The Bomb Shelter (Chapter Two, p1)

Chapter Two

I saw a screen-recording of a livestream of The Dictator at a White House press conference today. In response to a journalist asking about his administration’s first-strike policy, he does a terrible imitation of Jamaican patois. This is the second time a video of him doing the accent has gone viral this year, and the first one was better. What’s funny instead is the uncharacteristic silence of the press corps in response; for a good ten seconds, no one says a thing. No interjections, no but Mr. President, what about…? Even the flashing of photo bulbs pauses while The Dictator stands proud in the silence. I double over laughing in bed, before scrolling away just as a journalist breaks the silence with,  Mr. President, the U.N. has said the risk of nuclear strikes  –

I click to share the link with Helga via Messenger. It goes unread.

Later, she love-heart-reacts it and replies: ‘lol!!! Chet sent me this too xx’. 

#

Colleen gestures for me to sit across from her desk. Tall and wide, Colleen dwarves the mass-produced office equipment the organisation has furnished all our offices with. She clears her throat in three disgusting syllables, then, finally, she croaks out my name. 

“What’s up?” I ask, smiling. 

Hung behind her desk, Colleen has a printed, laminated, letter-sized motivational poster which reads: Progress isn’t always a straight line. Sometimes it loops back, stops for coffee, and accidentally joins a knitting group. In the corner is a watermark from funnyinspiringquotes.net.

“I wanted to talk to you about the HR crew’s retreat in a few weeks.” She’s typing something on her Surface Pro, not making eye contact. Technically, Colleen isn’t my line supervisor (I’m in ‘Talent Retainment’, she’s in ‘Culture and Spirit’) but it’s also not exactly lateral either. I know I have to play her game.

“I’m really looking forward to it.”

“Hm.” Colleen turns her screen toward me. My employee file. “Last year you updated your address. The Lake Woodwark area, yeah?”

She scratches under her sagging breasts, where a sweat patch fans out from her sternum to the sides of her QVC blouse, exposing the stretched outline of shapewear. 

“That’s my late father’s address. I go there sometimes, to feel close to him. I still keep my apartment in the city.” I force a grimace, trying to sell this. 

“So you don’t primarily reside in Woodwark?”

“Not at all?” I shake my head. 

“I ask because Lake Woodwark is… I mean, you’d know this – maybe a mile from where we booked the retreat.”

“Oh, woah.”

“Yeah. Accommodation for all of the Human Resources teams is a major expense. The site we chose by the lake only offers premium options; cabins, suites.”

“Yeah?”

“So if… even a few of us could simply stay at our places of residence—”

“But I live in the city.”

“—it would just be more cost-effective.”

I nod, keeping my face still, like a gargoyle’s. “That would be cost-effective. Who else lives out that way?”

Colleen frowns. “Well, you do.”

“I’m sorry if I confused you when I updated my file, Colleen. I just wanted to keep all my contact info on hand. In case of emergency.” I remain still. 

Colleen closes her Surface Pro, an admission of defeat. I gesture toward her office door and she nods. As I rise, she stops me, gently placing her hefty palm on my shoulder. 

“I don’t know if I ever said anything properly last year, but…” She stiffens. “Sorry about your father.”

I pause awkwardly. “Thank you.”

“May I ask how he passed?”

“He drowned.”

#

Toros, the Armenian twink in my department who thinks we’re friends, stops me in the lunchroom.

“What did Colleen want?”

“To grind bread from my bones. Who knows.”

He spreads a thin layer of avocado meat on tuna and wheat. I fear he’s about to microwave it.

“Get her drunk at the retreat and ask her about her ex-husband,” Toros suggests with a sly, faggoty smile.

“Her ex-husband?”

Toros stares. “You’ve never heard?” 

He pulls me into a useless alcove next to the breakroom, full of conspiracy. Some intern, unsure what to do with this space, has tacked up official flyers from the organisation in here:

This company supports democracy with neutrality. 

We are neutral in the face of chaos.

