Chapter 22 NoelleHalloween Cam
22 Noelle
June 20, Version 120-ish
The first day back at the office, I don’t plan to do anything unusual. I’m just trying to get the lay of the land, so to speak. Sure, I’ve lived this day at work more than once, but it’s been a while.
“Good morning,” I say to Eloise, one of the drafters.
“Good morning,” she says, as though it’s just another day. As though I haven’t been gone for months.
I head to my cubicle, where I email Tyler—who’s not in yet—a reminder about the proposal, as I remember doing before.
It takes a couple of hours to get into the swing of things, but by eleven, I feel like I’ve adjusted. In all honesty, it’s kind of nice to be back, despite the sterile décor and rather harsh overhead lighting.
At lunch, I eat with Fernando and ask about his family. As he’s telling me about his summer plans, I get an idea.
If anything is going to change about my job, I need to gather some information.
The next day at lunch, I open my mouth to ask Fernando about his salary, then snap it shut. I don’t think this is something he’ll want to discuss while we’re at the office, even if we’re in the break room and nobody else is present. I’ll wait until later.
“Last one here again?” Fernando says as he heads to the door at six.
“Actually, I was about to pack up,” I say. “Could you wait a minute? We’ll head out together.”
“Sure.” He smiles, but he looks a little puzzled—this is out of character for me.
When we’re on the street, walking toward the subway station, my heart rate speeds up. It’s time for my question.
“What’s your, uh, salary?” I ask.
He stops on the sidewalk and gives me a look.
“As a woman in engineering, I’m concerned I’m being underpaid. We graduated in the same year, with the same degree. We have the same job title.” And I think we’re equally competent.
“Okay,” he says. “Just don’t tell anyone that I told you.”
My eyes widen at the number. I think of all the extra money I could be saving with that salary.
Since he told me his, I tell him mine, though I suspect he had some idea based on my reaction.
“They should definitely be paying you more,” he says.
“They should,” I agree.
That night, I text Avery, who has returned to her job in comms, as she calls it. She has a master’s degree in the field and studied psychology in undergrad.
Communicating is, in fact, something I need to research. Specifically, I need to figure out how to ask for a raise. I’ve never done that before, but maybe being assertive at my job will get me out of this time loop. Even if it doesn’t, knowing my boss’s response will be useful information to have, if I escape the loop at a later date.
The articles I read tell me to be confident, to focus on my accomplishments. I shouldn’t mention how long it’s been since I had a raise—two years, in my case—or that I know a coworker makes more than me. (I promised Fernando I wouldn’t mention it anyway, although he won’t remember our conversation.) I do look up job listings for comparable positions at other companies, so I have some numbers at my disposal. My current salary isn’t below the range I find online, but it’s below average. Some listings don’t mention a salary range at all, which is bullshit. Not just because it’s completely unhelpful for my research purposes, but this is information you should have before applying for a job, isn’t it?
One article recommends not asking for a raise of more than 5 percent, but screw that. (Also, who’s writing these articles? Can I trust their expertise?)
The more time I think about it, the angrier I get. I have more work dumped on my plate than Fernando does, yet I make less. I’ve kept my head down and done it all without complaint, believing I’d be rewarded eventually. But why did I think that? It seems so na?ve.
I’m not sure if it has anything to do with my gender, though. Apparently, new hires often get paid more, and this is Fernando’s second job after graduation—he’s been here for four years—whereas it’s my first. Job-hopping can increase your salary, which is frustrating. Shouldn’t employers want to reward loyalty?
The next day, I email my boss first thing in the morning, asking if I can have fifteen minutes of his time. He responds that we can speak at two thirty.
It’s a good thing I’ve done all these tasks before. I’m struggling to concentrate, and I’m annoyed with myself for being so nervous. I’ve been stuck in this loop for ages; I’m used to the fact that what I do doesn’t have real consequences.
And yet.
For a split second, I consider not doing it, but then I think of Cam and my family. I have to try.
At two thirty on the dot, I knock on the door of Lee’s office.
“Come in,” he says.
I enter. My boss is a thin white man in his sixties, his sandy brown hair tinged with gray. He has a mustache that overwhelms his face and glasses perched on his nose.
I sit down across from Lee, and after a brief exchange of pleasantries, I launch into the speech I’ve prepared about why I deserve a raise. I’d meant to ask for a raise that would have me making the same salary as Fernando—not that I’d mention it—but I chicken out and ask for a bit less.
Despite my anxiety, I try to be confident. My voice wavers a couple of times, but I think I do a decent job. Lee’s expression, however, is inscrutable.
When I stop talking, he doesn’t immediately answer. No, he takes his time arranging a few things on his desk, including a stress ball emblazoned with the company’s name.
Then he says, “I’ll give you two percent, but no more.”
