The Devil Eats Here (Multi-Author Short Story Collection) by Alice Gaines, Tara Maya, Rayne Hall, Jonathan Broughton, Siewleng Torossian, John Hoddy, John Blackport, Douglas Kolacki, April Grey Page B
Authors: Alice Gaines, Tara Maya, Rayne Hall, Jonathan Broughton, Siewleng Torossian, John Hoddy, John Blackport, Douglas Kolacki, April Grey
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opportunities for advancement.” He gazed past her at the golf trophies on his shelf. “Don’t blame me if you haven’t utilized the right career paths.”
Her fingers itched to shake the little weasel. That wouldn’t get her a promotion, though. In fact, it’d probably get her fired. She ought to quit on her own, but good job opportunities didn’t pop up everywhere these days, and most folks were happy to earn a paycheck, even from a boss like Stew the Poo.
“Now, maybe you’d better get back to work,” the Poo said. “I still need the project implementation projections.”
Cyn did a not-so-slow burn. The creep had dangled the carrot of a promotion in front of her for months. Then, he’d hired someone from the outside. Next, he’d ordered Cyn to train the new person. Now, he’d dismissed her. If she stuck around another minute, she’d say something she’d regret.
So, she stood and looked down at him. “Fine.”
He gave her an oily smile. He’d won, and he knew it. “You’re a team-player, Cyn. That’s what I like about you.”
“Right,” she said from between clenched teeth. Before either of them could say another word, she turned and left the office.
Once in the hallway, she pulled the door closed carefully, rather than slam it, as she’d really like to do. Then, she pounded her head on the wall a few times.
Bam. There had to be another job somewhere that would pay her more money. But, she’d have to leave her pension and 401k if she left.
Bam. There had to be a way for a regular single person to qualify for a mortgage. But in Oakland, decent houses started at three-hundred thousand.
Bam. She’d move to the boondocks. But then, she’d have a multi-hour commute on freeways that looked like parking lots at rush hour.
Bam. There had to be some way. There had to be.
“Why are you doing that?”
“Huh?” Cyn looked up.
Midge, the receptionist, was staring at her with alarm-widened eyes, coffee spilling from her mug.
“Why are you pounding your head against the wall?” Midge righted her cup.
“Because it feels so good when I stop.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
She knew it didn’t. Still, what could she do?
“Calories,” Cyn mumbled. “I need calories.”
*
Smells of chili and cilantro filled the air at Romero's, mingled with the scents of corn, cumin and melted cheese.
Jenny shrugged out of her coat and draped it over the wooden chair opposite Cyn’s. “Okay, who died?”
Cyn set down her menu. “You don’t want to know.”
“You never ask me to meet you at Romero’s unless something really bad has happened.”
“Sit down and help me decide,” Cyn said. “I plan to order half the menu.”
From the kitchen came incessant chatter in Spanish and the clattering of pans and dishes.
Jenny sat and put her warm hand on Cyn’s. “Tell me, honey.”
“In a minute. I need to fortify myself with some refried beans.”
“We’ll go for ice cream afterwards.”
Bless Jenny. The rest of the world acted as if she had no right to eat because she wore a size twenty-two, but Jenny never disapproved.
The elderly waiter waited with a pen poised in his gnarled fingers. “Do las señoritas know what you’ll have?”
“We’ll want to split some guacamole,” Cyn said. “And I’ll have the number three.”
Jenny didn’t even look at her menu. “I’ll have the same.”
The man took their menus and limped off as if every step aggravated his arthritis.
Cyn dipped a tortilla chip into the salsa and raised it in a toast. “Over the teeth and past the gums. Look out, buttocks, here it comes.”
Jenny crossed her arms over her chest. “Why do you do that?”
“What?” Cyn put the salsa-laden chip in her mouth and chewed.
“Why do you make fun of yourself like that?”
Cyn swallowed. “You think it’s not going to my buttocks?”
“Your buttocks are gorgeous.”
“You’re the best, Jenny,” Cyn said. “But you need to have your eyes
Her fingers itched to shake the little weasel. That wouldn’t get her a promotion, though. In fact, it’d probably get her fired. She ought to quit on her own, but good job opportunities didn’t pop up everywhere these days, and most folks were happy to earn a paycheck, even from a boss like Stew the Poo.
“Now, maybe you’d better get back to work,” the Poo said. “I still need the project implementation projections.”
Cyn did a not-so-slow burn. The creep had dangled the carrot of a promotion in front of her for months. Then, he’d hired someone from the outside. Next, he’d ordered Cyn to train the new person. Now, he’d dismissed her. If she stuck around another minute, she’d say something she’d regret.
So, she stood and looked down at him. “Fine.”
He gave her an oily smile. He’d won, and he knew it. “You’re a team-player, Cyn. That’s what I like about you.”
“Right,” she said from between clenched teeth. Before either of them could say another word, she turned and left the office.
Once in the hallway, she pulled the door closed carefully, rather than slam it, as she’d really like to do. Then, she pounded her head on the wall a few times.
Bam. There had to be another job somewhere that would pay her more money. But, she’d have to leave her pension and 401k if she left.
Bam. There had to be a way for a regular single person to qualify for a mortgage. But in Oakland, decent houses started at three-hundred thousand.
Bam. She’d move to the boondocks. But then, she’d have a multi-hour commute on freeways that looked like parking lots at rush hour.
Bam. There had to be some way. There had to be.
“Why are you doing that?”
“Huh?” Cyn looked up.
Midge, the receptionist, was staring at her with alarm-widened eyes, coffee spilling from her mug.
“Why are you pounding your head against the wall?” Midge righted her cup.
“Because it feels so good when I stop.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
She knew it didn’t. Still, what could she do?
“Calories,” Cyn mumbled. “I need calories.”
*
Smells of chili and cilantro filled the air at Romero's, mingled with the scents of corn, cumin and melted cheese.
Jenny shrugged out of her coat and draped it over the wooden chair opposite Cyn’s. “Okay, who died?”
Cyn set down her menu. “You don’t want to know.”
“You never ask me to meet you at Romero’s unless something really bad has happened.”
“Sit down and help me decide,” Cyn said. “I plan to order half the menu.”
From the kitchen came incessant chatter in Spanish and the clattering of pans and dishes.
Jenny sat and put her warm hand on Cyn’s. “Tell me, honey.”
“In a minute. I need to fortify myself with some refried beans.”
“We’ll go for ice cream afterwards.”
Bless Jenny. The rest of the world acted as if she had no right to eat because she wore a size twenty-two, but Jenny never disapproved.
The elderly waiter waited with a pen poised in his gnarled fingers. “Do las señoritas know what you’ll have?”
“We’ll want to split some guacamole,” Cyn said. “And I’ll have the number three.”
Jenny didn’t even look at her menu. “I’ll have the same.”
The man took their menus and limped off as if every step aggravated his arthritis.
Cyn dipped a tortilla chip into the salsa and raised it in a toast. “Over the teeth and past the gums. Look out, buttocks, here it comes.”
Jenny crossed her arms over her chest. “Why do you do that?”
“What?” Cyn put the salsa-laden chip in her mouth and chewed.
“Why do you make fun of yourself like that?”
Cyn swallowed. “You think it’s not going to my buttocks?”
“Your buttocks are gorgeous.”
“You’re the best, Jenny,” Cyn said. “But you need to have your eyes
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