Chapter 11: Cape Fear
I come to regret that pager.
That I corrected my name.
That I supplied a Social Security number.
My first week I have worked, conservatively, ninety hours. I woke yesterday holding a roll of thermal credit card machine paper in my hand. I am not sure how it got there or why I brought it home.
Marjorie has stayed away, but her pages are incessant. She was up all night worrying, she yawns in my ear, if we’ll ever unload those four-hundred-plus teddy bears wearing a Phantom half-mask. I am more worried about the carton of Twin Tower toast holders I happened upon in drop-down storage. Who approved a morbid prototype that holds just one bread slice?
From another page, I decline her offer to circulate an e-press release about my hire. She does it anyway, quoting herse
