What's Your Number Read online

  Anyway, I know why I’m getting chunky. Ever since I decided to stop the insanity, I began consuming large amounts of chocolate because I heard that doing so releases the same feel-good endorphins into the brain as having sex does. My thinking is this: If eating chocolate keeps a steady supply of these endorphins pumping through my brain while I hold out for Mr. Right, then I’ll be less likely to seek out other ways to activate those endorphins, i.e., having sex with another Mr. Right Now.

  Women use all sorts of methods to keep themselves from having sex. Some wear grandma panties when they go on dates; others put off bikini waxes and refuse to shave their legs.4 I eat chocolate. It’s my version of the patch.

  So that’s it. Those are my issues, things I’d like to change about myself. Although I didn’t come up with ways to fix these problems, I still feel a sense of accomplishment because I was able to focus long enough to finish exploring them before my meeting begins. I’m already making progress. Tony Robbins would be proud, I bet. And you know, in some strange way, I think the man with artificial hands who can play the piano would be proud too.

  evildoers

  The meeting is being held in the large conference room, so Michelle and I walk there together. We both started working at the company around the same time three years ago and have been inseparable ever since. We eat lunch together, we take breaks together, and since we live in the same East Village apartment building (she lived there first and gave me a heads-up when the old lady above her died), we frequently travel to and from work together as well. Michelle’s good people, which is why she’s my friend. She’s a very practical person with a strong voice of reason who always expresses her opinion about what I do, whether I like it or not. This can be irritating, but at the same time, it’s nice to have a friend who cares.

  Although we aren’t exactly sure what today’s meeting is going to be about, we have a pretty good idea. About a year ago the company’s CFO, Barry Feinstein, was indicted on several counts of fraud for allegedly reporting inflated company profits to shareholders. According to the newspapers, the SEC has evidence that will likely convict Barry, but offered to lessen the charges against him if he cooperated with their investigation. He agreed and ratted out Elisabeth, saying she pressured him into fixing the books. Because of this, Elisabeth was indicted as well and has since stepped down as the company’s CEO.

  Although not everyone believes it, rumor is that Elisabeth is innocent, that Barry ratted her out only to save his own ass. I believe the rumor and feel bad for Elisabeth. Not only is she on the verge of losing control of the company she built, but she’s also on the verge of losing her good name. The trial is set to begin in a couple of months.

  After giving our names to a human resources lady taking attendance at the door, Michelle and I take two empty seats near a large picture window. As I look around the room, I can’t help but think that a few things about this meeting are strange. First, not everyone on the staff was invited. Second, the people who were invited are an oddly selected group—a few from this department, a few from that department. And third, I can’t remember the last time attendance was taken at a meeting, or if it ever has been. Although I would normally worry about this, I decide not to. Things have been so weird here lately, there’s no point in trying to make sense of it.

  At quarter after four the meeting finally begins. As Roger wobbles up to the front of the room, the human resources lady passes out envelopes to everyone, asking us to wait to open them until she’s finished. Since I’ve never been good at waiting, I ignore her request. My guess (and hope) is that there’s a bonus or gift certificate inside, rewarding us dedicated employees for sticking with the company through this trying time. Elisabeth’s always doing nice things like this for the staff. After tearing the envelope open I pull out the enclosed piece of paper and begin reading, and—

  Whoa, wait.

  This isn’t a bonus; nor is it a gift certificate. In big bold letters across the top of the page are the words termination of employment. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Suddenly it’s like I have Tourette’s. “What the motherfuck is this?” I yell.

  Oops!

  I quickly cover my mouth but do so too late. Everyone in the room has already turned to stare at me, including the human resources lady, including Roger. Looking back down, I quickly scan the rest of the memo. (The ADD makes it difficult to read anything completely from beginning to end.) From what I gather, owing to a decline in profits, the company is downsizing and laying off 25 percent of the staff.

  Oh. My. God.

