Snot Girl and Booger Boy

Chapter 6, Part 2: First Daze

Meanwhile, 10 miles away at the Woolen Mill in town, Marjorie parked the Checker in the lot and opened the door to find a security guard standing beside it.

“Cabs parking in the service lot,” he said authoritatively.

“Oh! This isn’t a taxi. It’s my car. I start here today.” Marjorie held out her hand, but the guard ignored it.

“It looks like a cab.”

“It was, but now it’s my car,” Marjorie said, smiling.

“You said you’re starting here today?”

“Yes. I’ll be working for Mr. Weebly.”

The guard frowned, sighed, and rested his hand on the pistol strapped to his side. He didn’t intend to use it, but Marjorie didn’t know that and stepped back slightly.

“You’ll need to park in the employee lot behind the office building.”

Marjorie scanned the large parking lot. It was empty, except for the Checker and a black sedan with the word “Security” stenciled across the driver’s door.

“But,” Marjorie motioned to the empty lot.

“The employee lot behind the office building,” said the guard flatly, now crossing his arms across his chest.

Without another word, Marjorie slid back behind the steering wheel, closed the door, and started the Checker. She was trying to stay pleasant, but she just couldn’t manage anything like a smile as she nodded curtly in the guard’s direction and drove away toward the office building.

Marjorie was a bit rattled at her interaction with the guard. He was the first person she encountered at her new job, and that didn’t bode well for the rest of her day. He wasn’t exactly rude, but he wasn’t nice, either. And that thing with the pistol…

She was pleasantly surprised, though, when she walked into the reception area, and the woman behind the desk smiled brightly as she exclaimed, “Good morning! Marjorie?”

“Yes. I’ll be working with Mr. Weebly?”

“That’s right! I’m Betty! How are you this morning?” Betty wore a slightly bohemian outfit, perfectly complemented by her short copper hair and emerald green eyes.

“Well, the guard—”

“Oh! That’s just Mr. Fegg. He’s just a little cranky. All the time.”

Just then, a portly man stormed through the door from outside.

“Good morning, Mr. Weebly!” said Betty.

“Morning. No time, Betty, no time. New employee, I’m late,” he sputtered as he trotted to the back office, slamming the door behind him.

Betty laughed as Marjorie stared, wide-eyed.

“He’s a little high-strung. Let’s give him a moment to get situated, and then you can go back.”

When Betty led Marjorie to Mr. Weebly’s office, he was sitting at his desk, frenetically moving papers from one folder to another, knocking things over and righting them again, and putting things in drawers and taking other things out. There seemed to be no method to his method, but since he was the boss, Marjorie felt like there must be one.

“Mr. Weebly? This is Marjorie, your new assistant.”

Mr. Weebly instantly froze, folded his hands on his desk in front of him, and heaved a very heavy sigh.

As Betty motioned Marjorie to a chair, Mr. Weebly stood and walked around the desk to shake Marjorie’s hand with both of his hands.

“Excellent, excellent. Sorry I was late. You weren’t late, were you? I was. The guard, you know. Sit down, sit down. Can I get you some coffee? Betty, get the girl some coffee.” Mr. Weebly stopped talking abruptly, waiting for Marjorie to say something.

“Good--,” Marjorie began.

Betty smirked, slipping out the door. Marjorie would definitely need coffee, even as Mr. Weebly definitely did not.

“Welcome aboard to the Woolen—our happy family—at the Woolen—to the Woolen Mill!” Mr. Weebly interrupted. “We’re—I’m—happy to have you here. So much to do, so much.” The frozen silence again.

“Mr. Weebly, I’m certainly glad to be here, but I understood I would be your secretary.”

“Secretary? No, no. Certainly not. I don’t need a secretary. I need an assistant,” Mr. Weebly said, shaking his head rapidly so that his jowls wobbled. “You know someone to type and file and tabulate and answer my phone. That sort of thing.”

“Isn’t that what a secretary does?” asked Marjorie.

“Well, yes,” said Mr. Weebly slowly as he leaned back in his chair. This was the first time he had paused, and Marjorie worried that he might be having some sort of stroke—or maybe his coffee just wore out.

“But a secretary doesn’t assist,” he said. “Assistants assist. I need an assistant, you see. Someone who thinks on their feet. Someone I can bounce ideas off of.”

Marjorie was confused. She clearly answered a “Secretary Wanted” ad. Assistant sounded—harder.

“Of course,” said Mr. Weebly, “If you’d rather be my secretary, I suppose we could find you a place in the shipping department. It doesn’t pay as well, but…”

Marjorie thought for a second. Assisting sounded more interesting than just being a secretary (no that there’s anything wrong with being a secretary, she thought, since that’s the job she applied for to begin with). And it paid more. On the other hand, she had no idea what she would do with the extra money. Maybe paint the Checker?

“How much does it pay?” asked Marjorie.

Mr. Weebly looked confused, as if he hadn’t considered it, then pressed his intercom button.

“Betty?” he said. “How much should I pay my new assistant?”

“Isn’t Betty your assistant?” asked Marjorie.

“Yes. No. I mean, she was. No, no, Betty is my daughter. My receptionist.”

The intercom crackled with Betty’s voice. “You paid me sixty dollars.”

Mr. Weebly looked surprised. Pressing the intercom button, he said, “I did? A week?”

“That’s right. Sixty dollars a week.”

Flustered, Mr. Weebly pressed the button again. “Do we have sixty dollars?”

“A week,” Betty responded.

“Sixty dollars a week! Oh my!” Mr. Weebly muttered, shaking his head. “Well, I suppose that’s--" Mr. Weebly looked at Marjorie. “Is sixty dollars a week satisfactory?”

“Well,” Marjorie said, smiling. “I was making nothing before, so yes, sixty dollars a week is very satisfactory.”

Mr. Weebly stood and clasped Marjorie's hand in both of his.

“Excellent. Good. Happy to have you. Welcome to Weebly Woolen Mill!”

© 2026, Brian G Parker