knew. He locked it before leaving each night, and he had the only key.
The flask of bourbon had made its appearance in the desk drawer only recently—after the divorce proceedings with Monica had grown nasty. He intended to terminate his reliance on it by the end of the summer. The flask was nothing more than a crutch to help him through a difficult period.
Could Jessica actually know about the flask? This was highly unlikely. Come on, Greg, old boy. Get a grip on yourself.
He removed the Substance Abuse Policy from the bid analysis and fed it into the shredder that sat behind his desk.
When he turned back around Jessica was seated before her computer, her back arched in a yogalike stretch that accentuated the curvature of her cleavage. Her breasts were firm, round, exquisite, and jutting. The scene was simply too much for him to resist.
He risked an open stare, like a kleptomaniac might heedlessly risk placing a hand in an unattended cash register. He was still gawking when her head swung suddenly around and she locked her eyes onto his. He realized at once that a trap had been sprung. And he had fallen into it, like a complete idiot.
Greg looked down without even attempting to appear casual, outsmarted again. What a fool he was. Her next bid analysis would no doubt contain a printout of the company’s Sexual Harassment Policy.
You’re letting her psyche you out, he thought. What’s wrong with you?
But that question was too open-ended. Greg knew that plenty was wrong with him.
Greg was in his kitchen, popping the cap of his third beer of the evening when his cell phone rang. It was a call from his attorney.
“Hey, Hal. What’s up?”
“I should be asking you that, Greg. Why didn’t you tell me you had an offshore bank account?”
“How did you find out about that?”
“Monica’s lawyer told me, Greg. You declared the interest from the account on your taxes last year. Did you really think you were going to keep that a secret?”
Greg took a large gulp from a bottle of Michelob before answering Hal Greene.
“Hal, you’ve got to be kidding me! That account predates my marriage to Monica by three years. Jeez—I didn’t even know Monica when I put the money into that account. That money came from some old stock investments, and some money that I’d inherited from my grandparents. How can she ask for half of that?”
“Greg, we’ve been over this before. Half means half. It means half of everything.”
“How did they find out about that?!”
“’They’ can find out about anything nowadays. Wherever there’s an electronic trail leading back to you—from anywhere in the world.”
Greg finished off beer number three. He dropped the empty bottle into the garbage can and removed two full ones from the refrigerator.
“It isn’t fair, Hal. It just isn’t fair.”
“Greg, the law is the law. It doesn’t matter whether or not you think it’s fair. But if you continue to hide things like this, you are only going to dig a deeper hole for yourself. Remember what Shakespeare said: ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”
“Actually Hal, Sir Walter Scott said that—not Shakespeare. And what do you mean by ‘a deeper hole’?”
“Monica’s attorney is going to go for punitive damages.”
“NO!”
Greg threw one of the full bottles against the living room wall. It exploded in a shower of glass and foam. He let forth a torrent of curses at the resultant mess and at Monica.
“Greg, I think you need some time to cool off, okay, buddy? Why don’t you give me a call back tomorrow or the next day. We’ll regroup and re-strategize.”
“Sure.” Greg hit the cell phone’s disconnect button. Then he twisted open the cap of the bottle of Michelob that remained in his hand—the twin of the one that was now soaking into his living room carpet.
Hal had obviously been disturbed by his display of emotion. The lawyer had the luxury of looking at this situation from the distance that objectivity afforded. Hal wasn’t the one who was getting screwed. Easy for him to talk about regrouping this and re-strategizing that, as if they were at a meeting in a corporate boardroom. Hal Greene wasn’t the one whose life was imploding.
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Copyright 2009 Edward Trimnell All rights reserved