“You remember that guy on the news like five years back? Who went totally postal on a Sikh temple in Synecdoche and shot twelve people? That was Colleen’s fella.” Toros is whispering, grinning stupidly. 

“No.” 

“Yeah. Brutal. Totally destroyed her life—she had no idea, he just snapped.” He shakes his head. “Apparently, whenever she gets drunk, she cries about how much it costs him to call her from federal prison.”

Toros leads us back to the break room, out into the open.

“Every time?”

“Every single time. Colleen’s a fucking scream.”

Toros chortles, still grinning like a moron. I suppress the inexplicable urge to slap him, just to see what would happen. 

#

I’m called into a four-thirty meeting in the Old West-themed conference room with Colleen and our head of Talent, Mr. Ichabod. Mr. Ichabod is a bald man in a grey pinstriped suit who doesn’t look up to greet me. The conference room has a looming mural on an accent wall depicting the face of an old-timey saloon.  My first thought is that I’m being made redundant, like the others were after the election. I think of Lowell’s offer. I think of Lowell in the pig mask, kneeling, prone, dripping pre-cum on the duvet. 

Colleen produces four identical sheets of paper and hands one to each of us before I can speak. I don’t read mine. 

“It’s about Toros, Aimee. We need your help.”

“Toros?”

Mr. Ichabod gestures to a paragraph on the first page. I glance down and see we’re all holding a photocopy of recent amendments to the employee conduct policy. Colleen and Mr. Ichabod both zero in on a section she’s highlighted in pink. She reads silently; he reads aloud:

“Conduct Policy Amendment Five – Social Media Usage. Employees must, at all times, commit themselves to total political neutrality on public-facing social media.” Mr. Ichabod clears his throat. “This includes but is not limited to: text posts, comments, images, ‘likes’, ‘retweets’, ‘faves’, ‘stitches’, ‘reacts’, or subscriber-only content.”

They both turn the page. I follow their lead. 

A screenshot of Toros’ Twitter account—@torossssssss—has been pasted in, though the word processor’s margins have cut off some of the content. Toros retweeted a post that reads: I think it’s disgusting what Disney’s new CEO has done to The Hall of Presidents. This is not reversible. What’s her plan in four years after the next election? The tweet is accompanied by a video of a Chinese family riding the attraction, which is now noticeably missing Abraham Lincoln, Clinton, and Obama. The thread’s top comment, posted by a user with an anime girl as their profile picture, reads ‘ratio bitch’. It has more likes than the post. It probably didn’t need to be included.

“You can see why this is an issue, Aimee,” Mr. Ichabod says, turning to Colleen. “Colleen and I have already discussed what needs to happen.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

Colleen balks. “He needs to go, obviously.”

“Okay.”

“He needs to go today,” she adds. “We thought that, since you two are so close, he’d want you in the meeting as his support person.”

“We have to offer one,” Mr. Ichabod adds. “A support person, I mean.”

“Toros and I are not that close, Colleen. Mr. Ichabod, with respect, I’m not the right fit for this.”

Mr. Ichabod glances at the wall clock. It’s 4:45 p.m. He looks to Colleen.

“He’d be en route,” Colleen says. “Might already be waiting.”

They turn to me, regarding me with a look that might pass for pleading. 

#

Toros arrives already carrying most of his personal belongings, apparently having been tipped off. A fidget spinner, swag from a long-ago diversity training, sits atop framed photos of his ugly dog, which I know for a fact has cost him thousands in bowel surgeries. Through the meeting, Toros looks pained, but doesn’t argue. I sit beside him, silent, while Colleen and Mr. Ichabod take turns both scolding and evangelizing about ‘new opportunities.’ When Toros stands to leave, he hands me the box, assuming unilaterally that I’ll walk out alongside him.

He turns to Colleen. “I just wanted to say, Colleen. I always respected you. The work you do. Thank you.” Toros holds a hand out for her to shake, which Colleen returns with a thin smile. 

