DAY 119: Thursday, February 4, 2010:  You don’t shop for cars; you shop for land movers.

Severance Pay: continued from Day 118 . . .

And how did Manager Rick react to this?

By using it all against them come review time, which was usually three months late anyway.  The last one was just like the one before:

“I could really use a raise,” Fiddles stammered, seated in Rick’s office.  “My car is on the fritz again, and those classes cut into my overtime.”

“You failed those classes,” Rick said, tap-tap-tapping a pencil.  “And I’d would really like to address those so-called twelve hours of overtime claimed in June, when you and Randy worked up in Greenfield?”

Fiddles shrugged.  “That was Randy’s job.  He was the crew chief.”

“And that would be the bus rolling right over him, huh?

“Well . . .”

“You get to take the van home at night, Fids, because your car is always on the fritz, remember?  That van is like a huge bonus, so we’ll leave it at that.  A review is mandatory; a raise is not.  Your job is secure for another year.”

“But Fergus . . .”

“Ferg is vulnerable because he starts pushing buttons when review time rolls past.  Last time he called Boston, and they came down on us pretty hard.  Now he’s overpaid for the work he does, and has officially jumped to environmental, run by a flaky idealist who doesn’t have any real solid backlog.  He’s very vulnerable, and you’re not.”

Fiddles smiled, unconsciously feeling his hooked nose.

Rick leaned closer.  “Are you shaving your eyebrows now?”

Fiddles shrugged.  “I shave my head, so . . .”

“And certain white guys should never, ever do that.”

Tap-tap-tap . . .

“You included, Fids.”

Tap-tap-tap . . .

“Your job’s secure.  Get the hell out.”

Tap-tap-tap  . . .

The biscuit was officially his, and Fiddles looked down in despair.  “So . . . are we getting rid of Fergus?”

“It’s not ethical for me to say,” Rick explained, nodding “yes” like a desperate bidder at the auction, throwing in winks for good measure.

Fiddles smiled.  “That’s what you get for jumping to the fucking tree huggers.”

“Maybe you should think about that career move,” Rick said, taunting.  “I heard you’re quite a mover out in the woods.”

Fiddles flushed.  “I better get back to those plans and make sure some angles add up.”

“Yuh.”

And so it went as rumors spread into eventual reality, Fiddles talking during lunch, Rick meeting with Rourke over Boston’s request for someone’s release, and Frenchy preparing special wine, trying to get payback for lectures about beating his boy, and passing out during lunch.

So Ferg was gone for real now, and Uncle Fiddles parked in back of that wonderful little packy store, watching the ballet class stretch and bounce eagerly on flexing toes, the hawkish pervert slamming nips and drinking beer, listening to a CD of Stern calling Gary the Retard; Gary nearly bawling in misery as Arty Lang jabbed his arm with another needle to bring his witty mind up . . . or down.

You can’t even buy this kind of multi tasking thrill Fiddles thought, swatting angrily at his lap.  You only dream of such things in fairy tales.

“So Gary,” Howard was saying.  “Is your thumb really up your ass right about now . . ?”

Ahhhhhhh, Fiddles thought, just now aware of a homeless drunk guy climbing out of that rusted blue dumpster to find himself a place to piss, exciting the hawkish pedophile into even higher levels of self-satisfying ecstasy.

To be continued . . .