  I look back up. “We’re getting fired?” I ask. “Are you kidding me?”

  Roger looks at me with pity. “We prefer to call it being laid off.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, I prefer to call it bullshit.”

  Roger shakes his head. “Delilah, I understand your frustration, but please watch your language.” He turns to the group. “Listen, I know this might come as a shocker to most of you, but there’s nothing anyone could’ve done to prevent it from happening. These layoffs were inevitable. This isn’t your fault.”

  No, it’s not my fault; nor does it have anything to do with my multitasking, as I briefly suspected when I read “Termination of Employment.” For a split second I wondered if it was possible that someone was monitoring my computer use, reading my instant messages. I wondered if maybe there was a hidden camera in my office, behind my desk, watching me read Glamour, watching me paint my nails. But no, none of that has been happening because this isn’t my fault.

  I look around the room. Since no one else is speaking up, I appoint myself the spokesperson. “So what are we supposed to do now?” A few coworkers nod when I speak. I feel proud to be their leader.

  “Well, I’m sure you all wanna run right out of here, call your family and friends, and fill them in on what’s going on,” Roger says. “But I shouldn’t have to remind anyone about the confidentiality agreement you signed when this whole mess began. Please avoid talking to anyone about this, particularly the media. The last thing I want is for the details of this meeting to end up on Page Six and—”

  “Excuse me,” I interrupt, “but I wasn’t asking how we should break the bad news to our loved ones and the press. I meant what are we supposed to do now? Like when’s our last day?”

  “Today’s your last day,” Roger says quietly.

  Today? I’m so shocked I can’t respond.

  “Listen, I know this is hard for everyone to understand,” Roger continues, “but please know that this wasn’t an easy decision for us to make. This is something we’ve been mulling over for the past few weeks. The company’s tight on money; these layoffs were inevitable.”

  Inevitable? My head begins to spin, I get dizzy with anger. A few weeks ago, when rumors of a possible layoff circulated, Roger denied them, saying they weren’t true. Now all of a sudden they were inevitable? I stand up.

  “Then you shouldn’t have lied to us a few weeks ago,” I say angrily. “We’re loyal employees who stuck with this company during uncertain times when we could’ve been out looking for more secure jobs. How can you let this happen? How can Elisabeth let this happen?”

  “Elisabeth fought this tooth and nail, but she’s no longer in control of this company. The board overruled her.”

  “Well then the board needs to do something more to take care of us.”

  As a few coworkers yell out from the back of the room, I suddenly begin to feel like Sally Field in that one movie where she works in a factory and starts a union. What’s it called? Norma Rae. Yes, that’s it.

  I am Norma Rae.

  The attendance-taking human resources lady must sense that the “union” is about to take over because she cuts Roger off and explains to everyone that employees who’ve been at the company for over three years will receive a severance check equal to two weeks’ pay for each year of employment. I quickly do the math in my head but can’t remember when I started. It was at least two years ago, but was it three? It’s hard to say.


  “What if we haven’t been here for three years?” I ask on behalf of my union members and myself.

  “Those who don’t receive a severance check can file for unemployment.” She then gleefully points out, “It’s up to four hundred dollars a week now!”

  Four hundred dollars a week? Ooh party! Four hundred dollars a week in New York is pennies. This is not good, not good at all. Not only do I not have a savings account, I also don’t have any investments. The only thing I’ve ever invested in is a good pair of black pants.

  I glare at Roger. He’s such a liar. He’s an evildoer, I tell you! Who does he think he is, standing up there in his high-waisted khaki Dockers that balloon at the knee from being worn too many times? He looks like a carnival act, for God’s sake, a clown. I wouldn’t be surprised if at any minute he started making balloon animals. And that belt he’s wearing . . . that ugly braided belt. Who wears braided belts anymore? Who has since 1995? No one, that’s who. It’s so horrible, the way it’s pulled too tightly around his fat belly, pinching him in the middle—it makes him look like the number eight.

