The Day Job
6/17/08

When I saw Vincent I knew right away that he was just my type. He sat alone at a table in the Korner Kafé, shouting at someone on his Bluetooth, clutching a cup of black coffee in one hand, a Blackberry in the other. He was your typical late-forties high-level executive, complete with rimless glasses and silk designer tie. He even wore a tweed vest under his three-button jacket, too perfect. He was just like the ignorant white-collar businessmen who had fired me six months ago, the buttoned-down blowhards with fat heads and even fatter wallets.

I was an executive assistant at a brokerage firm for two years before I got the boot. Officially I was let go for poor job performance, but that was a load of crap. I was the best executive assistant that company ever had. I knew I was fired because I tried to get ahead, and heaven forbid a young woman should move up in a company like that and infiltrate the boys’ club of high-level executives like my new friend Vincent.

Vincent spotted me staring at him over my iced coffee and flashed me his Crest White Strips smile; I smiled back. I had zero interest in making small talk with the silver-haired devil, but over the last six months I’d become very good at faking it. It only took a few flips of my shiny auburn hair to get him to approach me.

“Anyone sitting here?” He asked, tucking his Blackberry into his inside pocket. He was ignoring his e-mail for five minutes for me, how flattering.

I kicked an empty chair out slowly with one peep-toed white pump. “You are,” I said in my most sultry, throaty voice. Vincent nearly leapt into the chair. Corny stuff like that gets them every time, the more cliché the better. They love to feel like they’re in some boring film noir with a mysterious dame in a tight skirt and stockings with seams down the back, who needs help tracking down her ex-husband’s killer, or her sister’s kidnapper.

“Can I buy you another coffee?” He asked, pulling his chair closer to me. I noticed a tan line on his finger from a wedding ring, tsk tsk.

“Actually,” I said, leaning forward so he could peer down my dress (which he promptly did), “I’d like to get out of here.” I ran a finger along my pearl necklace to drive my point home. “My place?”

He got the message. In two minutes he’d paid the waitress, told his secretary to hold his calls, and ushered me into his BMW, which was black, of course.

“Turn here,” I said, when we’d reached the end of Main Street. Vincent beamed and obediently turned the steering wheel. I directed him to a part of town that I knew would be deserted: A stretch of road in front of an old tire factory that had been closed for twelve years.

“Pull in here,” I said. Vincent looked at me quizzically; I giggled to lighten the mood. “Come on,” I said, playfully fingering his tie. He relaxed and pulled into the tire company’s empty parking lot. The ancient building loomed over us, casting a smooth black shadow across the blacktop, broken only by a few thin beams of afternoon sunlight that peeked through the boarded up windows.

“This is your place?” Vincent laughed nervously, turning off the engine. I laughed back and unbuckled his seatbelt, then the belt on his pants. “Oh,” he said, breathing heavily. “I see.”

I leaned closer to him until I could smell the nasty Cuban cigars and coffee on his breath. “I just need one more thing to make this perfect,” I whispered. A stupid grin formed on his fat face as I pulled away to reach for my purse. “Close your eyes,” I said. He slammed his eyelids shut and his grin grew wider.

Slowly I slid a hand into my purse. “No peeking,” I said. Vincent chuckled. I pulled my meat cleaver out of my purse and straddled his lap, stretching the clingy fabric of my dress. “Keep those eyes closed.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Vincent, the bulge in his pants growing.

I swung the cleaver and pierced his chest. His eyes flew open and his jaw dropped. Before he could scream I pulled out the cleaver and slammed it into him again. Blood spilled down his crisp white shirt and over his generous gut. His body jerked and his head flopped forward like a ragdoll’s. I yanked out the cleaver and hacked at him a few more times, spattering blood over my face and chest. My lips curled into a smile as I chopped away.

When I was finished, I leaned my head back and breathed deeply, as the usual feeling of serenity rushed over me. After a kill I always feel like most people would after a really delicious gourmet meal. I sat there smiling for a few minutes, feeling Vincent’s warm blood ooze over my knees, and gripping the cleaver, which was still protruding from his chest. It had almost been too easy.

Finally I wrenched out my cleaver and climbed off of Vincent’s limp carcass. I reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet; inside I found two-hundred and forty dollars in cash, which I tucked into my bra. I threw the wallet at Vincent and it bounced off of his bloody chest and fell under the dashboard. “Was it good for you, Vinny?” I asked his gaping dead face.

As I stepped out of the car I heard his Blackberry vibrate and laughed to myself.

“How was work, Honey?” My husband asked when he came home that evening.

“Great!” I said, kissing him and handing him a tall glass of iced tea. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

He took off his shoes and tie and reclined on the couch. “You must really love this new job,” he said. “You’ve been smiling nonstop since you started.”

“I sure do,” I said with a bright smile. “Getting fired was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“I’m so glad, Honey. You had me worried there for a while.” He turned on the TV and sipped his iced tea.

“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I’ve found the perfect job, and I’m never going to quit.”