aine managed to get through the weekend without another confrontation with her jerk neighbor and was at work fifteen minutes early in an effort to atone for her Friday lateness, even though she had worked overtime on Friday to make up for it. As she stopped at the gate, the watchman leaned out and eyed the Viper with disapproval. “When’re you going to get rid of the piece of junk and buy a Chevrolet?”

She heard it almost every day. This was what happened when you worked in the Detroit area in anything remotely connected with the automotive industry. You had to show brand loyalty to whichever of the Big Three directly or indirectly employed you. “When I can afford it,” she replied, as she always did. Never mind that the Viper had cost the earth, even though it was used and had over fifty thousand miles on it when she bought it. “I just bought a house, you know. If my dad hadn’t given this to me, I wouldn’t be driving it.”

That last was a direct lie, but it tended to get people off her back for a while. Thank God no one here knew who her father was, or they would have known he was a Ford man through and through. He had been insulted when she bought the Viper and never failed to make a few derogatory remarks about it.

“Yeah, well, your dad should have known better.”

“He doesn’t know anything about cars.” She tensed, expecting lightning to strike her dead for that whopper.

She parked the Viper at a back corner of the lot, where it was less likely to get dinged. People at Hammerstead joked that the car was being shunned. She had to admit it was inconvenient, especially during bad weather, but getting wet was better than letting the Viper get injured. Just driving on I-696 to get to work was enough to give her gray hair.

Hammerstead occupied a four-story red-brick building with a gray arched portico and six curving steps leading up to impressive double doors. That entrance, however, was used exclusively by visitors. All the employees entered by a metal side door with an electronic lock into a narrow, puke green hallway, on which were the offices of maintenance and electrical, and a dark, dank room labeled “Storage.” Just what was stored there, Jaine didn’t want to know.

At the end of the puke green hallway were three steps that led up to another metal door. This one opened onto a gray-carpeted hall that ran the length of the building, front to back, and off which offices and other hallways branched like veins. The two lower floors were reserved for the computer nerds, those strange and irreverent beings who talked in a foreign language about bytes and USB ports. Access to these floors was limited; one had to have an employee’s access card to get into the puke green hallway, then another to enter any of the offices and rooms. There were two elevators, and at the far end of the building, for the more energetic, were the stairs.

As she entered the gray-carpeted hall, a large hand-lettered sign caught her attention. The sign was posted directly above the call buttons for the elevators. In green and purple crayon, outlined with black Magic Marker for emphasis, was a new company directive: effective immediately, all employees will be REQUIRED TO TAKE A COMBINATION OF GINKGO AND VIAGRA, SO YOU CAN REMEMBER WHAT THE FUCK YOU’RE DOING.

She began giggling. The nerds were in fine form today. By nature they rebelled against authority and structure; such signs were commonplace, at least until someone in management arrived and took them down. She imagined eyes all up and down the hallway were plastered to tiny cracks as the culprits enjoyed others’ reactions to their latest attack on corporate dignity.

The door behind her opened, and Jaine turned to see who the next arrival was. She barely refrained from wrinkling her nose.

Leah Street worked in human resources, and she could be counted on to not see the humor in anything. She was a tall woman whose ambition was to rise into management, though she didn’t seem to know how to go about doing so. She wore rather girlish clothes instead of the more businesslike suits that would have complemented her willowy build. She was an attractive woman, with feathery blond hair and good skin, but clueless when it came to fashion. Her best feature was her hands, which were slim and elegant, and which she always kept perfectly manicured.

True to form, Leah gasped when she read the sign, and began turning red. “That’s disgraceful,” she snapped, reaching out to take it down.

“If you touch it, your fingerprints will be on it,” Jaine said, totally deadpan.

Leah froze, her hand only a fraction of an inch from the paper.

“There’s no telling how many people have already seen it,” Jaine continued as she punched the up button. “Someone in management is bound to hear about it and investigate even if the sign isn’t here any longer. Unless you plan on eating it – which I wouldn’t, the germ count on that thing must be in the gazillions – how are you going to dispose of it without being seen?”

