prick. Like any stiff, unfeeling jackass, Gary drives a no-frills Mercury Sable and is all business, all the time. You just don’t fuck with Gary and the constant frown he wears on his pudgy, goateed face.
The e-mail he sent to me was brief: “Brad, please stop by my office when you get into the studio this morning.” There are only two reasons you’re called into Gary’s office: one, to be scolded; or two, to be scolded, fired, and then physically removed from the premises by security. It’s weird that workplaces never tell you when someone’s getting canned, and you just have to sit there and pretend nothing’s wrong while a poor girl sobs uncontrollably, makeup streaming down her face, and throws shit from her cubicle into a cardboard box. I really wish they could give more of a warning. It’s just so awkward for everyone.
While getting ready to head to the office, I racked my brain for any possible infraction on my part. Sure, I was always saying inappropriate things. The rule at Chelsea Lately is that it hasn’t been a productive morning writers meeting if I haven’t made a 9/11 or Holocaust joke (and I’m talking about the Jewish Holocaust, not the Armenian Holocaust—no reason to get on Gary’s bad side).
As I drove in that morning, I continued to ponder what Gary could possibly want to meet with me about. Obsessive thoughts and concerns ran through my head. As soon as I arrived at the studio, I walked into Gary’s office and he instructed me to have a seat.
He was calm, mild-mannered, and even showed concern for me, which made it that much worse.
“So, someone has filed a harassment suit against Comcast,” Gary said.
My heart skipped a beat. What did a harassment suit against a major corporation have to do with me?
“More specifically, they’ve made the complaint against you.”
Oh, that’s what.
“Who did?” I asked.
“I can’t legally say,” he added. “Can you think of anything inappropriate you may have said to someone in this office?”
I was shocked. Immediately a flood of memories of the horrible, degrading, and malicious things I had muttered around the halls of Chelsea Lately for the past seven months came rushing back to me. Man, I’d been a major, chauvinistic prick so many times I couldn’t believe it.
“Nope,” I said, looking straight into Gary’s dark, scary eyes. “Can’t think of anything inappropriate that I’ve ever said, Gary.”
Hell, yeah, I remembered everything, but I was not about to admit it… and certainly not to a Mercury-driving Armenian. I didn’t know which side Gary was on. For all I knew, Comcast was paying him to try to trap me.
My stomach dropped and my eyes drifted to the crayon doodles strewn across Gary’s wall that his daughters had drawn. The contrast between the innocence of those pictures and the severity of the moment wasn’t lost on me. Neither was the realization that I, too, would someday have to hang on my office wall the shitty little drawings my kids made.
“Really, you can’t think of anything you’ve ever said?”
“No,” I insisted. After a moment of silence, I asked, “Was it Elvira?”
The lady I was referring to wasn’t actually named Elvira, but it was the name we assigned to the security guard who’d just been fired from the show. She was black, but had these electric blue eyes, and when she spoke, it was with an indistinguishable accent. It was kind of faux-British, but not really. She wore the strangest, witch-like outfits, which made no sense since there was a uniform for security guards. She was fucking creepy. It had to have been her. She was clearly pissed about being let go and wanted retribution. And even though she and I rarely, if ever, spoke, I was loud, outgoing, white, and well known in the office. I was an easy target. “Blame that boisterous fire crotch.” Everyone else did.
“I can’t say, Brad. Listen, Ted is on his way in to talk with you. We’ll reconvene when he gets
The e-mail he sent to me was brief: “Brad, please stop by my office when you get into the studio this morning.” There are only two reasons you’re called into Gary’s office: one, to be scolded; or two, to be scolded, fired, and then physically removed from the premises by security. It’s weird that workplaces never tell you when someone’s getting canned, and you just have to sit there and pretend nothing’s wrong while a poor girl sobs uncontrollably, makeup streaming down her face, and throws shit from her cubicle into a cardboard box. I really wish they could give more of a warning. It’s just so awkward for everyone.
While getting ready to head to the office, I racked my brain for any possible infraction on my part. Sure, I was always saying inappropriate things. The rule at Chelsea Lately is that it hasn’t been a productive morning writers meeting if I haven’t made a 9/11 or Holocaust joke (and I’m talking about the Jewish Holocaust, not the Armenian Holocaust—no reason to get on Gary’s bad side).
As I drove in that morning, I continued to ponder what Gary could possibly want to meet with me about. Obsessive thoughts and concerns ran through my head. As soon as I arrived at the studio, I walked into Gary’s office and he instructed me to have a seat.
He was calm, mild-mannered, and even showed concern for me, which made it that much worse.
“So, someone has filed a harassment suit against Comcast,” Gary said.
My heart skipped a beat. What did a harassment suit against a major corporation have to do with me?
“More specifically, they’ve made the complaint against you.”
Oh, that’s what.
“Who did?” I asked.
“I can’t legally say,” he added. “Can you think of anything inappropriate you may have said to someone in this office?”
I was shocked. Immediately a flood of memories of the horrible, degrading, and malicious things I had muttered around the halls of Chelsea Lately for the past seven months came rushing back to me. Man, I’d been a major, chauvinistic prick so many times I couldn’t believe it.
“Nope,” I said, looking straight into Gary’s dark, scary eyes. “Can’t think of anything inappropriate that I’ve ever said, Gary.”
Hell, yeah, I remembered everything, but I was not about to admit it… and certainly not to a Mercury-driving Armenian. I didn’t know which side Gary was on. For all I knew, Comcast was paying him to try to trap me.
My stomach dropped and my eyes drifted to the crayon doodles strewn across Gary’s wall that his daughters had drawn. The contrast between the innocence of those pictures and the severity of the moment wasn’t lost on me. Neither was the realization that I, too, would someday have to hang on my office wall the shitty little drawings my kids made.
“Really, you can’t think of anything you’ve ever said?”
“No,” I insisted. After a moment of silence, I asked, “Was it Elvira?”
The lady I was referring to wasn’t actually named Elvira, but it was the name we assigned to the security guard who’d just been fired from the show. She was black, but had these electric blue eyes, and when she spoke, it was with an indistinguishable accent. It was kind of faux-British, but not really. She wore the strangest, witch-like outfits, which made no sense since there was a uniform for security guards. She was fucking creepy. It had to have been her. She was clearly pissed about being let go and wanted retribution. And even though she and I rarely, if ever, spoke, I was loud, outgoing, white, and well known in the office. I was an easy target. “Blame that boisterous fire crotch.” Everyone else did.
“I can’t say, Brad. Listen, Ted is on his way in to talk with you. We’ll reconvene when he gets
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