Company - Max Barry [27]
Q4/1: OCTOBER
FREDDY RETURNS from running a set of folders up to Business Management and starts doing stretches. “Anyone want to go to lunch? I'm so hungry lately. Do you think it's the extra exercise?”
Holly says, “Just let me finish these printouts for Sydney.” Holly's computer is the only one connected to the departmental printer, so whenever anyone else needs to print, they have to see her. Her computer has developed dark smudge marks around the disk drive's eject button and the CD drive is making an odd, tired whine.
“Hey.” Freddy stops stretching. “You know what we should do? Start a dead pool. Everyone can put in ten bucks.”
Jones says, “A what?”
Holly says, “Are you serious?”
“Why not?”
“It's sick, that's why not.”
“What's a dead pool?” Jones says.
“We bet who's getting fired next. Come on, it'll keep things interesting. I'll even let you have first pick, Holly.”
She hesitates, and glances at Jones. “Hey,” he says. Then Roger arrives from West Berlin with a floppy disk in hand. Holly reflexively puts out her hand, but he makes no attempt to give it to her. “Having some kind of bet, are you?”
“A dead pool,” Freddy says. “Ten bucks and you're in.”
“Sold.” Roger flips open his wallet. “Who's taken?”
“Nobody yet.”
“Wait,” Holly says. “You said I could pick first.”
“So you're in?”
“I—well, if everyone else is doing it. I'll take Jones.”
“Why me?”
“Because . . . no reason.”
“I'm going to pick myself,” Freddy says. “If they fire me, I'll have something to take with me.”
“I'll choose Elizabeth,” Roger says.
There's an awkward silence. Freddy says, “Why Elizabeth?”
Roger shrugs modestly. “Just a guess.”
Sydney's door clacks open. Everyone's head turns. Sydney, wearing an ensemble that is so dark it is difficult to make out individual pieces of clothing, stomps into East Berlin and up to Holly's desk. “Have you got that report?”
“It's in the printer.”
Sydney pulls Holly's report out of the tray, then notices Freddy and Roger frozen in the act of exchanging money. “What's going on?”
Freddy clears his throat. “It's a dead pool. We're betting on who leaves Zephyr next.”
Sydney's green eyes fix on Freddy. “Who told you someone was leaving?”
“No one. No, it's just a game. It's just . . . if someone does.”
“Oh. I see. In that case, can I join in?”
Freddy looks at Holly, then Roger, then, hopelessly, at Jones. “Well . . . it might not be . . . I mean, since you can fire people, that might not be fair.”
Sydney looks amused. “You're not suggesting I'd fire someone just to win your game.”
“No! Of course not.”
“So?”
Freddy swallows. “Yes, sure. Sure, then, that's fine. It's ten dollars.”
“This sounds like fun. All right, then. All right. I'll choose Jones.”
“Actually . . . Holly's already picked Jones.”
Sydney's button nose wrinkles. Roger winces. “So?”
“Everyone has to choose someone different.”
“Why can't Holly pick someone different?”
“Well, she already picked, so that wouldn't really . . . be . . . fair.”
“Oh. I see. I see. Well, then, has anyone chosen Holly?”
“No.”
“Then I'll take Holly.” Sydney smiles, first at Freddy, then at Holly. She digs into her black pants and produces a note. Freddy takes it as if it might bite his fingers. No one says anything until Sydney has gone, and no one says anything for a while after that, either.
“Thanks a lot, Freddy,” Holly says.
“It's just a game,” Freddy says. “She probably . . . it's just a game.”
Jones hurries after Sydney. Roger wanders back to West Berlin. Holly blows air out of her mouth and says, “I'm going to lunch.”
“I'll come with you,” Freddy says, rising. “Just give me a second—”
“I said I'm going to lunch.” She walks away.
Freddy deflates back into his chair. He looks around, not sure what to do, and notices that his red voice-mail light is blinking. This is odd, because it wasn't blinking a minute ago. Someone has sent him a recorded message.
He picks up and presses for access. A deep, liquid voice spills into his ear:
“Good morning. This is Human Resources. We have received your disability application. We have some