Leah flashed Jaine a look of dislike. “You probably think this disgusting trash is funny.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you put it up yourself.”

“Maybe you should tell on me,” Jaine suggested as the elevator doors opened and she stepped inside. “Try calling 1-800-WHO-CARES.”

The elevator doors closed, leaving Leah standing outside them glaring at her. That was the most acrimonious exchange they’d ever had, though Leah wasn’t known for the ability to get along with others. How she had ever landed a job in HR was beyond Jaine. Most of the time, she simply felt sorry for the woman.

Today wasn’t one of those times.

Mondays were always the busiest day of the week in the payroll department, because that was when all the time cards for the week before were turned in. Hammerstead worked at supplying computer technology to General Motors, not at putting its own payroll system on computer. They still did it the old-fashioned way, with time cards that were punched by a clock. It was a lot of paperwork, but so far payroll had not been stopped by a software glitch or a hard-drive crash. Maybe that was why Hammer-stead hadn’t upgraded: the payroll, like the mail, had to go through.

By ten o’clock, she was ready for a break. Each floor had a snack room, with the usual assortment of vending machines, cheap cafeteria tables and metal chairs, a refrigerator, a coffeemaker, and a microwave oven. There were several women and one man grouped around a single table when Jaine entered, all of the women laughing their heads off and the guy looking indignant.

Jaine poured herself a much-needed cup of coffee. “What’s up?” she asked.

“A special edition of the newsletter,” one of the women, Dominica Flores, answered. Her eyes were wet from laughing. “This one is going down in history.”

“I don’t see what’s so funny” said the guy, scowling.

“You wouldn’t,” a woman said, snickering. She held out the newsletter to Jaine. “Take a look.”

The company newsletter wasn’t officially sanctioned, not by any stretch of the imagination. It originated from the first two floors; give that many imaginations access to desktop publishing, and it was bound to happen. The newsletter appeared at irregular intervals, and there was usually something in it that had management trying to round up all the copies.

Jaine took another sip of coffee as she took the newsletter. The guys actually did a pretty professional job of it, though with the equipment and software at their disposal, it would have been a disgrace if they hadn’t. The newsletter was named The Hammerhead and a nasty-looking shark was the logo. It wasn’t a hammerhead shark, but that didn’t matter. The articles were set in columns, there were good graphics, and a fairly witty cartoonist who signed his work “Mako” usually poked fun at some aspect of corporate life.

Today the headline was set in huge boldface letters: DO YOU MEASURE UP? Below it read, “What Women Really Want,” with a tape measure coiled like a cobra ready to strike.

“Forget about it, guys,” the article began. “Most of us are nonstarters. For years we’ve been told it’s not what we’ve got, it’s how we use it, but now we know the truth. Our expert panel of four women, friends who work here at Hammerstead, have come up with a list of their requirements for the perfect man.”

Uh-oh. Jaine almost groaned, but managed to bite back the sound and show nothing but interest in her expression. Damn it, what had Marci done with that list she had written down? They would all be teased unmercifully, and this was the kind of thing that stuck forever. She could just see tape measures by the dozen turning up on her desk every morning.

Hastily she skimmed down the article. Thank God; none of their names were mentioned. They were listed as A, B, C, and D. She was still going to wring Marci’s neck, but now she wouldn’t have to fold, spindle, and mutilate her.

The entire list was there, starting with “faithful” in the number one spot. The list wasn’t bad until it hit number eight, “great in bed,” but after that it deteriorated rapidly. Number nine was Marci’s ten-inch requirement, complete with all their accompanying comments, including her own about the last two inches being leftovers.

Number ten had to do with how long Mr. Perfect should be able to last in bed. “Definitely longer than a television commercial,” had been T.J.’s – Ms. D’s – rather scathing indictment. They had settled on half an hour as the optimum length of lovemaking, not counting foreplay.

