Sign Here(2)

Trey beamed. “Thanks, boss.”

Broth spilled out of the sunken lip of my Cup O’ Noodles and pooled on the laminate tabletop.

My lunch looked like a mouth in a nursing home.

“Pey? Where are your numbers?”

I startled and pushed my notebook into the puddle.

“Well, it’s been a bit of a slow—” I started, my notebook creating a trail of soup like the foot mucus of a gastropod.

“What is it we say in this office, Peyote?”

Trey shot his hand into the air.

“Which saying are we talking about, exactly?”

“Ooh!” Trey shouted. “I know!”

“Mr. Trip?” KQ prodded.

“No excuses,” I said, my cheeks hot.

“I knew that,” Trey said.

I pulled four pens from my pen case and clicked the back of the fifth.

It wouldn’t write.

“Now that we all know that excuses are not an option, what else do we have to say for ourselves? Our numbers are decreasing. With the Internet, people are turning to different solutions for their problems. Trey? Tell the newbs which pitch you went with to land Norwood,” KQ said as she kicked her heels up on the table. I could see where her stilettos had sunk into the dirt on her walk over. I could see little scraps of grass. They reminded me of the beard hairs I used to find under my fingernails after scraping off faces with sandpaper.

“Well,” Trey said, leaning forward and rubbing his hands together, thinking. He always made a big deal out of thinking. It seemed to require a great amount of concentration. “I’ve been watching this guy for a while, so when his firm’s Tokyo deal fell through, I knew I had him. You know his wife just bought that fifth horse, right? And his daughter was about to get married, in Nantucket.”

Everyone snickered.

“So I went with a standard SnowFlake, with some slight adjustments, of course.”

KQ pulled off one shoe and kneaded her foot.

“Does everyone know what a SnowFlake is? Because you’d better.”

The woman next to me put her hand up and then pulled it right back down.

“Newbie wants a turn!”

“Oh, no, I just thought—”

“What’s your name, little mouse?”

“Oh, I—”

“If you don’t have a name yet, I can give you one. How about Churchy? Or Squeaks?”

“I—”

“Disease-Carrying Vermin?”

“I’m Cal,” she said, before clearing her throat and sitting up straight. “Calamity Ganon. Like in the video game? But everyone calls me Cal.”

“Cal? Meh. I think I’ll stick with Squeaks,” KQ said. “So, go ahead, Squeaks. What’s a SnowFlake?”

Cal put her hand on her orientation binder but didn’t open it.

“It’s when the sales associate uses flattery and validation to—”

“It’s ego fellatio,” Trey interrupted. “Tell them they are special, that you’ve been waiting for them. That they have some kind of bigger purpose. Humans love that shit.”

“Did you tell him who you are? What he was trading?” Cal asked, her high and apologetic voice all but confirming the permanence of her new nickname.

Trey scoffed. “I handed him the tablet, if that’s what you mean.”

“Nowadays we do everything digitally,” I said. “The mark still signs a contract, but now all they have to do is click ‘I agree to the above terms’ before they sign. It’s up to them if they read the fine print.” I spoke mostly to my puddle of lunch, only looking over at her once.

“Which he didn’t,” Trey said. “Because I got him really fucking drunk. Ego sucking and whiskey, hombres. It works every time.”

Everyone clapped, and I felt Cal redden next to me. All that blood in her face made my shoulder warmer.

“Hey, sorry. KQ can be a bit of a hard-ass,” I said when the meeting ended, my notebook blank and dripping. “Cal, right?”

I put out my hand, and she looked at it like she thought it might bite her. Anything is possible here.

“You’re not going to go with ‘Squeaks’?” she asked, eyeing me.

I laughed. “My name is Peyote Trip,” I said. “I’m not exactly one to judge. I’ll call you whatever you want.”

“?‘Cal’ is great,” she said, and she took my hand.

“How are you liking our beloved Deals Department so far?” I asked. I was being sarcastic, but her face lit up.

“Oh, I love it. I’m so happy to be here. I was on Third before.”

I caught my surprise in a whistle. “Yikes.”

Deals was on the Fifth Floor, second highest. For Hell, it was the dream job. But, just like on Earth, it’s easy to forget to feel lucky here.

“Well, you must be doing something right to get sent up here.”

She blushed again. Once you’ve seen the insides of so many bodies, it’s hard to think of blushing as anything other than the presence of blood. Her face looked bloody to me. But still, I didn’t hate it.

“Why do you have so many pens?” she asked, looking at the bulging zipper on my case.

“They didn’t tell you? You need at least fifteen here. Did you not down there?”