Georgia on Her Mind(36)

“Thanks.” Ten years of my life with Casper & Company piled into a cubicle next to the janitor’s closet.



By midmorning I’m squared away. Maybe it is out of spite, maybe out of discouragement, perhaps out of weariness, but I shove the pile on my desk to the bottom of the trash bag I grabbed from next door. Copies of personnel reports, old documents, customer records, five-year-old tech notes, outline of my plans for the department in the New Year, all trash.

I don’t need it. Don’t want it. I know full well why I’m in this dinky, dank room. Roni is mad, threatened over Peyton Danner’s call. Well, sticking me in the Borg cube isn’t going to discourage me.

Getting rid of stuff is liberating. Should have done it long ago. When all the junk is cleared away, I find the laptop’s docking station and pop my computer in and boot up.

I discover my new office has no network connection. How am I supposed to work without a network?

I pick up the phone to call IT, but of course there is no dial tone. I have no phone. I have no network.

Laugh or cry, laugh or cry. Laugh. I should laugh. Suddenly a brilliant idea hits me. Pray, Macy. Pray for grace, for wisdom, for peace.

I close my eyes and put my lips into silent motion. I pray to stay focused on the beauty in my ashes—Jesus. I pray for grace. I have a feeling I’m going to need it. I open my eyes, and I admit I’m slightly disappointed to see my prayers didn’t shatter the Casper walls.

Then Mike appears at my door again. “Call for you in my office.”

“Thanks.”

In my old office I pick up the blinking phone line. It’s Lucy.

“Macy, was that Mike?”

“Yes. It’s his phone now.”

“No-o-o-o!” she says in a deep voice.

“I’ll tell you about it later.” It’s creepy to be in my office, my old home, now permeated with Mike’s presence. “He’s got a framed picture of Lucy Lawless as Xena.”

Lucy laughs. “His poor wife.”

“Yes, on many levels.”

“Lunch at Steve’s Hoagies? One o’clock?”

“Oh, yes, absolutely.” As I hang up, Mike comes in and shuts the door. My heart lurches. Too many doors are shutting behind me, in front of me, all around me these days.

“Got a second?” He motions for me to sit.

“Sure.” An adrenaline surge causes my heart to race. I fold my hands in my lap so tight the ring on my right hand bites into my flesh.

Mike smiles as he searches his desk drawer for something. This does not feel like a smiley moment. It’s awkward and weird. My gut is telling me, “Beware.”

Ooh, what if he’s heard all my rude comments about his Xena obsession?

(Mental note 1,001: keep mouth shut.)

My feisty, red-boot confidence from this morning and the peace I had from my prayer is gone.

“I have your review.” He pulls a paper from a legal-size envelope.

Ah, I am wrong. This is a big smiley moment. Now you’re talking, Mike. I’d forgotten it was review time. Well, isn’t this a nice boon to my day.

“As you know, things have changed around here.”

“Obviously,” I reply. I click my red heels together, thinking there’s nothing like a raise.

“Kyle, Roni and Dave Weiss feel that since your job change, your position does not warrant any more salary at this time.”

I’m on my feet. “What?” Hands on his desk, I glare down like a hungry vulture. “This raise isn’t about my supposedly new position. It’s about my last year’s performance. My overtime alone is worth a six-percent raise.”

Dave Weiss, our CFO, is supposed to be a friend of mine. I expected this from Roni, but not Dave. Not even Kyle. I gave him credit for having more integrity.

Mike hems and haws. I shouldn’t berate him—he’s simply following marching orders. How could Roni be so indignant about the headhunter when she knew this was coming?

He clears his throat and parrots the rehearsed answer. “You are a salaried employee. Overtime is part of the job.”

“Corporate baloney, Mike. Merit raises are also a part of the job. Salaried employee doesn’t mean abused employee.”

“Your current position doesn’t warrant any more money. You make one and a half times the highest-paid tech.”

Mike’s song and dance to the company tune resounds like a bad vaudeville routine.

I pound the desk. “Roni shoved me into this position. My raise should not reflect where I am now, but what I’ve done.”

“I hear you—”

“Do you, Mike? Do you really?”

“It is what it is, Macy.” He shuffles papers around.

It is what it is? “What kind of answer is that?” I crack the heel of my boot against the floor.

Mike silently slips my performance evaluation across the desk and asks me to sign.

I burn a hole in the thing with a single glance. I can see it’s all filled out, without any of my input, and signed by the powers that be. A sticky yellow arrow reads “Sign Here” and points to my signature line at the bottom of the page.

I stab my finger on the cheesy arrow and say to Mike with a pound of conviction, “I’m not signing anywhere.”



“I can’t believe you.” Lucy shakes her head as we slide into a booth at Steve’s. We’ve ordered and paid. Now we wait for them to call our name.