“Why does your wife need PT?” Gola asked. Another point in my book. They were now more invested in Buddy’s story than juicy office gossip.
“Got hurt on the job a year ago. She was one of those linemen—line lady, she liked to say. Anyway, she fell on the job. Seventeen feet and landed on her back on concrete.”
I winced.
“Bad spinal injury. She’s in a wheelchair. She couldn’t work anymore. Company fought the workers’ comp claim. I lost my job for missing so many days after the accident. Without good health insurance, we couldn’t swing PT appointments anymore. And that was the only thing that made her feel like she had hope, you know.”
“Buddy, that’s awful,” I said.
“It’s been a tough time,” he agreed. “But I always knew there was light at the end of the tunnel, and now look at me. Sitting here with three beautiful ladies with a job in a big-time office and brand-new health insurance.”
I wanted to hug the guy and was deeply moved when Ruth actually did it.
“You’re a great guy, Buddy,” Gola said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand.
He hooted with laughter. “Wait’ll I tell my wife!”
9
Ally
Buddy inhaled his lunch and raced back to the mail room, eager to prove his worth on the first day.
“That was like the most inspiring thing I’ve heard in my life,” Ruth sighed. “I think I love him.”
“Get in line,” I said in unison with Gola.
“Okay, girl,” Gola said. “Let’s get your story. What was Dalessandra Russo doing with you at a bus stop?”
“She was apologizing for her son—who I thought was her date at the time—getting me fired,” I said.
Gola knocked the remains of her green juice over.
“Mr. Ice Statue of Perfection did what now?” Ruth demanded, handing over a stack of napkins.
“Charming—I mean, Dominic—met Dalessandra for dinner at the pizza place I was working at. He was being rude, so I returned his rudeness, and I spelled out an immature message in toppings on his pizza. As one does.”
Gola was gaping at me like I’d just turned into Tina Turner in front of her.
“Yeah, I’m going to need the immature message in its entirety,” Ruth decided.
“FU.”
“You said ‘fuck you’ to Dominic Russo?” Gola said slowly.
“Well, I spelled it with pepperonis. But yeah.”
“What did he do?”
“Blew a gasket. Yelled.”
Ruth and Gola exchanged an incredulous look. “He yelled?”
“Oh, yeah. He yelled. We called each other names. He demanded to see the manager.”
“I knew there was a volcano under that iceberg,” Gola said, slapping the mound of sopping wet napkins. “Didn’t I tell you?”
Ruth nodded. “You did. You called it.”
Gola leaned in. “Dominic Russo has been Frosty the Fine Snowman to everyone since he got here over a year ago,” she explained quietly. The palms probably had ears.
Interesting. My limited experience with Charming had been the exact opposite. I hadn’t seen frigid. I’d seen hellfire.
“Who knew it would be a pepperoni pizza that pushed him over the line?” Ruth mused.
“Okay, so back to the story. FU, demands to see the manager,” Gola recited, waving her hand dangerously close to Ruth’s hot tea.
“So George waddles out of the kitchen, takes a look at Dalessandra’s red leather skirt and Dom’s fancy coat, and fires me on the spot.”
“No!” they gasped.
I liked these two as an audience.
“Yes. I grabbed my coat and bag and went back out into the dining room, made a speech about how we’re human and people like him shouldn’t treat us like we’re not. And then I left.”
Gola and Ruth were hinged forward, hanging on my every word.
“So I’m at the bus stop trying to figure out what to do before my bartending shift—”
“Ally is poor,” Gola explained to Ruth.
“Got it.” Ruth nodded.
“And Dalessandra comes up and apologizes for Dominic and offers me a job on the spot. I didn’t know who she was or what the job was. And here I am.” I decided to leave out the whole vague “Hey, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong with morale” part.
“And here you are,” Ruth repeated in wonder. “This is the most exciting Monday I’ve had in a long time.”
“She has the desk behind Malina,” Gola told Ruth.
“Oh, that sounds fun.” Ruth winced.
“What’s her story anyway?” I asked.
There was another one of those long, pointed looks.
“She was Dominic’s dad’s girlfriend,” Gola whispered the word “girlfriend” and looked over her shoulder.
“You mean side piece,” Ruth hissed.
“Ruth!”
“What? It’s true.” Ruth scooted her chair closer. “So, Paul Russo, Dalessandra’s husband and Dominic’s father, used to be the creative director here. But rumor has it he tended to use his position to go fishing in the company pond if you catch my drift.”
I was an excellent drift catcher.
“Not all of the fish were willing to be caught,” Gola added.
This was news.
“Basically he was a big ol’ perv,” Ruth whispered. “It was common knowledge with the staff, and according to the rumor mill, he’d fired a few of his less-willing victims. So if you wanted to keep your job, you let him grab your ass.”
“That’s bullshit,” I gasped.
They nodded.
“Of course it was,” Gola said.
“And Dalessandra didn’t do anything about it?”
“We don’t know if she knew. I don’t think she would have let him get away with it,” Ruth said. “But no one wanted to test the theory that she’d believe an intern or a junior editor over her own husband.”
“And then there were the Malinas,” Gola added. “She was happy to lock herself in his office for a quickie. He even took her out of the country for a few shoots and shows.”
“She thought she was going to be the next Mrs. Russo,” Ruth added.
“Poor little gold-digging dumbass,” Gola scoffed.
“Anyway, we don’t know for sure. But rumor has it that Paul finally grabbed the wrong girl. And all hell broke loose,” Ruth continued.
“What happened?” I pressed.
“We came in one day, and there was no more Paul. No official announcement. Just Dominic with an assistant clearing out his father’s office. Side note: Another rumor has it he found three boxes of condoms and a bottle of lube in the desk.”
“He got all new furniture because ew,” Gola chimed in.
“A week later, HR rolled out a shiny new harassment and fraternization policy, which pretty much confirmed the rumors.”
“Paul immediately got a job with Indulgence,” Ruth said, naming another fashion magazine. “All of the executives here have non-competes, so who knows how he pulled that off.”