The Assistants(54)

Fine. I would have to be the one to speak first.

“Have I done something to upset you?” I asked.

He broke eye contact then, which I didn’t know what to make of. Breaking eye contact was something Robert did not do. Ever.

He looked down at his desk, and then at his shoes, which had remained securely on the floor. When he returned his eyes to me, he said, “It’s been great working with you, Tina.”

I said, “What?”

“Really. I’m going to miss you.”

“Wait. You’re firing me?”

“No, no,” he said. “But you can take a few minutes to clear out your desk and all that.” He tossed an envelope at me. “This is a generous severance package. It’ll keep you afloat for a while.”

So he wasn’t firing me, but he was?

His words, the envelope, the room, all swirled around me in slow motion. I was afraid if I tried to talk it would come out sounding like stroke-speak, all loose lipped and tongue addled.

“Don’t look so unhappy,” he said. “I’m kicking you out of the nest because I know you’ll never leave on your own. And it’s time.” He stood up and extended his hand for a firm shake. “You’re welcome,” he said. “Now go on.”

Everything was spinning.

Had I been caught or hadn’t I? I honestly wasn’t sure.

Lurking at my desk were two jar-headed Titan security guards. Robert gave them a nod and I knew that was my cue to get up and leave quietly and immediately, with my dignity intact. They had already placed an empty cardboard box on my chair to speed up the process. These guys knew what they were doing.

I scanned the office as I collected my belongings. Dillinger had his headphones hanging sideways off his head and his mouth was a speechless O. All the guys on the floor appeared equally flabbergasted. Nobody made a sound.

One security guard flanked me on either side to escort me into the elevator and down to the lobby. “Titan policy,” they told me. “Legal reasons.”

“I don’t have a gun,” I joked.

They didn’t laugh.

The elevator dropped and its doors slid open to a small crowd of inquisitive eyes. I clutched my cardboard box of stuff to my chest—an image that would hit Twitter and the like within minutes—and watched the textured floor tile, step by step, to the top of the escalator.

It was incredible how quickly word had spread, via IM most likely, from a few nosy, gossip-hungry coworkers on my floor (Jason Dillinger, I’m looking at you) to all corners of the Titan building.

I could hear Kevin pleading with my security guards. “What’s going on here?” he asked, louder each time he repeated it. “Roberto,” he said. “Sal. What’s up?”

A few cell-phone cameras documented it all. One followed me in a diagonal parallel down the opposite escalator.

Another cluster of onlookers lingered around the front doors. I searched for Emily or Ginger, or Wendi or Lily—or even Margie Fischer—but there was no sign of any of them.

Lobby security dispersed the boldest looky-loos blocking my exit and escorted me out of the building, to the curb, where a black sedan waited with its door ajar.

Roberto and Sal guided me into the backseat, careful not to bump my head, and shut the door behind me. Those who made it out to the sidewalk watched me get driven away through their LCD screens.

“I’m going to Williamsburg,” I said to the driver.

He nodded. “I know where you’re going.”

—

TWENTY MINUTES LATER I was inside my apartment, sitting at my kitchen table, staring at my cardboard box of stuff, which wasn’t much stuff at all really. My cell phone was blowing up, but I was too catatonic to answer. Kevin, Ginger, Wendi, Lily—they all left voice mails I didn’t bother to listen to.

Since the day I deposited that first check, I’d created dozens of different renditions of what it would look and feel like for Robert to sit me down and fire me. Sometimes the police were involved. Sometimes Glen Wiles was involved. Usually I cried. A few times Robert cried. But things never turn out how you picture them, do they? I never imagined it would end so vaguely.

Or had it still not ended? Was there more to come? What if this was only the beginning of the end, or in the way of a too-long Scorsese film, only the end of the beginning?

My front door swung open then, and Emily stormed in looking like she had an approximate blood pressure of heart attack.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“What the hell do you think?” She tossed her purse into the bedroom.

Emily wasn’t carrying a cardboard box, which indicated to me that she, at least, hadn’t also been fired. She sat down across from me at the kitchen table, too upset to even think of first fixing herself a drink.

“What happened?” she asked. “What did Robert say to you?”

I felt my cheeks go hot. “He said he was letting me go because he knew I would never quit on my own.”

“He didn’t mention anything about . . .”

“No,” I said.

“Well don’t let that trick you into a false sense of security. You’re likely to be wearing an orange jumpsuit by next week.”

“But he gave me a severance package,” I said. “Would he have done that if he—”