The Big Dream Read Free

perfectly good girlfriend.
    â€œI cen’t do it, Virgie. Um sorry.”
    The smile dropped like a comet. “Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

    The mouse-proofing took Tech two days. First, they made every employee leave his or her desk for several minutes so that the clips could be glued on. Again the next day, when the glue was dry, so their phone wires could be locked into the clips. People were furious at the inconvenience, the violation of strangers crawling under their desks. Curses were thrown, and Damien actually got kicked.
    On the third day, it was found that though cords were no longer resting on the floor, the jacks were low enough to be vulnerable to vermin. Tech was sent to cover the breach with wide rolls of packing tape. Anna muttered, “This spells disaster as soon as they reconfigure the furniture. That’s gonna be a hell of a lot of sticky jacks.”
    Clint could have made several good dirty jokes out of that, but by then he wasn’t really speaking unnecessarily.
    Tech spent the morning wandering with their tape, wincing when they met, whispering, “We are universally loathed.” This time, many people chose to remain at their desks while Clint huddled beneath, taping.
    No mice were seen.
    When the team reconvened in the Tech hallway, Mai-Nam was being fired. The woman firing her was tall, blonde, and never before seen in Tech. As Mai-Nam wept and threw things into boxes, the woman introduced herself as the VP of Human Resources. She offered them all time-and-a-half to finish taping cords that evening, when it would be “less of a disruption.”
    Damien was on server duty, icing his shin, and Lionel turned out to be a father and needed to get home, so it was only Anna, Clint, and Luddock who, in dread and faint slumber-party excitement, took scavenged food down to the basement for what Anna declared, “Lunch, the sequel!”
    Clint carefully worked his work can opener around the tin of Spaghetti-Os, then stood. The turgid lump at the back of his
mouth seemed to pulse. He went several steps towards the microwave before Luddock caught him in a flying tackle.
    â€œMetal in the microwave equals death, Clint! You might be willing to sacrifice yourself, but the whole building radioactive for ten thousand years for warm noodles? No! No, I say.”
    Clint sat slowly, clutching the tin. “Cen’t believe I forgot that.”
    Luddock flapped his hands. “It is tiresome, feeding oneself.”
    â€œThat food-court fantasy gets fonder every day.” Anna was eating a jam sandwich. It wasn’t a real sandwich, just bread with red. “Oh, for a Cultures right now.”
    Clint took a forkful of Os. Warm, they could be mushed with the tongue, but otherwise they congealed almost solid. He sucked hard.
    â€œThe best is KFC on Toonie Tuesdays,” said Luddock. “Sometimes, if you’re charming, they’ll give you two thighs instead of the thigh and drumstick classic.”
    Clint liked the Italian place, Mrs. Something, where you could get pizza with a side of lasagna. But noodles weren’t dissolving, so he just nodded. KFC wasn’t bad.
    â€œThe food court is democracy in action.” Luddock flapped his arms. “Everything is an option.”
    Anna mentioned Mmmuffins, Kernels, the soup place. Luddock parried Manchu Wok, Teriyaki Experience, Mr. Greek Junior. It was a dreamy hour.
    If there had been windows, they would have gone dark by the time the VP came down to declare the building empty enough that they could work. “I appreciate this, team. I really do.” She clasped the nearest shoulder, Luddock’s, who flinched.
    In the fluorescent-lit night, the building was dead silent except the shriek of adhesive pulling free, the rustle of file-drawers searched for candy, control-top pantyhose, condoms. (“They’re going to say we did anyway – why not learn something?”)
    Clint had dense regrets about the few