“Why not?” Ms. C – that was Jaine – was quoted as saying. “This is a fantasy, right? And a fantasy is supposed to be exactly what you want it to be. My Mr. Perfect could give me thirty minutes of thrusting time – unless you’re having a quickie, in which case thirty minutes would kind of defeat the purpose.”

The women were all howling with laughter, so Jaine figured some expression must be on her face. She just hoped it looked like astonishment rather than horror. The guy – she thought his name was Gary or Craig, something like that – was turning redder by the minute.

“You wouldn’t think it was so funny if a bunch of men said that their ideal woman had to have big boobs,” he snapped, getting to his feet.

“Oh, come off it,” Dominica said, still grinning. “Like men haven’t gone for big boobs since their knuckles still dragged the ground. It’s nice to see a little payback.”

Oh, great. A battle between the sexes. Jaine could just imagine the conversations going on around the building. She forced a smile as she handed back the newsletter. “I guess we’re going to hear about this for a while.”

“Are you kidding?” Dominica asked, grinning. “I’m going to frame my copy and hang it where my husband sees it first thing in the morning when he wakes up and last thing at night when he goes to bed!”

As soon as Jaine got back to her office, she dialed Marci’s extension. “Guess what I just saw in the newsletter,” she growled, keeping her voice low.

“Oh, damn.” Marci groaned aloud. “How bad is it? I haven’t seen a copy yet.”

“From what I read, it’s pretty much verbatim. Damn it, Marci, how could you?”

“That’s a quarter,” Marci said automatically. “And it was an accident. I don’t want to say too much here in the office, but if you can meet me for lunch, I’ll tell you what happened.”

“Okay. Railroad Pizza at twelve. I’ll call T.J. and Luna; they’ll probably want to be there, too.”

“This sounds like a lynch party,” Marci said mournfully.

“Could be,” Jaine said, and hung up.

Railroad Pizza was about half a mile from Hammerstead, which made it a popular place with the employees. They did a booming take-out business, but they also had half a dozen booths and about that many tables. Jaine got the back booth, where they would have the most privacy. Within minutes, the other three arrived and slid into the booth, T.J. next to Jaine, Marci and Luna across from them.

“God, I’m sorry,” Marci said. She looked miserable.

“I can’t believe you showed the list to someone!” T.J. was horrified. “If Galan ever finds out – ”

“I don’t see why you’re so upset,” Luna said, puzzled. “I mean, yeah, it’d be a little embarrassing if people found out we’re the ones who made the list, but it’s really kind of funny.”

“Would you still think it’s funny six months from now when guys are still coming up to you offering to show you that they measure up?” Jaine asked.

“Galan wouldn’t think it’s funny at all,” T.J. said, shaking her head. “He’d kill me.”

“Yeah,” Marci said glumly. “Brick isn’t what you’d call sensitive, but he’d get pissed that I said I wanted ten inches.” She gave a weak smile. “Guess you can say he’d come up short.”

“How did it happen?” T.J. asked, burying her face in her hands.

“I went shopping Saturday, and I ran into Dawna what’s-her-name, you know, that Elvira look-alike on the first floor,” Marci said. “We got to talking, went for a late lunch, had a couple of beers. I showed her the list, we had a good laugh, and she asked for a copy. I didn’t see why not. After a few beers, I don’t see why not about a lot of things. She asked a few questions, and somehow I wound up writing down everything we’d said.”

Marci had an almost photographic memory. Unfortunately, a few beers didn’t seem to affect her memory, just her judgment.

“At least you didn’t give her our names,” T.J. said.

“She knows who we are,” Jaine pointed out. “Marci had the list, so any idiot can figure out she’s one of the four friends. Take it from there.”

T.J. covered her face with her hands again. “I’m dead. Or divorced.”

“I don’t think anything will come of it,” Luna said soothingly. “If Dawna was going to spill the beans on us, she would already have told her pals on the first floor. We’re safe. Galan will never know.”