Fall 2010, Volume 9

Fiction by Robert Medina

Helen's Habit

Helen’s afternoon cigarette break was sacred; it was one of the few times she had to herself.  A corporate bigwig, she dealt daily with an endless, mind-numbing succession of incompetent colleagues.  Understandably, she loathed mingling with these imbeciles when she didn’t have to.  She knew that by two p.m., those with a late lunch hour would be back at their desks, which practically guaranteed that the terrace outside the company’s seventh floor offices would be empty.

At two o’ five, Helen strode onto the terrace, certain she was alone. A lithe, forty-seven year old brunette, she glided to the building’s edge and looked down at the cars and trucks on Wilshire Boulevard.  She noticed the street was busier than normal; the traffic created an hypnotic, mechanical din.  Her back adjusted against the wind, she placed her cigarette on her lips, then sparked her lighter.  As she took her first puff, she noted that it was a particularly smoggy day.

Helen was on her second drag, contemplating the filthy nature of smog, when she heard an accented voice call up to her.

“Hey lady!  No smoking on the patio!”

Focused on the smog, she pretended not to hear.  The voice called out again: “Lady!  You! In the gray suit!  No smoking on the patio!  It’s against the rules!”

This time Helen did pay attention to the voice.  It came from a young man, she presumed Latino, who stood one floor below on a service platform.  He was in a maintenance uniform, with his hands on his hips looking straight at her.  She gave him a quick once over, rolled her eyes, then took a third drag of her cigarette.

“Didn’t you hear me?” His hands were cupped around his mouth. “It’s against the rules!  Put out that cigarette!”

Helen exhaled, made sure their gaze met, and said, “I don’t take orders from janitors.”  She took a very long fourth drag.

The man was visibly taken aback and pointed at her.  “I’m going to report you, lady!  I already asked you three times to put out your cigarette.  But you don’t listen…”

The man continued babbling.  She could see this was going nowhere.   On a whim, she flicked what remained of her cigarette at him.  It made a small arc and, with remarkable accuracy, hit him on his right shoulder.

“Fuck you,” said Helen.  She began across the terrace to her office and could hear the man’s furious exclamations, but what he was saying was muddled by the traffic noise below.  An air-conditioned gust hit her as she entered the office corridor.  Walking down the hall, she noticed the open door to her outer office.  Her elfin assistant, Craig, reclined at his desk in shirtsleeves, talked loudly on the phone.

Craig was a veteran temp and aspiring actor.  His office proficiency was non-existent; his only attributes were the ability to appear industrious and to look the part.  To appear serious, he began to mirror Helen’s dress sense, and this day was no exception.  His gray pinstriped suit was strikingly similar to hers.

As she entered the office, she could tell by the tidiness of Craig’s desk that he was angling to leave early.  When he saw her, he hung up the phone. 

“Helen!  Hey!  Guess what?”  Craig sprang up, breathless.

She crossed her arms. “I give up.  What?

He had a broad smile. “I got the part!

“You’re kidding?” She was earnest. “Someone actually hired you?”

“Yeah, can you believe it?”

Helen couldn’t.  “No I can’t.  What for, a movie?”

“No, no, nothing that big, yet!” He said.  “But I got a TV commercial!”

“For what?”

“Denture cream!”

“You’re kidding?”

He saw the perplexed look on her face, clucked his tongue, then said, “Not as the lead, silly!  As Perky Nephew Number Two!  I even have a line!”

“A line! Now that is something.  What is it?”

Visibly encouraged by her query, he didn’t limit his response.  “Well, here’s the set up: it’s a family picnic, see, and Perky Nephew Number One and I walk up to Uncle Mike, he’s the lead, the one with dentures, and Perky Nephew Number One says something like, ‘Having fun, Uncle Mike?’ Then Uncle Mike says something like, ‘Yeah, I am.’  And then Isay my line: ’How ‘bout some corn-on-the-cob, Uncle Mike?’ See, I say this because I’m carrying this tray of corn.  Then Aunt Betty, this old hag, muscles her way into the scene and says, ‘Now, Mike, I wouldn’t eat that if I were you.  Remember that last time you had corn-on-the-cob?’  Then blah, blah, blah, and I’m not in the shot again until then end when Uncle Mike bites into the corn.”

“Aunt Betty muscles her way in?” She had difficulty visualizing the image.

“Yeah, she does!  You should see who they cast. She’s a gorilla! Anyway, I was going to ask, since it’s been a light day, if I could…”

“Hold that thought,” she said.  “Do you know anything about a smoking ban on the terrace?”

“Yeah, how ‘bout that! Stupid, huh?”

“You knew about this?”

“You mean you didn’t know?” He looked surprised.

“Of course I didn’t know!  How long has this been going on?”

“Oh, I don’t know, a month.”  His eyes widened considerably.  ”Did something happen?”

