Carl heard the door slam and the slapping of flip-flops on feet. A cotton-candy fume forced its way in his nostrils as soon as he saw her. Jessica. She plopped into the swivel seat next to him. Then she logged in.

"What smells so good?" a girl asked.

"Yeah," a young Hispanic guy said. "Some one open a door to a candy store?".

"Seriously. What smells so good?" She, Jessica didn't ignore. She was Sheriya. Apple-bottom black girl with double-D’s. A real baddie.

"You wanna know what smells so good?" Jessica said. "It's my feet."

Her coworkers chuckled. She gingerly rested her foot on her desk and stacked the other. Her fuchsia toenail polish matched her jeans and pink Playboy bunny on her white tee.

Carl hid his eyes.

“You know you like that,” Sheriya said.

"I am not a feet person."

-

"Yes you are! You hot-damn liar," Chris O'Ryan said aloud. He was the owner at Carl's job, Mystery's Wine Baskets. O'Ryan saw and heard everything. And Carl did like feet. O'Ryan turned toward his partner and lawyer.

"I sent a spy to see if he was a rapist. Because, see, he ah Tiger Woods looking mother-fucker. We sent ah hot-lil' Mexican. Sandals and all. Conceited black bastard wouldn’t stop for her. She had to scream like hell."

"Tell me he didn't fall for it?" the lawyer said.

"Oh he fell for it. He let her in. She plugged up her phone. I saw and heard everything. He lay on a bed. She sat in a chair. They watched 15 minutes of a movie. Then she had to run out. He didn't stop her. But we know he wanted some cookie."

“Sounds like a saint to me.”

"But I ain't!" O'Ryan tapped some buttons on his office phone. Rodney, the call center manager, answered. "Yes?"

"Rodney. Take Carl in the conference room and bring up that drama."

“No need. I listened to the call. The caller was making a fool of him. Ordering stuff and then saying she didn’t. Trying to argue.”

"Damnit! You're Samoan! So, why are you arguing like a brutha?" O'Ryan clenched his fist and teeth in pure rage. His snow-white skin turned fiery red. "You and Jose take him and straighten him out!"

"You mean Josie?" Rodney said, in a serious tone. "That guy says he's a transgender. He's really a woman in a man's body! Says call him Josie. Not Jose."

"Just... straighten' out Carl. Write him up."

O'Ryan smashed the hang up button. "And that son-of-a-bitch, Rodney, is so stupid. He's in the closet. He wants ah lil' boy butt. But Jose wants a husband."

"Is this wise?" The lawyer asked. "To put a black reporter in a grievance interview with a white homosexual; and his boyfriend from the Bloods in Carson?"

"Carl has no power. The Media wants nothing to do with him. He's fed to the wolves. Should of studied business! He'd be the wolf."

"What about the old, if you can't help don't do no harm?"

O'Ryan ignored his lawyer's retort. They hacked into the conference room's speakerphone.

-

Carl sat still. It took a lot of energy, he notice, to stay calm. His eyes shifted from Josie, to Rodney, and back. Rodney had a sinister smile and long hair styled in two braids. Tattoos covered his neck, arms and hands. Josie lolled lustily. She leered at Carl. He could sense she liked these dilemmas.

"I made it clear. That person is a dike friend of my previous employer!" Carl said, with a heavy voice. “She did this to me before. I caught on and gave my manger the phone."

Carl was short-tempered. He was extremely hungry and looking forward to dinner. On his way out, he'd breeze through the breakroom and steal somebody's grub.

-

"He is one conceited fuck," O'Ryan said aloud. Next, he dialed human resources. "Cut a last check for Carl Simmons and Sheriya Patton. On their paperwork put, terminated. Nothing else."

“Why're we firing Sheriya?" the lawyer asked.

"Because she's a stripper! She dropped out of Cal State a year ago. She been ah high-class hooker since. And I know what you're thinking, she ain't getting another job with that padonk-a-donk."