Transplanted Life
Friday, July 23, 2004
 
Closing day
So today was it, the last day for BioSoft. Everything that's not finished has been farmed out to other companies, and Maureen has helped sell off the office equipment, and computers, and everything.

I feel kind of bad about it. I know the company's collapse isn't actually my fault, and that Carter and I are victims, but we cooperated. I suppose we could have obstructed the investigation, and then BioSoft probably stays in business. But how could we do that?

Only a few folks showed up at the bar around 3pm today. Early to start drinking, and most folks have found new work. I showed, but could only stay for an hour or so - 6pm shift at the restaurant. So it was basically just me, Maureen, and Mr. Towne and Mr. Kraft until I left.

I nursed the one drink and chased it with a couple 7-Ups; not cool to show up with alcohol on your breath. I got back to the table with my first soda, and she looked at me with an odd look. "What's it like when guys hit on you? Is it gross, or funny, or no big deal?"

"Well, today it's no big deal." I'd basically shrugged the guy at the bar who looked down my shirt while giving me a line off; I couldn't even tell Maureen what the line he'd used was. "At first, yeah, it was gross. And you know what's worse? You weren't there when I first started at BioSoft, but Dmitri used to hit on me all the time."

"Oh, yuck."

"Seriously. I wonder if he was just being a dick, or if he had some Pygmallion thing and really thought he had a chance with me right at first. Best not to think about it."

"So when't it funny?"

"If I've used the line. If he says something like 'I'll bet you know what a man likes', that sort of thing."

"That happen often?"

"Used to. Don't have time to go out much now."

That's about when Erik shows up and starts in with the "you've got some nerve." And I leave.

Maureen must have had a good time, though, since she still wasn't home when I got here.

-Martina
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Note: This blog is a work of fantasy; all characters are either ficticious or used ficticiously. The author may be contacted at JaySeaver@comcast.net