Vital Signs

Part 33

"How can anyone screw up a grilled cheese sandwich?" I grumble while crossing the parking lot on my way back to building 4. 

In my stomach, I have irrefutable proof of this culinary faux pas. There were few edible choices at the cafe in building 5. The so-called chow mein looked like a gob of asphalt resting atop a hefty scoop of three-day-old rice. The meat in the taco smelled like hotdogs despite the heavy layering of "Mexican spices." Grilled cheese seemed like the safest bet. I can't imagine how it's possible to burn the bread to a blackened crust while managing to not melt a slab of cold, hard cheese. What form of sorcery is this? I thought I could improve the situation by microwaving the sandwich, which turned out to be a mistake. The cheese melted but the trade-off was greasy, nearly liquified bread. I'm embarrassed to admit that I ate half of it and now my stomach's digestive juices are working hard to resolve my poor decision.

                                                                                 ####### 

A few minutes later, when I step out of the elevator, a maintenance man with a droopy mustache on an even droopier face exits the office. His dark hair is sprinkled with white chalky powder. I imagine that he is Paige's co-worker, Jeremy. He disappears into the men's room without making eye contact.

I swipe my key card and open the office door. I don't see either the charming Paige or my coffeemaker. 

"Hello?" I call out.

"Just wrapping up," comes her voice from the conference room.

I smell acetylene when I enter and see the coffeemaker stationed on a wooden ledge above a gaping hole in the wall.

"Got her up and running," says Paige tossing a wrench into her toolbox with a loud clank. Standing beside her is an acetylene tank and her torch. "Coffee's pretty good."

She gives me a thumbs up then reads the astonished look on my face.

"Couldn't put your coffeemaker out there in the reception area without tearing up the floor to get to the waterline. You didn't want that, did you?"

"No, it's fine in here. But what about the wall? The hole in the wall."

"That's where they put waterlines. Inside walls."

"I mean, you're gonna fix the wall, right?"

"I'm mechanical."

"Huh?"

"Plumbing, electric, HVAC. Carpentry's not my department."

"What about Jeremy?"

"Yeah, he can do the work, I guess, but if you ask me, he's better at busting holes in walls than patching them."

"So how do I get the wall repaired? I have clients coming in."

She shrugs. "Well, at least you got coffee for them."

She grabs the acetylene tank with one hand and grunts when she lifts her metal toolbox with the other.

"You need some help with that?" I realize it's a mistake before the sentence has left my lips.

"Like I need a big strong man to help me do my job? That what you're saying?"

"I'll get the door."

My phone rings as Paige exits. I'm surprised to see it's Kellen calling.

"Hey, Kellen. What's up?"

"Watch your back."

"What?"

"I'm on my way up to Pittsburgh. It's about Meem."

"What happened?"

"Two men went by her place last night. They tore up Meem's shed then went all KGB on her wanting to know what happened with them bags. Scared the shit outta her."

"Is she alright?"

"Hell, no. Lucky she didn't have a heart attack. Meem went to stay with her sister. I'm coming up to her place while she's gone. I hope those sons of bitches come back. I got something for 'em."

"Kellen. Be careful. Those guys are probably the same leg-breakers that showed up at my place."

"Watch your back, brother."

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It's almost 7:00 before Megs and I have calmed Jillian. For nearly two hours she'd been up in her room stomping around, cursing and flailing her little body from the bed to the floor and back. Her project was rejected from the STEM-tastic scholastic whatever-the-hell it's called contest.

Now in the kitchen, we try to talk it through.

"It's not fair!" Jillian drops her red face into her hands.

Her mother strokes her back.

"I know how hard you worked on your project. I'm sorry, baby."

"It's bull crap! Total bull crap!" She swipes a tri-fold brochure off the counter onto the floor.

Megs offers a soothing "Shhhhh."

"Amanda made some lame drawings about the lifecycle of a flower. Her poster looks like a baby drew it! And she got into the contest. DeShawn made a stupid baking soda volcano! Seriously? Baking soda volcano?! What year is this? 1847? I mean come on!"

Tears spill down her cheeks. She wipes her face with her forearm.

"You want a Kleenex?" Megs asks.

She shakes her head, no.

"And Christopher! He's gonna show how static electricity works by rubbing a balloon on his hair! I'm not even joking. How is that even a science project? I can't even."

"Did they give you a reason?" I ask. "Why they didn't accept your project?"

"That's the part that really makes me mad." She picks up the brochure from the floor and opens it. "It says the judges determined that my exhibit doesn't demonstrate actual science. The STEM-tastic scholarship competition is not the place for opinion or edit something, something, something."

I take the brochure from her hand. "Editorializing? This is straight up BS!"

"Right?" She sniffles.

"Not helping." Megs shoots me a serious look.

"She musta had something to do with it," Jillian growls. Her eyes once again brim with tears.

"Who?

"Who do you think? Witchy Castellano! She hates me."

"That's not true," says Megs.

"She doesn't hate you," I add. "She says you're one of the smartest kids in the class."

She rolls her eyes in disbelief.

When I look at the back of the brochure, my eyes are drawn to the Trollamex logo and the tagline: We're Your Best Friend.

I read aloud, "Sponsored by the Children's Education Association and made possible by a generous grant..." My throat begins to close before I can complete the sentence. "... from Trollamex Corporation." 

Megs' jaw drops.

I feel my blood pressure surging to a level where it's about to blow off the top of my skull.