The old me—well, the old me would never have asked for a raise, to be honest, and if she did, she certainly wouldn’t be complaining about this.
But I’m not that woman anymore.
I begin outlining the research on salaries that I’ve done. I don’t say I could make more elsewhere , but I strongly imply it.
Lee sighs, takes off his glasses, and pinches his brow. “I know you don’t know much about the finances of the company, but I simply can’t afford it, and if I give you a raise—”
“How much would it cost to replace me?” I ask. “I do more than one person’s work.”
I don’t think I expected this to be successful, despite all the anecdotes I read about people who negotiated decent raises—though women asking for raises aren’t always treated the same as men. Yet a part of me still hoped, and now, I feel like my world is crumbling. It’s not as bad as when I discovered I was in a time loop, but still. This company clearly doesn’t appreciate what I do for them. I worked sixty hours most weeks, and for what?
“Thank you for your time,” I say, then return to my desk and glare at the bland motivational poster on the wall.
For the first time ever, I leave at exactly five o’clock.
If there were consequences, I wouldn’t be quitting my job on June 20. No, I’d quietly start looking for a new one. The idea of being without a source of income is distressing—financial stability has always been important to me—and besides, I’ve heard that it’s easier to get a new job while you still have one.
But I’m pissed .
Although I usually don’t make waves, preferring to observe drama rather than be the center of it, the next day, I march into the office determined to, well, not be myself.
In some ways, the day starts just like any other. I say hello to Eloise, I get my coffee, I send an email to Tyler. I also send an email to Lee, asking for a meeting this afternoon.
At the appointed hour, I knock on his door and enter. He’s wearing the exact same button-down shirt that he’s worn in all iterations of this day.
“What can I help you with today?” he asks.
I launch into a speech that’s a little different from the one I gave yesterday. I don’t expect it to make a difference, but I figure I’ll mix it up just in case.
Once again, he says, “I’ll give you two percent, but no more.”
“That’s unacceptable.”
“I know you don’t know much about—”
“I work longer hours than anyone else here,” I say. “Especially since I’m expected to mentor Tyler…” I trail off as I ponder an awful question: How much does Tyler make? How much would it piss me off if I knew? “No matter what I tell him, his work doesn’t improve. I’ve tried to be patient—”
“It’s your job to figure it out.”
“Then you should at least pay me an appropriate salary,” I say, my anger building.
“As I’ve tried to tell you—”
“Fuck that. It’s not my job anymore. I quit.” I savor the shock on Lee’s face. “I deserve better.”
I walk out of his office with my head held high, not waiting for a response. For the first time in my life, I’ve quit something, and it feels great.
I go to my desk and grab my stuff. What’s the point in staying?
As I’m heading down the hallway, I nearly bump into Tyler. I clap him on the shoulder. “Good luck on that proposal. It’s all yours now.”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
I leave him stammering as I get on the elevator. He’ll be fine—he’s the owner’s nephew, after all—but I’ll enjoy the moment while I can.
Leaside Brewing isn’t close to the Woods & Olson office. There are many more convenient places to drink, but I head there anyway. Since I arrive later than usual, I’m not the only customer in the taproom, and I’ve missed the sea shanties. Still, Cam does his usual you look familiar thing before I ask for a pint of the Corktown.
“Somehow, I knew that’s what you were going to order,” he says.
There’s a pain in my chest as I introduce myself to him yet again. Though he doesn’t consciously remember any of the kisses and meals we’ve shared, I still felt the need to seek him out today, for some reason.
When there’s a lull, I say, “I just quit my job.”
“Yeah? Does it feel good?” he asks.
“It does, but it’s a little terrifying at the same time.”
Cam nods. “I know what that’s like.”
“I have nothing else lined up, but I couldn’t stand it anymore, not once I knew how little they valued me.” I pause. “I’m a mechanical engineer.”
While I’ve never had this exact conversation with Cam before, I know that if we were out for dinner, he’d ask more questions. Ask me if I want another engineering job, or whether I want to switch fields completely. But right now, he’s working. He’ll listen, but I won’t ramble too much.
I take out my phone to text Avery, but she’s already messaged me.
AVERY: I quit my job today too.
ME: Why don’t you meet me at the brewery?
While I’m waiting for her to arrive, I scroll through my contacts and stop near the end.
Veronica.
I start to text her, asking if she knows anyone who’s hiring, then stop. Everything will probably reset tomorrow. Rather than making this all about work, shouldn’t I just talk to her as a friend?
A not-very-good friend, that is. I’ve been terrible at keeping in touch with her.
ME: Hey! It’s been a while. How are you doing?
I don’t get an immediate answer, but that’s okay. I’m sure she’s got a busy life, and she’s probably at work.
Avery arrives and orders a pilsner from the man who has replaced Cam at the bar.
“Did you tell your boss to fuck himself?” she asks.
