Dying to Call You by Elaine Viets

she saw all day were her crude boss, Vito, and Nick the junkie.
    She sniffed the night air and caught the thick, heavy scent of marijuana. Oh, yeah, there was Phil the invisible pothead. Just what she needed after dating drunks, crooks and deadbeats—a druggie. She wondered what he looked like. Even when he saved her life, there was only the slogan on his T-shirt, floating in the air like a dream message:
    “Clapton Is God.” She still remembered the feel of his hands, strong and sure, as he pulled her from the deadly fire.
    Was Phil straight or gay, single or married? She didn’t know. He seemed complete in his chemically altered world.
    He didn’t need any woman.
    The smell of Phil’s weed was extra thick tonight. It reminded her of the rock concerts she used to go to in St. Louis. That made her feel old. It had been eons since she’d held up a lit Bic and gotten silly.
    When she opened her front door, Thumbs was waiting for her, rubbing against her legs and purring his greeting. Usually her cuddly cat made her feel better. Not tonight.
    I’m an old maid living alone with my cat, Helen thought.
    And I’m only forty-two years old.
    The next morning Helen was back in the boiler room.
    Discouragement—or maybe it was dirt—settled on her as she walked through the grimy door. Her phone stank of cigarette smoke. She wished she had Taniqua’s Lysol to wipe it down.
    In ten minutes, the computers would come on, and she would start waking up East Coast home owners. But now, sick and tardy telemarketers were calling Vito with their excuses.
    She could hear Vito was yelling into the phone, “Your hand is all swollen and hurts? So what do you want me to do?
    Kiss it? If you’re not coming in, I need a doctor’s note.”
    The phone rang again. “You promised me you weren’t going to do this shit again,” Vito screamed. “You want the day off? Take the rest of the week off—at your expense. No, don’t come in. You screw up one more time and you’re fired.”
    Vito slammed down the phone and said, “Seven fifty-five and the fuckups are calling.”
    The phone rang again. Vito picked it up and shrieked, “If you’re not here at eight A.M. you’re fired. Fired. Get it? Oh, hi, Mr. Cavarelli.”
    Suddenly Vito’s voice was soft and respectful. “You’ll be in this week? Yes, sir. No, sir. No, we didn’t make our quota last week. We’ll make it this week for sure. I’m trying to fire the junkies and bring in quality people, but it takes time, Mr. Cavarelli.”
    “I’m one of the junkies,” Nick said.
    He was eating his usual breakfast of jelly doughnuts and orange soda. Despite his sugary diet, Nick was a skeleton. He talked in nervous bursts. “Finally got out of the halfway house. I’m sharing a trailer now. My own place. First time in years. I used to live on the street. I’ve come a long way. I don’t want to lose my home, but if I don’t sell something today I will.”
    “You’ll make a sale,” Helen said. But she knew Nick was doomed. This morning, he couldn’t sit still long enough to sell. He’d flit to his computer and make a call, then buzz around, bothering everyone. He looked like a big dragonfly in his bright yellow shirt.
    “Nick, sit down and sell,” she hissed.
    “I will, but I gotta get a sody,” he said, and zipped up front to the machine. Next she saw him crawling on the filthy carpet with Marina’s little boy, Ramon, playing with his dump truck, promising to get him a candy bar.
    Nick had an unerring instinct for bothering the wrong person. He tried to borrow a quarter for the candy machine from Mabel, the boiler room’s longest survivor. She’d been there an astonishing five years. She was a large, placid woman who used a headset so she could knit while she called. Mabel seemed friendly, but Helen noticed that she watched everyone. Helen heard her reporting their minor infractions to Vito at the end of the shift. The Madame Defarge of the phone room would complain about