Greetings From The Flipside Part 10

"Why do you want to work in the greeting card industry?"

"Do you know the impact that just one card can have on a person?"

"Yes. It's why I do what I do every day of my life. In two lines, I affect people. When I sit down and words come to me, I never know in what way those words will change someone's life."

"My dad always liked my cards."

"That's your credential?"

"I'm just saying, we have something in common, with this family business of yours. Just give me a chance."

Another wail, long and high-pitched, causes each of us to snap our attention toward the sound.

Jake clears his throat. "I think my cousin will be needing some time off. How would you feel being my a.s.sistant until she comes back?"

"Your a.s.sistant."

"Is that a problem? I need someone I can trust, someone who's here to help me."

I nod. "You can count on me."

"Stop by H.R. It's that way. Fill out the paperwork."

"Thank you. We'll leave you alone now-" I glance around, don't see Mikaela. "Seen my Rent-A-Kid?"

But Jake walks off. I'm left there standing alone. I walk toward where he pointed and find the H.R. department. Did I seriously just get a job? Things like this don't happen to me.

I spot the Human Resources sign. As I take a step toward it, that same sharp shooting pain in the bottom of my foot causes me to yelp. That's more like it-I get a job and a heel spur all at the same time.

I regain my balance and turn the corner into the office. A woman, dressed from head to toe in Pepto-Bismol, smiles as wide as her collagen lips will let her. She's got a tiny, squeaky voice as she introduces herself as Candy. "Jake just called over to let me know you were coming. Welcome to the team."

"Thank you."

"How are your startle reflexes today?"

I sit down, slip off my shoe, rub the bottom of my foot. I was a.s.suming we'd start with my Social Security number. "Um, I don't know . . . but it feels like someone is sticking needles in my foot."

She giggles like I'm making some metaphorical joke.

I wish I were.

My mind is reeling. Really reeling. a.s.sistant is doable, but I want more. I've got to get his attention, snap him out of this idea that these sappy cards are what everyone wants. It's what everyone buys because that's all there is. I mean, think of his cousin, right? What kind of card do you send when someone breaks your heart? Something about a deer panting for water? I don't think so.

I'm juggling groceries and my key as I make my way down the hallway at the YMCA, my cell phone pressed to my ear.

"Gertie . . . no . . . Gertie, can you hear me? Turn your hearing aid on . . . no, in the other ear . . . no, turn it the other way, you're . . . what? . . . Okay. Yes! Now, can you hear me?"

"I hear you, Hope. Now what were you saying? Something about Heaven?"

I get to my room. There is a colored piece of paper that is cut in the shape of a W. It's taped to my door. "I've got to convince Heaven Sent, the greeting card company, there's a new way to write cards. Do you think you can get the ladies to write letters to them? Tell them you want a new kind of card?"

I take the W off, then fumble with the key to my room three times before I get the door open. Inside, I drop the sack of groceries to the desk and collapse into the chair.

"Oooh, like complaint mail. You think they'll send us free cards if we complain? I love their cards."

I roll my eyes. I think Gertie is missing the point. "Just ask them to acknowledge people's real pain. That's all I want, Gertie. But tell the girls not to be too mean because the writer, well, he's not the worst guy in the world."

"Oh! A man's involved. You didn't tell me that. Then we must help you out!"

I notice just then that the bride and groom that I know I tossed in the trash can is back on my desk. I take it fully into my hand, stare at it for a moment, squeeze it like I'm juicing a lemon, and then throw it into the trash can with a good measure of annoyance.

"Tell the ladies to send at least ten of them."

"Send one?"

"Ten! Ten, Miss Gertie."

I start unpacking my groceries, stuffing them in the tiny closet in my room. The refrigerated stuff has to go in the community fridge. Ugh. I cradle the phone between my ear and shoulder. "Suggest they use humor to help people deal with pain, like breakups. Deaths. Ask them to be more real."

"Muriel? Honey, she died years ago."

"More real! More. Real."

"The proper term is realer."

I sigh. "Let me just give you the address."

I articulate it slowly as I grab my grocery sack and go to the fridge. As Gertie writes down the address on the other end of the phone, I peer into the community fridge in the kitchen down the hallway from me. There are various paper bags labeled with room numbers. Nice and organized, but what's going to keep someone from stealing my stuff?

"Okay, got it," Gertie said.

"Also, don't tell them how old you are. In fact, it will help if they think you're young. So don't use the nursing home address." I grab a Sharpie on the counter and start labeling my bag of food. I write Room Eleven!!! four different times. Should I try to draw the Hazardous Material sign on it? Couldn't hurt.

"The nursing home address. Okay. So, our Hope found a man?"

I say my good-byes to Gertie and turn in for the night. I sleep fitfully, barely able to contain all my ideas, going through mock conversations with Jake to try to convince him of the direction he needs to go with his cards.

The next morning, my food is still in the fridge in the community kitchen. I guess that hazardous waste symbol worked. I grab some yogurt and head in to work. I definitely don't want to be late for my first day. But just as I'm entering the building, my cell phone rings. It's Mom-spilling out a dozen questions before I even have a chance to respond. When she takes a breath, I say, "It's so great here. I found this awesome new apartment. So chic. I mean, you wouldn't believe this place. And I landed a job too."

"Have you found a man?"

"Is he lost?"

"You lost him already?"

I sigh. My mom doesn't really catch humor. "No, Mom."

"I've had seven calls responding to my ad in the paper."

"Mom, I got the job at the greeting card company."

There is a pause. I am on the elevators.