“Yeah, something happened. A janitor accosted me!  He scared me half to death!”

“You’re not the first,” he said.  “They’re like Nazi police since the ban.”

“The janitors?”

“Yeah,” he said.  “Especially the night maintenance guy.  He lives to nark on smokers!  Paul in marketing was smoking one of his Parliaments on the fire escape stairs, and the night guy found his cigarette butt. He traced it to Paul—he’s the only one who smokes Parliaments—anyway, long story short, Paul was called into human resources, and when he came out he was crying and he was wearing a Patch!”

“No shit?” said Helen.  “Human resources?”

“Human resources,” said Craig. “So now I’ve got to be extra careful because I’m the only one who smokes Newports.”

“Why was Paul smoking on the fire stairs?”

“They never check the stairs during the day,” he said. “Only the night guy does.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” She asked.

“I thought you knew; it’s right there.” He pointed to a pink-papered memorandum on the cork bulletin board near his desk. “Didn’t you see them on the toilets stalls?”

“I don’t read stall doors when I take a shit,” she said. She walked up to the board and ripped down the memo.

“Well, there were emails too. . .“ he said.

She crumpled the memo and threw it at Craig.  “I don’t have time to read all the chicken shit memos that come out of human resources!  That’s your job!”

“Sorry, but it’s not my fault you don’t read things.”  He crossed his arms.  “Besides, it’s not in my job description to spoon feed you every single memo from human resources.”

“You bet it’s your job,” she said. “In fact it’s your only job, because, God knows, you’re useless for anything else.  All you have to do is keep your ear to the ground and keep me informed as to what I need to know.  And now, as usual, you’ve failed even at that.”

“I take my position here seriously,” said Craig.

“Bullshit!” said Helen.  “If you’re not fluttering around the office not working, then you’re at some non-existent audition you’re too lazy to credibly lie about.”

“Helen...”

“And now,” she said, “because I was uninformed about a policy that directly effects me, human resources is going to come in here at any minute to chew my ass out about how I flaunt the rules and abuse the janitors!”

“You abused a janitor?” he said.

“Shut up!” She rubbed her eyes. “And give me a cigarette.”

“What?” he asked.

“You heard me, give me a cigarette.  I wasn’t able to finish my last one, and I’m out.”

Craig raised his eyebrows, sat back in his chair, and with a flat tone said: “No.”

“What?”

“First, I don’t enjoy being the subject of your rage just because you’re having a nicotine fit,” he said, his hands clasped neatly on his desk.  “Secondly, like you, I’m out.”

“Yeah, right,” She said. “You smoke more than I do. You’re never out!”

“Surprisingly, I am,” He stood up and patted his pants to indicate empty pockets. “But I’ll be more than happy to fetch a pack if you wish.”

“You’d never come back.”

“Well then, I suppose we’re both out of luck,” he said.

Helen narrowed her eyes “I guess you’re right.”  She opened the door to her private office.  As she entered, she turned around and said, ”Oh, and as for it being a light day, I want you to print up all the memos from human resources for the past two years and file them into the corresponding policy manuals, with tabs to indicate where they are.”

He gasped. “Tabs?”

“Typed tabs.  And I want to see some progress by seven,” she said with relish.

“You mean seven tonight?”

“You heard me!” With that Helen closed her door.  She crossed to her desk and looked out the window at the grim sky.  Revolted, she turned and started to rummage through her desk for a spare cigarette.

She would’ve gone herself to buy a fresh pack of cigarettes, but the nearest store was five blocks away, and, as she’d noticed earlier, the traffic was horrible.  Also, she didn’t want to leave the office and risk running into that janitor from earlier.  After a quarter of an hour, she finished searching the last drawer of her desk, fruitless.  She eyeballed her purse and thought of ripping out the lining when her telephone rang.  She looked at the caller display and saw that it was Susie, the human resources director.

“Oh, Jesus!” she cried.

Susie was a frizzy-haired blonde who, in Helen’s often-stated estimation, couldn’t chew gum and fart at the same time.  Helen felt Susie, the company’s former receptionist, had too many professional deficiencies to make her a credible head of human resources.  This opinion, and Helen’s blatant disregard for any of the policies sent out from Susie’s office, left little cordiality between the women.  Helen picked up the telephone.

“What?” She winced in anticipation of Susie’s chirpy voice, and Susie didn’t disappoint.

“Helen,” the earpiece twittered.  “I just got a call from Maintenance.  Did you throw a cigarette at one of their men?”

Helen leaned back in her chair, and massaged her eyes with her thumb and forefinger.  “What are you babbling on about now?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.  It’s one thing to flaunt the rules, but to be so brazen as to throw a lit cigarette at one of the janitors, well, honestly I don’t know what to say.”

“It was an accident.”

“The janitor said he asked you five times to put your cigarette out, then you burned him.”

“Well, I guess it’s his word against mine, isn’t Susie?”