In the employee parking lot, Toros pops the trunk and I place his box inside. I spy a dog collar, a leash, an unbranded gym bag, laid out depressingly on the bottom of his trunk. He slams it shut and I’m not sure what to say. 

“You can go back inside. I’m not about to, like, walk into traffic or anything.” He walks to the driver's side door and steps into the car.  I watch him reverse out of the spot. He rolls down the window as the car is beside me. 

“Text me? We’ll get coffee,” he adds, his gaze locked on the rear view mirror.

“Sure.” I step backwards, giving him room to reverse. He drives towards the exit. For some reason, I give a military salute. 

The car leaves the lot, out of sight. It’s well past five now. I wonder which one of my Bleubox meal-kits I should prepare for dinner. I block and delete Toros on all platforms.

#

On Saturday, I step off the subway car directly into a humid waft of trash smell. It’s after four, the platform deserted, and I’m already tired from the trip into the city. Graffiti on the tiles in yellow spray-paint reads america. rest in power above a stencilled image of a rat smoking a cigar.  I eventually pass by someone else on the stairs up to street level, a homeless man who’s wearing a thrifted custom T-shirt printed years back for some family’s pacific cruise: The McCormacks: 2022 Cruise To Tonga!. I consider crossing the street when I reach the top, going back down the station stairs, and boarding a train that would take me back home. I consider this so seriously that, for a moment, I’ve stood completely still.

 #

I wait where we agreed: a self-conscious dive bar called Gloria’s Divorce, nestled in a particularly corporate block downtown. Seated at the bar, I sip an eleven-dollar vodka soda that tastes like liquid wrung from a mop. In a booth behind me, some finance bro’s on the phone talking about a girl he recently fucked.

“Aimee. You’re Aimee.” I look up at the doorway. Chet walks in wearing chino shorts and a department store graphic tee. Alone. He holds out his hand as he approaches me, grinning with that smug, deodorant-commercial boarding-school charisma. I shake it. 

“Hi. Hi.” My voice is flat, full of confusion. Helga was meant to be with him.

“Don’t worry, she’s coming. She just stopped to find somewhere to pee, she’ll be a sec,” he says. “Can I sit? It’s nice to meet you, finally.”

I nod and gesture to the bar stool two down from me. “You, too.”

“What are you having?” He sits. 

“Vodka.” I show him my glass, as if to serve as proof. Chet leans in toward the bartender. “Excuse me?”

The bartender, a college-aged girl with pink hair, leans on the wall texting on her phone. She doesn’t look up. “Yeah?”

“I’ll get the same as her.” He points to me. She makes his drink wordlessly and then presents him a glass.“So you like this place?” he asks, glancing around.

“What? No.” I glance too, still unimpressed. “Never heard of it. Helga suggested we meet here.”

Chet looks genuinely confused. I imagine it’s rare for him to have to manage an incongruence, even this mild. “I guess it’s close to Reggie’s work. Maybe that’s why she picked it.”

“Oh? You work with Reggie?” I forget that I’m not supposed to know about Reggie; I silently curse myself. 

“No, no, uh. Reggie’s my little brother, he’s doing an internship at Kestrel Ridge, a hedge fund a few blocks uptown. They’re having some sort of Saturday working bee for summer reporting and I had lunch with him.”

“Right. That’s thoughtful of her.”

“She’s very thoughtful,” he says. 

I go back to sipping my mopwater. He’s describing her like he knows her. Just months ago he’d been an overly-earnest Hinge profile Helga and I had laughed at, and now that he’s cummed a fetus in her he thinks I need him to describe her core personality traits to me, like it's the start of a play. He’s sipping the same mopwater as me while I watch him try to think of further ice-breakers.

“Helga says you live upstate in Woodwark, near the lake.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a hike. Thanks for coming all this way.”

“Well, I came to see Helga.” 

Chet frowns. He looks at me, doe-eyed with sympathy. “Yeah. Of course.”