  When other people begin asking questions, I stop channeling Norma Rae and stare out the window at a large white cloud that’s hovering in the distance. If I could hop on it and fly away from this mess, I’d fly past all the office buildings in Manhattan, watch other people being fired, other people aside from me, and offer them words of encouragement.

  “We’ll all be okay,” I’d say. And then they’d smile. And then we’d all go back to my place, work on our résumés, and write one another letters of recommendation. We’d help one another fill out job applications, and in the empty space after Desired Salary, we’d write “$1,000,000” and have a good laugh at our witty reply.

  I’m not sure how much time passes, but eventually the meeting ends. When it does, two ladies from human resources begin calling everyone in the room over to a table alphabetically to answer questions and let us know if we’ve made the severance check cut. As Michelle and I wait for our turn, we debate when we started working for the company. I started a few days before she did, but neither of us is sure if it was over three years ago.

  Michelle and I end up getting called over to the table at the same time. Her last name is Davis, so she always comes right after me in anything alphabetical. After waiting anxiously for the human resources lady to review what I assume is my file, I find out that I made the cut by four days.

  Kick. Ass.

  Not only will I get a check equivalent to six weeks’ salary in the mail sometime next week, but my health insurance will also last six more weeks. After thanking the lady, I turn to Michelle, who’s standing next to me.

  “I made it by four days,” I sigh, relieved. She looks up.

  “I missed it by two.”

  By the look on her face, I can tell she’s disappointed and feels horrible about it. We do the same thing here—we’re both project managers. It doesn’t seem fair that I should get severance pay and not her.

  “I’ll split my check with you,” I say quickly. “And you can split your unemployment check with me. We’ll pool all our money together and cut it right down the middle. That way we’ll make the same amount for the next six weeks.”

  Michelle shakes her head. “I’m not taking your money Delilah, that’s not right.”

  “Yes, it is,” I say, grabbing her by the shoulders. I try to reason with her. “You’ve helped me out so many times that I probably wouldn’t still have this job if it wasn’t for you.” It’s true. She’s always keeping me on track, always reminding me of things. “I owe you for that. Please let me do this.”

  Michelle stares at me. I know she wants to take the money but feels bad. She needs to be pushed.

  “Michelle, have you ever read Chicken Soup for the Soul at Work?” I ask.

  “No,” she says, rolling her eyes. She hates when I quote self-help books.

  “Well, I did, and in that book was a quote by a very wise woman named Sally Koch. Do you wanna know what she said?”

  Michelle nods, indulging my need to share the wisdom.

  “She said, ‘Great opportunities to help others seldom come, but small ones surround us daily.’”

  A smile creeps across Michelle’s face. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

  “Yes,” I respond, “yes I do.”

  “Okay, fine,” she says, giving in. “You can give me your money if that’s what you wanna do.” She then leans over and gives me a hug. “Seriously, thanks,” she whispers. “It means a lot. I’ll figure out a way to make it up.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  After wiping away a few tears, Michelle and I clean out our desks in twenty minutes flat—there’s no reason to hang around the office any longer than necessary. Even though part of me wants to do something bad before I go, like leave a piece of meat in a desk drawer or put a ham steak in the drop ceiling, but I decide against it. I’m a nice Connecticut girl who only thinks of bad things—I don’t actually do them.

  Rumor around the office is that everyone, fired or not, is going to a bar in Midtown known for its relaxed atmosphere and stiff margaritas. Although I don’t have much time before having to hop the train to Connecticut for Daisy’s engagement party, I figure I can squeeze in one drink. I want a drink, I need a drink, I deserve a drink . . .

  pity party

  . . . or four.

