Sinners and Saints

Sinners and Saints Chapter 40 - Come Together

“There’th a mimeograph mathine in the theno pool,” he tells me. 

I only know what a mimeograph machine is from watching reruns of old movies.  I have no idea how to operate one.  Another internal sigh. 

“And the R and D budget is?” I probe. 

“You’d have to athk Dwight in Accounting that,” Warren tells me. 

“So it’s zero,” I surmise. 

“Clothe to it,” Warren blushes a bit. 

“Well, don’t worry about that for now,” I smile and hop off the desk, “Leslie said that I’m on the day shift around here.  How do I get home once that’s over?” 

“Oh – um,” he pauses and searches in another folder for a piece of paper, “Here are the directhionth to the thuttle,” he says. 

“Thank you, Warren,” I smile again and can’t help but notice the tips of his ears growing pink at my attention, “You’ve been a real help.  If Michael gives you any trouble over those keys, you just let me know and I’ll talk to him directly.  Ok?” 

“Thure thing, Mith Thaint,” he says. 

“Please, Warren, call me Claire,” I tell him nicely.  “So you can pronounce it” my snarky side says, but I shush it. 

“Claire,” he nods and blushes a bit more, “Ith there anything elthe?” 

“No – not at the moment.  Thank you for all of your help,” I guide him out and fall into my chair once he’s gone.  I scribble on my note pad furiously, but I’m not terribly worried about it being found. 

First of all, my handwriting is – and always has been – crap.  Secondly, I’m writing in banking terms, not in actual facts.  I don’t think that anyone outside of banking could make sense of things like, “under-performing assets” or “equity-capital.”  

I sniff myself and realize that my deodorant has stopped working.  Not surprising, considering the huge time-difference.  I flip the paper over and start jotting some more notes. 

And then I settle back and read my contract and groan. 

My contract has been written in Heaven-time, not in Earth-time.  So I will spend six days up here and twelve on Earth for – I really wish I had a calculator – a little over a year – if my mental calculations are correct. 

I am to follow the dress code – which has to have been written by Michael, “Female employees will wear at all times dress, skirts or shorts no lower than five inches below the hip-bone.  Shirts, blouses or other upper-garments will show at all times at least one inch of cleavage and/or one inch of midriff.  Shoes must have heels of three inches or more and be worn at all times.” 

I snort, “Like to see you wear three-inch heels for six days straight, asshole,” I think. 

“Personal business is allowed only during allotted break times,” it goes on. 

There are over a hundred reasons why I should protest this job in just the agreement alone.  I haven’t even read – nor do I want to read – the official employee handbook.  I scribble more notes about things to bring with me and start yawning.  Apparently I’ve already been up for over 24 hours and my body is telling me it’s done.  

“Claire?” I feel someone shaking me and open my eyes regretfully.  Apparently I fell asleep where I was, because the page that I was writing on clings to my face for a moment while I lift my head.  There’s a drool-stain there when it falls back on the desk.