“I just meant that…it’s not a big deal.” I overcorrect: “And I came to meet you, of course.”

Chet grins, then, and holds his glass up to me, inviting me to clink. “Cheers.” 

I, indeed, return his clink, which I despise him for. He’s still smiling at me. 

Helga soon arrives, exhaling as she pushes through the bar door, flustered. “I had to beg them to let me pee.” She embraces me loosely while speaking at Chet.

“Where? Which bodega?” he asks. 

She gestures vaguely. “The one we passed.” She finally looks at me after releasing me from her hug. “Thank you for coming.”

“It’s good to see you.”

“Were you two bonding?” Helga sits between us, glancing at us both. The pink-haired bartender approaches but Helga shakes her head ‘no’. I note Helga’s skin, uniform and dewey, and the way her facial features are dulled by a slight bloat. Pregnancy will punish her now. She’ll never look like the old Helga again.

“So? Are you going to show me?” I force myself to ask.

Helga grins and holds her hand out, palm down. She’s wearing the gaudy ring and diamond I already saw on her Instagram, along with everyone else. I grasp her hand to examine it closer, hoping to find some obvious imperfection that even I would notice. I don’t.

“Amazing.” I look at her and Chet. Chet’s arm is around her now. They stare back at me as a single organism. If I squint, I can imagine they look like brother and sister singers in a family folk band, posing for an E.P cover, which makes them a less intimidating figure.

“You’ll be my maid of honour -- obviously?” Helga says the final word in a higher, hopeful register.

“Yes. Yes, of course. When? Do you know when?”

Helga’s hands cradle her tiny belly bump. “We figured we may as well wait until the little one’s here and I’m ready. We’re not trying to fool anyone.”

“My mother is already picking out floral arrangements, though,” Chet says. I recall his mother’s social media presence feeling actively hostile, like being hit with a hammer, so I know he is vastly understating it. I imagine Old Mrs. Chet blows up Helga’s phone, alternating Pinterest links with passive-aggressive GIFs. I wonder if they’ve met.

“You’ve met everyone? Family?” 

“Oh, yeah. Helga’s sister came up last week,” Chet says, but I don’t care about this at all.

“I mean Chet’s family,” I ask. I look only at Helga.

“Well, Reggie, I met him today. He’s sweet.” Her and Chet share a look. “Chet’s Mom’s in Seattle, so it’s hard for her. She’ll come over for the birth, though.”

I nod and slam the rest of my drink, which is still disgusting. “Sounds like a plan.”

“So what’s up? Should we get dinner later?” Chet asks.

I nod. “The three of us?”

“Yeah…I figured?” Chet says. He retracts his arm from around Helga, who I spot giving him a look.

“Okay, that sounds good. Where?” I ask.

Helga grimaces. “I don’t know if…I know you came all this way, but…” Chet and her share another look. “I get tired so early at the moment and eating a big meal makes me sick. I’m sorry, Aimee.”

I shake my head. “It’s all good.”

“I know how hard it is for you to get to the city. We can still hang here, though.”

“It’s really fine.”

Helga holds her grimace. Chet looks around the bar aimlessly, all of us sitting in silence. The finance bro in the booth is long-gone now, and a barfly in the corner turns the page on a ratty newspaper. I can hear the recognisable click-click-click of the bartender playing Words With Friends.

Chet stands. “I’m gonna order us another round and make a client call real quick. Okay?”  He waves to the bartender. “Another two.” He takes his phone out and starts towards the door. “I’ll step out.” The brief moment of sunlight as Chet walks through the door feels out of place here, now; too illuminating. 

The bartender produces two more vodka-sodas. I relocate my straw from my empty glass to the new one, start sipping. “So do you miss drinking wine?” I ask Helga, not looking up.

“Do you have something you need to say to me?”

“Sorry?”

“I feel like you’re – like, I dunno, pissed at me?” 

I shake my head. “Not at all, why would I be mad?” Helga does the stupid fucking cradling her stomach thing again.