  When I get to my mom’s house around nine o’clock, I find that I can’t focus and realize it has nothing to do with my ADD and everything to do with my LOM—my love of margaritas, that is. Yes, I’m drunk. And not only that, but as a bonus, because I’m clumsy and didn’t go home to change, I’m wrinkled and covered in tequila. I know it’s wrong to show up at my sister’s engagement party in this condition, but if I didn’t come up? Daisy would be disappointed and people would begin to speculate.

  “She just couldn’t bear it.”

  “Yeah, I hear she’s eating herself silly.”

  “And to lose her job on top of it . . . what a life, that poor girl.”

  Details of the big layoff topped the evening newscasts, so I’m no longer just the single, older sister, I’m now the jobless, single, older sister.

  My mom and step-dad, Victor, live in the same large, white Colonial house I grew up in, forty miles north of New York City in the woodsy town of New Canaan, Connecticut. The party looks hopping, so without hesitation I head inside to join the fun.

  When I open the front door, an overwhelming smell of garlic and perfume fills my nose. I almost sneeze but don’t, which irritates me. Almost sneezing is like almost having an orgasm. Sure it tickles getting there, but if you don’t get the release you were hoping for at the end, then what’s the point?

  I see Daisy standing in the corner and head her way. She looks fabulous—a thin layer of tulle is peeking out from underneath the cream-colored circle skirt she’s wearing; the rhinestone buttons on her pink cardigan are sparkling. Engrossed in conversation with someone I don’t know, she doesn’t see me sneak up. I whisper softly in her ear. “There’s more St. John in here than a Park Avenue plastic surgeon’s office.” When she hears my voice, Daisy jumps and turns around.

  “Delilah!” she screeches. Her teeth are as white as the china, her beautiful brown hair as bouncy as her boobs. She flings her arms around me. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Me too,” I say, giving my sister a big squeeze. And I mean it. Despite my apprehension about coming, I wouldn’t have missed this party for the world.

  “Let me ask you something,” Daisy says, turning us both around to face the crowd. “If this party is for me, then why aren’t any of my friends here?”

  As I look out into a sea of middle-agers, all who look like they walked right out of Town & Country magazine, I smile. It’s so like my mom to throw a party for Daisy or me yet invite only her friends, many of whom we don’t even know. (It’s not that my mom doesn’t keep old friends, she’s just always making new ones.)

/>   “Who are these people?” I ask, only half-joking.

  Daisy shakes her head. “I have no idea.”

  “Oh, Daisy, Mom’s just proud and wants to show you off.” I mean this—she and her friends are always trying to one-up one another with their kids.

  Daisy rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever.”

  “Hey, is Grandpa here?” I ask, looking around.

  “No,” Daisy replies, looking slightly disappointed. “Apparently there was some schedule mishap at work.”

  Our dad died in a car accident when we were younger, right after Daisy was born in fact. When he did, our grandpa—his dad—became like our father. He signed report cards, went to parent/teacher conferences—you name it. He was around more than some of our friends’ dads, always making sure we didn’t miss out by not having a father. Daisy and I were in grade school when my mom started dating Victor. When they decided to get married, my grandpa didn’t take it very well. Thinking Victor would try to take his place, he pulled both Daisy and me out of class one day and tried to convince us to move to California with him. He wasn’t trying to kidnap us or anything, it wasn’t anything creepy like that, it was more funny and sweet than anything else. Funny because, to this day, my grandpa rarely leaves the East Coast. Sweet because, when Daisy and I told him that no one could take his place, he smiled and then cried.

  “He said he’d try to get off early,” Daisy continues, “but wasn’t sure he’d be able to.” Grandpa’s a bagger at the A & P grocery store in Danbury. It’s his retirement job, the thing he does to keep himself from going crazy with boredom. I’m disappointed he’s not here, but I have a feeling the reason has more to do with the fact that he doesn’t care for the hoity-toity New Canaan crowd my mom and Victor hang out with, than a schedule mishap at work. My grandpa’s very blue collar, very practical. Suddenly, my stomach grumbles loudly.