"Mom? h.e.l.lo? You there?"

"They actually hired you to write greeting cards?"

The doors ding open on the third floor. I grin like there is a crowd awaiting as I step out. First, a trip to the bathroom is in order, to check my hair and makeup. I walk in, still with the phone to my ear, and stand in front of the mirror. "Not exactly writing cards yet. But I will. I'm going to show them how their sappy cards can be so much better."

I fluff my bangs and turn-and smack into a wall. No, wait. Not a wall. Solid, definitely. But it's a man . . . in the women's bathroom. I drop the phone from my ear and am about to scream for help when I glance over at the . . . urinals. Oh . . . no . . .

I can hear my mom from my phone. "Hope? Hope?"

This is the part that's a little unclear, but in my horror and embarra.s.sment, I shriek and run, only glimpsing a part of his face. Somewhere in there I say it out loud: "Sam?"

I stand, heaving against the wall outside the bathroom. It couldn't have been. But he looked just like Sam. At least the chin and the nostrils. That's about all I saw.

The door to the men's bathroom opens and Sam walks out. Except . . . it's not Sam. Very similar, though. It's just, this guy couldn't be a musician. He's far too clean-cut. He's tall. Solid, as I said before. And dressed kind of casual. But in a way that makes me think he understands fashion.

"I'm Everett. Do you want me to be Sam?" He's grinning at me. It's the kind of grin that melts you right on the spot. In my new life mantra, I'm determined not to be melted by anything a man does, so I stand a little taller, less melty-ish.

"No. Um, no. Really."

"You can call me Sam. Sam's a nice name." He reaches for a handshake, but it's not the kind that business people do to seal a deal. It's the kind where a guy pretends he's shaking your hand, but then he holds it a little longer than necessary. I retrieve my hand quickly.

"Sorry. You just remind me of this guy I knew."

"Is this a good reminder?"

I take a breath. "Let's start over. I'm Landon. New employee."

"In the *sap' department?"

Oh dear. He heard that. Okay, damage control time. I turn on my best flirtatious smile. And listen, I'm not claiming it's got any power. I haven't really tried one in a long time. But I give it my best shot. "Could you forget you heard that? I wouldn't want my new boss . . . you know . . ."

"No worries," he says smoothly. I am getting a sense about this guy-he's the kind that flirts with everyone but makes you feel you're the only one. Currently, it's working. "I heard this place is going down anyway."

My smile drops. "What? Really?"

"Your new job in the Sap Department will be over by Christmas."

He seals this proclamation with a wink then strolls off. I'm left standing there feeling like I need hand sanitizer.

I find my new desk, right outside Jake's office, and organize it the way I like it. I tape a picture of my father to my computer monitor. This is more for effect than anything, but I have to admit I do like seeing him staring back at me. It's like he's resting on my shoulder, telling me I can do this.

Jake walks out of his office. "Morning." He hands me a stack of papers. He is holding a small dish with a small fork and a heaping mound of tuna fish. "Type these into PowerPoint for our next product presentation." He's talking fast. "When Pearl and Ruby are done with their ill.u.s.trations, you'll scan those in, mount the words for the front of the card on top of them. Page two words go on the second slide."

"Okay."

He smiles. The tuna smell is engulfing me. "So, your first day."

"Yep."

"Welcome."

"Thanks."

"Okay. Any questions, just holler."

"Literally? Or should I use the phone?" His office is a stone's throw away, but this doesn't seem like the place where shouting happens. Shouting scares puppies and kittens.

He pauses. "The phone's fine. Dial four."

"Got it." I grin while trying to hold my breath. Tuna? Really?

He leaves and closes his office door. I can now only see his shoulder through the window. The tuna smell lingers.

I pull up the PowerPoint program and open the folder that contains the papers. The first one reads: Be strong. Be courageous. Have faith. I turn the page to see what the inside of the card is supposed to read: This too shall pa.s.s.

"Oh, brother." It can only go up from here. I turn to the next page. Jake's handwriting, I notice, is nice, very legible. I read this one out loud: "*I know you think there is no way that you can carry on. Yet don't lose heart. You'll be okay-despite the one who's gone.'" I can barely get myself to turn the page.

"*Our G.o.d has a plan, a future and a hope. Let this truth help you cope.'"

"You've got to be kidding me!!"

I shout this actually. I don't mean to. It's just some things barrel right through my filter and straight out my mouth. Luckily, n.o.body is around to hear me. I see Jake sort of lean to his left and peek out the window. I give a friendly wave and pretend not to know what's going on. But I know. Really bad greeting cards. That's what's going on.

I feel a surge of renewed purpose. I've got to stop this madness, somehow, someway.

But for now, I have to enter all this bad text for a slideshow, so I do my thing.

Just before lunch, I hear arguing. Jake left around ten, citing a meeting, and I hadn't seen him since. Now I hear his voice, and someone else's too. They're down a hallway but they might as well be standing right at my desk. It's not quite shouting, but voices are raised.

The other voice says, "Sales have dropped twenty percent since last year. Our investors are going to exercise their option to buy us by the end of the year if we don't turn a profit this quarter."

Jake's voice is softer but less calm. "We can't sell. They're not illumined to our audience. You never should have let them buy into us!"

Illumined?

"We need the operating capital. If you wouldn't give away so much of our profits to every bleeding-heart cause-"

"This place is my life!" The words are full of emotion, fueled by what sounds like complete and true conviction.

There is a slight pause in the conversation.

Then the other man says, "Hey, that's your choice."