Day Two - Huzzah!

Tammany:

We were at the shop, not doing much of anything. It was the last day before Labor Day weekend, which meant that none of the regulars were here, and all the vacationers hadn't arrived yet. It was nice and quiet. It would be hell tomorrow, though, and every day after. Why Jane had had to quit now, just before the busiest time of the year, still annoyed me. I'd just put up the 'Help Wanted' sign in the window and was making myself food to calm down.

Cale, of course, was sprawled out on the couch I kept behind the counter, humming along with the radio, hands twitching as he played chords on an imaginary piano. His computer was sitting on the table beside him, the screen dimming every so often as it thought it was being ignored. He'd swipe a finger across the mouse pad to brighten it back up.

"You're going to kill the battery doing that," I told him. "And I thought you had to balance the books for that hardware store down the street. That's not balancing anything."

"I'm working on a project. Don't interrupt my creative flow," he said, with great dignity. The effect was ruined somewhat, because his head was hanging off the edge of the cushions and that mass of ginger hair was brushing the floor.

"No, that's the flow of blood to the head,"  I said. "You're getting yourself loopy."

"Exactly. Loopy is creative." I watched him slide down the couch a further two inches. His head was now dangerously close to the floor. "Looooopy."

 I said, "You're going to smack your head."

"Am I?" he asked, and tilted his head to look at the floor, which cause it to smack into the floor. "Ow! Mother of god, ow. You did that on purpose, woman," he said, looking up at me. "Ow."

"It is completely your fault and I take responsibility for nothing," I said, primly, going back to my sandwich.

"Vile witch," he muttered, twisting and contorting himself until he vaguely resembled upright. "You shall pay for your sins." The door opened, the bells hanging from it jingling. He continued his rant, saying, "Suffer not a witch to live - I shall douse you in cheese and you shall wither -"

"You're scaring the normal lady," I told him, before smiling at our first vacationer of the year. "Sorry, he's a little special. What will you have?"

"A job?" she asked, looking around at the movie and music posters plastering the walls. "That would be awesome."

I blinked. "Wait, seriously?"

"Yeah, seriously. I just moved into the neighborhood." She looked at me, a hopeful smile on her face. "And I sort of really need a job."

I reached under the counter to the slim pile of forms that I'd printed out that morning. "Uh, just fill this out, I guess. You've never murdered someone with a bread knife or by poisoning their food, right?"

"Except for one man in Reno, just to watch him die," she said. Her face was completely straight.

"I like her," Cale said, successfully standing up. "You should definitely hire her."

The chick nodded earnestly. "You really should," she said.

I rolled my eyes. Then I heard the sound that becomes familiar to any owner of a restaurant - a grumbling stomach. The chick looked embarrassed. "Sorry, we were moving furniture all morning. I'm sort of starving."

"What kind of sandwich?" I asked.

She peered over the counter at my soon-to-be lunch. "Whatever that is, with cheese."

"One gazpacho and hummus, coming right up," I said.

Cale flopped dramatically back onto the couch. "I'm surrounded by people who refuse normal sandwiches. Hummus is not a sandwich filling."

"And neither is spray cheese," I told him. "Philistine."

"Gourmand."

As we argued, the chick filled out the papers at the counter. When I finished the sandwich and she handed me a five, she passed me the application as well. Her name was Grace Farthing, apparently. I glanced over the application, noted the lack of spelling mistakes and people murders in her past, and nodded. "Cool, you're hired," I said.

"Really? Awesome," she said. "When do I start?"

"Tomorrow?" I asked tentatively.

"Sounds good," she said, smiling. "I have absolutely no idea how to make a sandwich like this one, though," holding up the hummus-which, "so you'll have to teach me."

Cale said, "I can tell you definitively that no one knows how to make that sandwich except for her, because it is an abomination and should never have been conceived."

"Hummus-hater," I said.

"You say it like that's wrong, when egg salad spread is obviously better."

