“You need money,” Anjali prods. “How much fuck-you money do you have?”
Fuck-you money is the money you save for whenever you need to tell your boss or your partner where to go as you blow out the door. Except I used my fuck-you money to pay the extra fees for Mom’s private room at Glen Lake. The government only pays the cost for shared rooms and Mom would hate that. We once visited my grandfather in a shared room—he liked the company—and she came out and whispered to me that she’d rather be left in a forest to be eaten by animals than have to deal with a stranger’s noises all day. Mom needs quiet.
“Enough for one month and they offered three months of severance.”
“Get the lawyer to boost that. Not bad, though. You have time.” She writes Find new job on the list and then under that, without asking my opinion, four things I need to do to achieve it. She looks up.
“Aren’t you obsessed with those to-do list apps? Seems like a good time to bust one out.”
“I decided I don’t like any of them.” None of them do exactly what I want, but what ever does?
“Make your own, then.” She tosses this off like it’s no big thing and bends down to write:
Clean apartment.
Get Todd cursed.
Call Fred about termination.
Exercise every day.
Assassinate Todd.
Visit Mom.
The last makes me catch my breath. What if Xin Guang has a room available soon? It’s impossible to know when a room will come free, as it depends on…well, someone dying, which is awfully morbid. They only give you six hours to accept before it goes to the next person on the list. I need to have money ready for a deposit, and I won’t have it without a job.
Anjali taps the pen against her leg. “Do you do a monthly budget?”
“Of course.” I meant to do one, at least.
She stops tapping. “If I asked, could you provide it in paper or digital format?”
“It’s more of a mental tracking.”
She doesn’t bother to answer. Her pen flies over the paper as she lists out my expected monthly expenses. With each line, my breathing gets a little shallower. Rent. Food. Phone, utilities, Mom’s private room. Transit. Clothes. She purses her lips and crosses that out. “Better get used to shopping your closet,” she says.
I have no job. No income. No recruiters banging on my digital door to hire a woman who can only offer an average skill set and termination letter instead of a glowing reference.
Suddenly Fangli’s offer seems more appealing. I empty my glass and open my mouth to ask Anjali her opinion, then shut it fast because I don’t want her answer. I know what it will be.
Instead, I take the paper she hands to me and look it over before adding an invisible task.
Call Wei Fangli.
Anjali leaves an hour later, and with the daring of almost a bottle of wine in me, I text the number on the card.
I’m interested in learning more.
I don’t even hesitate before I hit Send. This isn’t like me but, again, wine.
I pose in the bathroom mirror, trying to imitate Fangli’s serene smile and confidence. Both are unsuccessful.
We’ll see what tomorrow brings. Probably more failure.
***
The hangxiety hits at exactly four in the morning. I jerk out of sleep, heart hammering and dread breaking over me. I had a few drinks and my entire body knows I fucked up and humiliated myself. What? What? What did I say? I curl up and bury my head under the covers. Anjali came over. We drank wine, made my list. I emailed Fred to set up an appointment about my termination agreement. Anjali read it over, so I know that was fine. When she left, I texted Wei Fangli and very proudly put a thick, black mental line through that task.
I texted Wei Fangli.
My body instinctively coils up tighter as I pinpoint my tragic error. Why didn’t I wait until the morning and sober reflection?
It’s too late now. I reach out and find my water bottle empty so I stumble through the dark apartment to fill it up. In the kitchen, I drink deeply, then refill the bottle and return to bed. My phone is lying facedown on the night table, and I grab it. Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me; I only thought I sent the text.
Hotel Xanadu, Room 1573. Noon tomorrow. Wear a hat and sunglasses.
The text had been sent. The text has been answered. I’d put this in motion with wine courage. It’s only for more information, I argue with myself. I don’t have to take the deal. I can walk out at any time.
Right, that’s so like me.
I put the phone down and start an interior conversation I know will take me to dawn. It’s not so much a dialogue as it is my brain on a carousel circling through the same thoughts.