Life On a Dime

Chapter Three: Don't Look Back

It had to be a God-given talent to so thoroughly ignore someone. Two minutes in, standing in the doorway, Alex was intrigued anyone could sustain that without flinching. "Excuse me," she said loudly enough people leaned out from cubicles.

The door jamb had tape residue and a tiny piece of plastic, like a nameplate was removed violently. The room smelled dirty, like old newspapers and potato chips. This glassed-in office duplicated exactly her former space, except here, a bomb went off. Invoices and files scattered everywhere, like they'd been thrown instead of stacked. Under there, somewhere, a mouse lived comfortably knowing it would never be discovered. She pictured him sipping tea under a paper tent. Abruptly, Alex closed the door on the childlike thought. No more rambling through cartoon playgrounds. Children did that, not women.

Without question, the pudgy-fingered man rifling through papers was Tom Daly's brother. However, this version of the gene pool was hard-nosed and stocky. This version had the 1970s lounge lizard look down to a science, from his open shirt to the heavy gold chain and coiffed sparse hair. Without a single glance towards Alex, he finally spoke as he swiveled to the filing cabinet. "If you don't got an appointment, I don't got time."

Alex hadn't seen a four-drawer cabinet in an office since high school. Apparently, he'd never heard of spreadsheet software. She could clean up this mess in two days with a scanner and accounting program. She surveyed the space. Maybe a week.

A dog-eared invoice in hand, this Daly sat and flicked his hand, as if that single wrinkled sheet brought order to his chaos.

"I'm busy," he said in a sing-song as he perused the paper.

"I have an appointment," Alex said. "I'm interviewing for the accountant position."

"The position's filled, so I'm told. You can stop wasting my time standing in the doorway."

Tom Daly was right. His brother was an asshole. He'd sealed that identification with no other clues, no nametags, no handshakes or welcomes. What a quaint thought, an introduction. Hello, how are you? I'm another Daly. The position's filled. Thanks for your time. Buh-bye!

This was lovely. All this way, in a new suit, a day assembling a portfolio, the position had been filled, and he couldn't look up to apologize. Whose time was wasted now?

The elevator dinged. From the corner of her eye, Alex caught a sandy haired man in khakis breeze by. Though she felt his eyes as he passed, Alex didn't turn. In her mind, she demanded her moment. Excuse me, Sir. I'd like to be interviewed, please. 

Alex's eyes shifted, now fixed on a blank space like it was a hole to her past. This was pointless. Suit and heels made no difference. Alex Binkman was the Official Everywhere Nobody. Then again, what did she have to lose? This could be a practice run, stating her mind with people she'd never see again. Be bold, Alex. Do it. Say it.

Alex folded her arms. "Tom was right about you."

Still, he didn't look up.

"If you planned to fill the position, you could have had the courtesy to cancel my appointment, which was scheduled three days ago. I drove two hours to get here. But thank you, because this was better than an interview. I see what kind of people run this place. Tom Daly would never treat someone this way. You're nothing like him." She added the phrase she didn't know she had the guts to say. "He was right. You're an ass."

"So I'm ass. You think you're the first person to notice? Get the hell out of here." Finally, he looked up. In the time it took to raise his face, his demeanor snapped to attention. "Well, hello," he said as if he'd awakened from a nap and found her standing there. He looked her up and down like a gigolo from a 1950's movie. Funny thing. Alex always wanted to be ogled like that, as if her presence alone was all-enchanting. Consider that bubble burst. It was only slightly flattering. He tipped his head. "Mickey Daly. You are?" His tone switched to a corrupt version of flirting. "Miss...?"