"It is wrong, duh. Hummus all the way," I said,

"I honestly prefer jam to anything else," Grace said.

Both of us turned on her, and I began to suspect she'd fit in perfectly well.


Nathan:

I was honestly considering whistling while I made my coffee. The day was going relatively well, I thought. No major crisis, I'd secured the music rights deal for the new movie, and none of our people had been accused of major scandals. A success in just about every sense. I hadn't even had to deal with Morgan yet.

Of course, new hires - especially expensive new hires - are almost always trouble sooner or later. Unfortunately, today it was to be sooner. The new soundboard operator, whose self-owned private studio we'd just bought out and whom we'd hired - for a very nice salary, might I add - for the new 'indie' label, was MIA, according to a terrified young intern, who probably didn't deserve to be the one sent to me.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, annoyed that my for once decent mood was being interrupted. "Tell H.R. Not the President of the Board."

"You did send out a memo saying that all developments about Farthing Records should be reported to you," the intern quavered. "And John in H.R. sent me to tell you."

I sighed. "Have you done anything to irritate him? Burn his coffee, maybe?"

"... Yes?" she said. It was a question, asking if that was the right answer.

"Here's a hint - don't do that again," I said. "John can be a little vindictive with interns. Just try to avoid him."

"Yessir. May I leave, sir?" she asked. I nodded and she fled.

Leaving the executive break room, I was even more annoyed. Expensive, brand-new employees should have the decency to be on time. Someone who couldn't even do that was perhaps not the best hire. I'd even had the head of H.R. interview him by phone personally - maybe there was more than just one person I needed to talk to.

My bad mood building further, I headed for James' office. He had some explaining to do. Or someone did - I wanted explanations.

I heard heels clicking up behind me. Morgan said, "And who are you about to unleash sturm und drang on, cousin dear?"

"James. The idiot. The man hired that new sound booth man, who didn't even bother to show up today. Honestly, do I have to do everything around here?"

"No, you don't - you're simply bored and trying to find a new windmill against which to tilt," she said, keeping up with my long strides with irritating ease. "You know it's not James' fault, too. You pushed through the hire, and being late for orientation isn't something that is dealt with during an interview. And on top of that, your newest opponent is not even a real windmill - Mr. Faring or Thaving or whatever his name is, was actually here on time. Early, even. He simply got himself magnificently, wonderfully lost trying to find his orientation guide. He's now being pointed north and you have nothing to worry about. Go enjoy that the company is running well and you have relatively little to do, for once.

I could feel myself deflating, my self-righteous anger disappearing in a long, slow, sad hiss. "Huh."

"Yeah."

"Maybe I am a little bored," I said, cautiously, slowing my steps and rerouting myself to head back to my office.

"Just a little."

"And perhaps that was just a touch out of proportion, just now."

"A bit." She was nodding her head understandingly. Witch.

"And you can stop nodding like you're perfect, because you've got a run in your hose, cousin mine," I said, a little vindictively. "Go make us another million dollars. Be sure to send me the papers once they're ready to be signed - I'm sure you'll have taken care of everything else."

And I walked - calmly, professionally, and not at all like I was perhaps sulking - back to my office to play with those little balls that click back and forth.

The company was running amazingly smoothly. Everything was profit, everything was money in the bank, everything was good publicity, or at the least not bad publicity. And I was getting just a touch bored. I'd been head of the company for three years now, and during those years I'd pulled it from the brink of disaster and made it thrive. And now I was bored out of my mind. Disaster made me think more quickly, made me react better, made me feel alive. Now all I had were silly little executive toys on my desk and one buy-out or new artist after another. It was great for the business, but my brain was going to melt out my ears soon, and not even Morgan would be able to stop me from going a little crazy then. It would not be good.

As I watched the balls swing back and forth, my intercom buzzed. I pressed talk, and my P.A.'s voice came across. "Mr. Harding, Morgan would like to speak with you."

"Oh, lord," I muttered, and then, pressing talk, I said, "Show her in, please."