Missed Connections

Missed Connections: Chapter 20

Friday finds me ridiculously excited to get my check and get the hell out of Inner Space for the weekend—especially since Phucking Phyllis ruined my last one, and Fern and Ziggy ruined Monday. Even at the law firm, I never counted down the days, hours, minutes until the workweek was over. But when I glance at my net pay, there's a problem. Ziggy wanders out into reception. I decide to tackle the small issue first.

"Ziggy? I'm short on my check."

"Yeah, that's from when you came in early." He answers that like he was waiting for me to bring it up.

Wednesday, I'd stayed up way too late talking to Blake online. I guess that threw me off when I set my alarm, and I stumbled through my morning routine an hour early. But I came in and realized I was horrifically early and got right to work. I'd done dishes, cleaned, and typed up a couple of insurance forms before Ziggy came in at nine thirty. "But I was working the whole time. You came in and saw me. You even had me doing things for you."

He nods. "Yeah, but we didn't ask you to come in then. It'd be different if we asked you to come in early or stay an hour late, but we didn't. So that's on you."

My left eye twitches. "Right, but that's not the only issue. You guys didn't pay me for that Monday you had me come in—or the hour you had me come in to check on Blake." The Monday they had me work so I couldn't get Dad's pills.

Ziggy looks baffled. "If you have an issue, you'll have to talk to Fern."

This is absolutely unacceptable. "Okay."

"You may not be happy with the situation, but this is what's happened, and it couldn't have happened any other way. Just breathe into it." He breezes out the front door, taking an early lunch.

So. Violently. Annoyed right now. Twelve hours isn't a small amount—at least not to me.

Needing to burn off some energy, lest I crane-kick the phone through the front window and run after it screaming with glee at my newfound freedom, I head to the back room and begin folding sheets.

Elise, a new massage therapist, rushes into the back. "My client's here early! It wouldn't have been a big deal, but I'm late too, so I put her in a room and she's getting undressed, but I feel terrible about keeping her waiting."

I nod in commiseration. "They're never early unless you're running late."

"For real. Crap!" A thunk, and the sound of something spilling.

I turn and survey the scene. Laundry soap is everywhere.

In the sink, on the counter, inside the laundry basket, in the garbage, and on the floor. All over the floor.

"I'm so sorry, Sarah! I tried to get a towel and bumped it with my elbow."

The best I can fake is a weak smile. "It's okay, Elise. You go see to your client. I'll clean this up."

She looks like she wants to cry, which makes me feel better. She didn't do it on purpose, so there's no point being mad at her.

"I promise, I'll—"

I hold up a hand. "You'll do nothing. It was an accident. Just go take care of your client. I'll clean this up."

"You are the nicest person ever. Thank you." She hurries out of the room, and I grab the broom and sweep up the soap, tipping it into the garbage.

Honestly, with the number of crumbs and bits on the floor with the powder, you'd think I don't sweep every day, but soon enough it's cleaned up. How ironic is it that I'm cleaning up cleaning supplies? What if it had been floor cleaner? That would have been even more ironic. Or convenient—just add water. On the downside, there's only enough laundry soap left in the box for about three and a half loads. Fern or Ziggy will have to pick up more tonight or tomorrow morning before we open.

Ziggy pokes his head in. "Sarah? The phone was ringing."

"Sorry, Ziggy. One of the therapists accidentally knocked the detergent off the shelf, so I've been back here cleaning it up and didn't hear it." No way I'm landing Elise into it. She's too nice and I want to keep her here.

He looks around as if trying to see the mess, but I've already swept it up. "Oh. Well, did you put it back into the box?"

"Uh, what?"

"Did you sweep it up and put it back into the box?"

He's kidding, right? "It fell on the floor."

"Right, but that happened before, and we just swept it up and tipped it back into the box. Saves money."

"There was dirt in it."

"It's soap."

It was on the floor. I've told him. How can I be clearer? "Most of it fell into the garbage."

"Oh. I'll pick up more after work."

I feel my eyebrows do something unattractive to my forehead when I walk out of the kitchen and head back to reception. What the hell? Are they going bankrupt?

Is this why they've shorted me an hour and are trying to squirm out of paying me properly? Phyllis's sabotage aside, is my job secure at all, or have they mismanaged this place right into the ground? Maybe they're just supremely cheap.

"Sarah?" Fern has snuck up on me while I was lost in a cloud of rage and worry. "Ziggy says you wanted to discuss your check."

"Yes." Keeping my voice mild is the way to go here. They made a mistake, no big deal—as long as it's rectified. "You guys shorted me twelve hours on my check."

Fern laughs. "This can't be right, Sarah. And we're not paying you for the hour you came in early."

"The big shortage is from the Monday you had me come in. Remember? I needed to get my dad's heart pills that day?"

She grabs the nearby calculator. "That's only eleven hours total."

"Right, but the day before, you had me come in because Ziggy had booked someone with Blake but hadn't told him."

"You know." She begins punching the buttons. "I honestly never thought you were so materialistic, Sarah. Don't we take care of you here? Good hours, relaxing work environment. You're practically family."

This is how they treat family? "I'm not asking for anything extra."

Fern digs in her handbag and comes up with a checkbook. "You're young, Sarah, and still have time to make something of yourself. But you'll get nowhere in this life—or after—if you give in to the trappings of this money-hungry society like everyone else." She fills out the check, clearly angry judging by how hard she's pressing the pen to the paper, and I try not to gape at her words.

They had me type up the invoices, so I know that Fern and Ziggy's little workshops cost eleven hundred dollars per person for a weekend. They do two or three per month, times about eight participants each time, which equals who the hell are you calling materialistic?

Not to mention the weekend retreat they throw at some nearby resort in the middle of nowhere, which costs four thousand dollars per person, and they don't run it unless there's a minimum of ten people in the class. They've done two this year and had five last year. Call me crazy, but if they were really all about the energy and making the world a better place, they wouldn't charge such exorbitant prices for their workshops.

Fern hands me the check, and it's the amount they shorted me—minus the hour for Sunday, and the extra hour I came in early. Her smile is tight. "Think about the life you want. The life you need. You're worth more than money, and I shudder to think about how long it's going to take you to figure that out."

She's right that I'm not just a dollar sign, but unfortunately, my landlord doesn't accept interpretive dance as payment. No appropriate retort finds me before she leaves. I got what I'm owed and what's right, but it still somehow feels like I've lost.