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Amabel disliked her co-worker Reinbert from the start. Though he was new to the Unit and she was supposed to be his trainer, he would interrupt her instruction to expound on how he believed intricate company procedure should really be carried out. Her corrections invariably were rewarded with his arched eyebrow and a comment on her grammar.
Even more galling, if Reinbert had a procedural question, he asked not her, but their mutual supervisor, Mr. Buttuns, who dozed his remaining years until retirement on the leather couch in his office and answered Reinbert’s every question in a sleepily murmured, “Yes, excellent, whatever you think is best.” If Mr. Buttuns wasn’t napping, he was reading romance novels with dreamy chuckles.
Reinbert revealed his true nature soon enough one afternoon while she valiantly attempted to explain a particularly dense bit of spreadsheet ritual, when he cut in to quote a neighbor who lived in his apartment building. This neighbor man, a particularly devout Muslim with a disdain for the modern world, stated that women are not unlike horses. When both see that which they cannot understand, they become nervous, excitable, and, yes, uncontrollable. But, when the horse has blinkers on, and the woman has the head-to-toe black veil on, neither can see alarming sights, so become calm, content, and, yes, controllable, and where is there a woman who isn’t happier being directed by a man?
This last remark tested Amabel’s patience past its limit. They began to argue. To her demand to apologize, Reinbert held up his sister-in-law as the perfect example of a contented Muslim woman, whereupon Amabel countered that the one time she’d met his sister-in-law at the most recent company holiday potluck, Amabel noted a vast difference between the woman's colorful sari and a face-shrouding black veil, and recalled she was actually Hindu, not Moslem, and furthermore, the fact that the sister-in-law defied her family by emigrating, then refused to marry the strict old man they’d found for her, laughed off their disowning of her, and married instead Reinbert’s brother, a meek creature who readily acquiesced to her domineering and made not a peep when she spent the bulk of the potluck running her hand through the thick hair of Billy in Receiving, yes, this was most telling indeed.
Reinbert’s response was to roar that in combat the physical superiority of man is dominant, so woman will always be the lesser. She countered that in combat valor is what is most important, and woman is made of more courage, determination, and, yes, steel than the typical man (Reinbert being a prime example).
In the heat of the battle, the wager was born.
The two decided the wager would be an ultimate test of courage. They selected Billy in Receiving as the logical mastermind for the test. He’d once been an actor and was known in the company for playing jokes. Billy agreed to devise a test that he would spring upon them such that they would not know it was his trick. The one who responded with greatest valor would win. The loser would have to stand up in the lunchroom at noon and loudly declare the sex opposite was the superior.
Amabel was determined not be so humiliated.
She kept careful watch over any possible variances in the daily routine, but none arrived. Shortly after, the entire company relocated to an antique warehouse that had been fashionably rehabed as part of the City’s remodeling of its old wharf district. Only then did Billy’s test begin.
Every morning, Amabel and Reinbert came into the office to find their desk accessories rearranged. At first it was small relocations of staplers and paperclip boxes, but it gradually escalated until one morning they found the contents of their Unit’s file cabinet stacked on the floor.
Both knew it was Billy at work. He denied his involvement and protested that with the company’s move, he hadn’t had a moment to devise a proper test. Billy further added that the old warehouse was rumored to be haunted, which must be the explanation.
Amabel’s estimation of Billy dropped, as did Reinbert’s. What an obvious trick – moving staplers around and pretending it was a ghost! Master of the practical joke indeed!
With a mutual annoyance to complain about (Billy), Amabel and Reinbert actually found themselves getting along just a bit and sharing a few sarcastic puns at Billy’s expense (Bill the Pill, etc.).
The next morning, when “Your low trade mocks my tragic death get out louts,” was scrawled across their Unit’s wall in what appeared to be blood, Mr. Buttuns sleepily suggested, “I think this bet business has gone on long enough. It looks like you two kids are patching things up anyway. I’ll have a word with our friend Billy.” He winked at them in a slightly suggestive fashion which offended both and gave them another object of mutual annoyance to recite puns about.
That evening, the two stayed late to work on an assignment Mr. Buttuns had given them: a model of “Product Success Goals” which Mr. Buttuns planned to use during a meeting the next day. “I think you two won’t mind burning a bit of the midnight oil all by your lonesomes tonight,” and another saucy wink.
Indeed the two seemed to get along quite well as they discussed which bits of Styrofoam and green plastic cubes best illustrated “Upward Sales Striving,” and laughed about how clearly ridiculous Mr. Buttuns and Billy were, and the entire company if you thought about it. Mr. Buttuns had felt it best not to put a damper on this possible blossoming romance by mentioning that Billy professed, with tears in his eyes, that neither he, nor anyone else – living – had had anything to do with the files on the floor, relocated staplers, or blood on the wall. “I implore you, Mr. Buttuns! Speak about this to upper management. We must vacate this building immediately!” Mr. Buttuns, of course, attributed this outburst to Billy’s theatrical personality.
Thus, Amabel had no indication that anything might be brewing, when Reinbert abruptly looked up from a particularly challenging purple triangle, stared at a point past her, let out a scream she didn’t think a grown man was capable of making, and took off running.
She heard a slow, slapping sound behind her. She turned, and she had to admit her nerve was tested. Slowly approaching was a figure no less than nine feet tall, green and luminous, undulating and releasing the hideous stench of the grave. It trailed reeking puddles.
The costume seemed unusually elaborate and convincing, but the theatrical mind is a creative one.
Nevertheless, she did find herself shaking as it came within inches of her. The green figure bent down till its face was nearly pressed against hers. It opened its mouth with a blast of breath so foul, Amabel was forced to avert her face (she decided to complain to Mr. Buttuns the next morning—-really, Billy was out of control).
“Well, well, Billy,” she managed, trying to keep the trembling from her voice, “pretty good for a man.”
The creature’s angry, elegant voice retorted, “I am a lady.”
The next morning, Reinbert argued convincingly that since Amabel was reduced to nothing but a puddle in the middle of the Styrofoam “Product Success Goals” display, she was forfeit, and, therefore, he should be declared the winner of their wager.
“Oh, let her win,” Mr. Buttuns murmured. “You know what a fuss the ladies make when they don’t get their way.”
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