“Ha! I did drop an F-bomb, but I didn’t go quite that far.”
“You could have. After all, you’ll still have a job tomorrow, unless this is what gets us out of the loop.” She has a sip of her drink. “That’s why I quit: to see if it would break the curse. It didn’t feel quite right to me, like it did to you, but I had to try.”
“I thought you weren’t entirely happy at your job.”
“I’m not, but I think it’s my feelings about my relationship bleeding into work, more than anything else. I’ve started to wonder about switching to a slightly different role in the same company, though.”
Terror suddenly seizes me. If I do get out of the loop and this is the “true” version of June 20, then I quit my job for good. Even though I have savings, the idea of being without a job freaks me out. But at least time would be moving again, right?
“You know what?” I say. “Let’s get drunk tonight.”
A few hours later, I have my elbow propped on the bar, head resting on my hand. I’ve consumed five—or is it six?—beers.
However many, it’s enough to give me the hiccups, and I’m currently reading articles about how to get rid of hiccups, wondering if they will lead to more success than my attempt to ask for a raise. (Well, I suppose I did get a raise, but it was a lot smaller than what I asked for.)
I’ve already attempted drinking lots of cold water and sucking on a lemon, with no success. I would try breathing into a paper bag, except I don’t have one.
Avery—who has consumed less alcohol than me and/or is less of a lightweight than I am—is flirting with a tall white guy at the other end of the bar. Good for her.
I ask the bartender for the bill, and he looks a little relieved—I think he was afraid I’d ask for another beer and he’d have to cut me off. Or something. Everything is a bit hazy right now.
“Noelle?” says a familiar voice.
I attempt to execute a fancy turn on my barstool and somehow end up on the floor instead, Cam’s face above me.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I mumble.
He frowns. “Why not?”
“Your shift finished,” I say as I pull my knees to my chest. That’s apparently another way to stop hiccups, but it was hard to do on a barstool. I take advantage of my position on the floor and try it now.
“Dammit!” I say when it doesn’t work.
Cam takes my hand and helps me up. Our faces are very, very close, and his is creased with concern.
Don’t kiss him don’t kiss him don’t kiss him
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“Because I was worried about you,” he says.
“But why ?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “You hadn’t had a lot to drink when I left, but you said you’d just quit your job, so I guess I worried…” He shakes his head. “I just had a feeling, so I called to ask if you were still here, and when I heard you were…”
He sounds distressed that he doesn’t entirely understand the situation.
I decide to explain it to him. “I’m stuck on June twentieth. I’ve lived this day over a hundred times, and on many of them…” It takes me a moment to remember where I was going with that. “Right! On many June twentieths, I’ve seen you. At the bubble tea thingy-ma-bob. At the night market. Here. You don’t remember. Not really, but your sub-whatsitcalled… Your subconscious seems to remember me. I think. I don’t know.” I hiccup.
“Uh…”
“Really. I’m not that drunk. Well, maybe I am, but that’s the truth. Avery will tell you.” I turn to seek out my friend. The room seems a touch wobbly. “Avery!” I have to shout at her a few times before she comes over. “Tell Cam that I’m stuck reliving the same day.”
She gives me a look that says, You told him? Really?
Or possibly: How fucking drunk are you?
This is the wonderful thing about having a close friend, I’m learning. You don’t need words to communicate.
After a long hesitation, she says, “She’s telling the truth. The two of us are living the same day over and over.”
“You see?” I say.
“Right.” Cam scrubs a hand over his face. “How about I call you a cab, or get you to the TTC—”
“It’s okay,” Avery says. “I’m staying with her tonight. I’ll take care of her, don’t worry.”
I start laughing. I’ve lived June 20 so many times before, yet this has never happened. It’s amazing how many possibilities there are in a single day. You can quit your job… or not. You can go to Vancouver and feel the rain on your skin. You can eat three types of dumplings and get sprayed by a skunk when you go hunting for ghosts in a cemetery. You can…
Huh. I’ve been bundled outside, and Avery is trying to make sure I walk in a straight line.
“Why am I so drunk?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says, “but hangovers don’t seem to happen on June twentieth, so you’ll be probably be as good as new in the morning.”
“Avery, you’re my best friend. If we ever get out of this, I promise I won’t forget it.” With that proclamation, I trip on the sidewalk, but she catches me before I fall.
“But what if, when we get out of this,” she says, “we don’t remember all the repeats?”
“That’s not possible. We have to remember. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
“Maybe there is no point.”
Hm. That’s interesting.
I’ll think about it tomorrow.
I wake up to my alarm. It’s six forty-five, and the morning light filtering through the window doesn’t hurt my head. Once again, it’s June 20, and I’m simultaneously relieved—I didn’t really quit my job—and pissed off. Pissed off that I can’t change my life.
What else is even left to try?