steal food if you were starving.”
“We’re not talking nuns,” Margery said. “We’re not even talking humans. Think like a robber baron. No, like an Enron executive. Never show an ounce of compassion.
Screw the widows and orphans. The bottom line is what matters. If you have any doubts, ask yourself, ‘What would Enron do?’ ”
“Right,” Helen said. “Bottom line. To heck with widows and orphans. I’m ready. Can I use your phone?”
“Soon as I finish painting,” Margery said. Ten minutes later, when she had foam thingies separating her red- hot toes, Margery hobbled into the house. Pete greeted them with his usual angry squawk. Margery threw the cover over the cage.
“That will shut him up. We can’t have featherhead screeching during the test. You take the kitchen phone. I’ll be listening on the bedroom extension if you need help.”
Helen dialed the 800 number, then punched in the code.
A mechanical voice asked for her Social Security number.
Helen punched in her number, with two digits off, and prayed they didn’t check it.
A stern female voice said, “Congratulations. You are taking the job test. Please answer honestly. Press one for yes.
Press three for no.” It was the voice of authority. It was the voice that said Helen did not quite measure up. She felt a sudden urge to confess she’d sneaked a cigarette in the girl’s bathroom, she’d skipped school on a sunny spring day, and she’d taken two dollars off her mother’s dresser.
But there was no need. The voice knew every venal act.
The first couple of questions were easy.
“Are you always pleased with your job performance?” the voice asked in crisp, no-nonsense tones.
Helen pressed no. Margery kept quiet.
“If a supermarket charged you for a dozen oranges and when you got home you realized you had thirteen, would you return to the store to pay for the extra orange?”
Right. She should endure a two-dollar round-trip bus ride to return something worth ten cents—when it was the store’s mistake? She could see the clerk, irritated by the extra hassle. She could see the line forming behind her, as the store tried to deal with this unprecedented situation.
Close your eyes and think of Enron, Helen told herself.
They’d want every dime. She pressed yes.
“Have you ever lied about anything?”
Helen pressed yes again. It was a trick question. Everyone lies, even if it’s to say, “I’m sorry, I have another engagement and can’t come to your party,” instead of, “I wouldn’t go if you paid me.”
“If a man in a bar offered to sell you a Rolex watch for twenty dollars, would you buy it?” the voice asked.
A definite no. Helen hated the guys who went around to bars late at night selling CDs and watches. Besides, it was probably a fake Rolex.
Then the voice asked, “If one of your coworkers needed money for medicine for her sick child, and you caught her taking twenty dollars from her cash register, would you:
“One, report her to your supervisor for proper disciplinary action.” Ha, Helen thought, the bastards would fire her in a heartbeat.
“Two, say nothing. It’s none of your business.” That had possibilities.
“Three, lend her the money and remind her that pilfering is not a good idea.”
Three was a little sanctimonious, but probably the best option.
Margery said, “Helen, don’t you dare press three. What would Enron do?”
Damn the widows and children, full speed ahead. “Report the thieving witch,” Helen said.
“Very good,” Margery said.
The questions were obsessive on stealing. They asked:
“Do you think it is OK to steal from a large corporation if they won’t miss it?
“Do you think it is OK to steal from a large corporation because they are stealing from you?
“Do your friends steal?
“Have you ever been tempted to steal?”
What would Enron do? What would Enron do? Helen asked herself as the voice pounded her with more questions. These people had twisted minds.
“Many companies fire someone who is caught stealing, no matter how inexpensive the item. Do you agree with this policy?”
Yes, said Helen, in full Enron mode. Unless we hang them, like they did in the good old days.
How long was this test? She glanced at Margery’s kitchen clock. She’d been at it for almost an hour. Bristle Head had not told her Triple D would take an hour of her time. That was stealing, too.
“Do you ever ask yourself why you are doing something?” the voice asked, as if introspection led to nasty nighttime habits.
“Hell, yes,” Helen said into the phone. “I’m asking why I want to work at your store.”
“Helen,” Margery said. “You’ve almost got this job.
Don’t mess it up.”
The voice rolled on, relentless as a Panzer division: “Recently, bank robbers tossed thousands of dollars out of their car during a police chase. The authorities never recovered most of the stolen money. If you found a thousand dollars of the bank’s money blowing down the sidewalk, would you consider keeping it?”
“Of course I would, you moron,” Helen said to the phone. “I’m making two hundred and one dollars a week.”
“Helen, don’t do this,” Margery said.
Helen ignored her and pressed yes.
The pitiless voice said, “Why do some employees steal?
“One, they’re not good enough to earn a raise.
“Two, they need extra money.”
“Three,” Helen shouted. “You forgot number three. You drove me to it by suspecting the worst. I’ve never shoplifted a grape at the grocery store, but you’ve made me so angry I want to start slipping your CDs in my purse. I want to hand your sound systems out the side door. I want to take your cheap TVs off the loading dock. If I work for you, I’ll be a thief for sure.”
Helen slammed down the phone.
“Oh, well,” Margery said, “the uniforms look pretty stupid.”
Chapter 26
Gayle did not fire Helen.
Maybe the bookstore manager was forgiving. Maybe a reliable employee was too valuable to fire in South Florida.
Or maybe Gayle and Astrid wanted to keep Helen where they could watch her.
Helen had the awful feeling door number three was the correct answer, and she didn’t want to go there.
She tapped on the bookstore door at eight-fifty the morning after her Triple D encounter. Gayle unlocked it and said, “Helen, how are you feeling?”
Helen had almost forgotten she’d called in sick to go to her aborted job interview.
“Uh, fine,” she managed. She stood there, waiting for Gayle to tell her to clean out her locker.
“I brought doughnuts,” Gayle said. “They’re in the break room. Help yourself, then I’ll open your cash drawer.”
Wasn’t Gayle going to say anything about their Palm Beach encounter? Like, “How’s your collar after I dragged you out of the car?” Or, “Do your knees hurt from when you landed on the ground?”