“I don’t need to take anyone’s word. I’m going to look at the tape.”

“Tape?”

“The security tape from the terrace.  Maintenance is sending it to me as we speak.”

Security tape? she thought. “It will vindicate me,” Helen said.

“I doubt it.  I’m expressing the tape and a strongly worded report to New York, outlining this and your many other misdeeds.”

“Good for you, Susie!”

“Prepare for some highly unpleasant consequences!”

“Go ahead!” Helen said.  “Trust me, this will only come back to bite you in the ass!  Send your little report, you malicious little—.”

“Oh, I will!”  Susie said, then she hung up before Helen could respond.

Great, thought Helen.  Busted by that dumb shit and her goddamned tape.  She could already see it: Smug, hateful Susie, sitting at her desk two floors down, watching with glee the terrace surveillance from that afternoon, drooling at the thought of finally bringing her down. She imagined sneaking up behind Susie, snatching the recording from the player, pulling the tape from the cassette, and then strangling her with it.

She turned her chair and looked out her window again, ignoring the brown haze; her thoughts focused on New York.  One thing was definite: the days she could indulge her delicious habit at work were over.  Without question, a stern memo would welcome the staff tomorrow morning outlining fresh penalties for smoking on the premises.  Office gossip was certain to attribute the new rules to Helen, earning her unwanted scorn from the other smokers, many of whom were in the executive suite. By this time tomorrow, she’d be a pariah, her effectiveness diminished.  This only heightened her tension further—she badly needed a cigarette.

Craig was no doubt lying about not having any. The selfish little shit; she was certain he’d listened in on her exchange with Susie; he was probably enjoying her predicament.  She wouldn’t have to deal with Susie nor New York if it wasn’t for his blatant laziness.  She thought for a moment.  Being a pariah was going to be lonely; she definitely wanted company.

She opened her door with a flourish and saw Craig laboring over his sad attempt at work.  Gritting her teeth, she said, “Aw, Craig, what’s the matter? Something you want to tell me?”

He looked up at her from his desk.  “Hmm?”

“Did you need to leave early for some reason?”

“Uh...well…” He put down his files, looking perplexed.

“Because you seemed really concerned about something earlier,” she said.

 “You could tell?” he asked.  “I tried to hide it from you, but I’m such a poor actor.”

“Tell me,” she said. “What is it?”

He sniffed.  “It’s Miss Puss.”

Helen looked automatically at the sole personal effect Craig had on his desk.  It was a wallet sized picture in a tiny, silver frame.  The image was of a Persian cat wearing a glittery purple, gold and green jester’s hat that suggested Mardi Gras.

 “Aw your little kitty,” she said.  “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” he said.  “She’s been puking a lot lately, and I can’t get a hold of my roommate to see how she is.”  He gazed up at her.  Helen knew Craig was looking to see if she was buying his story.  It wasn’t one of his best.

“Puking?” she asked.

“Blood!” he replied.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said.  “Bring me a fresh cup of coffee, and I’ll let you go early.”

“Really?” 

“I want a fresh cup, though.  I want you to brew a new pot.”

“You’ve got it!” He jumped up and hurried away.

She watched him walk the length of the corridor to an open pantry. With his back to her, she saw him empty the stale coffee into the half-full decaffeinated pot. He rinsed the empty pot before he started a new one. Convinced he was fully occupied, she sprang into action.

She pounced on Craig’s suit jacket, which hung on his chair.  With her right knuckles, she knocked around the pocket areas of the coat until she felt something hard behind the left lapel. She reached in and pulled out his cigarettes, kept in a vintage silver case. With a flip of her thumb, she opened the container. She was surprised by the variety of cigarettes inside, both filtered and unfiltered, as well as a suspicious oily-looking, self-rolled pair. She snatched two with filters, then closed the case and put it back in his jacket.

“Coffee’s brewing,” he said on his return.  “Give me your mug and I’ll wash it for you.”

She thought for a second.  “You know, I can watch the pot.  Why don’t you get going?”

“Are you sure?” He lunged for his jacket.

“Positive.  Go look after your cat.”

“Okay!” Craig was halfway to the elevator lobby.  “Thanks, Helen! See you tomorrow.”

“Bright and early!” She called.

When she was certain he was safely on the elevator, she pulled the purloined cigarettes out of her pocket. They were Newports, not her usual preference, but they were Craig’s brand, and that made them more wonderful than a fresh pack of Dunhills. She started for the fire stairs, focused on savoring her last cigarettes, puff by delicious puff. The night maintenance man crossed her mind and Helen smiled: It’s your lucky day, she thought, whoever you are.

 

BIO: Robert Medina is a Los Angeles native. In addition to Verdad, his work has appeared in the magazines Ink Disease and Inscape. I am deeply grateful to the LBCC Creative Writing Program staff and my fellow 627 Workshop comrades for their encouragement.