Flame Shift

Okay, so here's how my Tuesday went. I've been a loan officer at Seabank Credit Union for eleven years, and I have never once sent an email to the wrong person. Not once! Then Tuesday happened.

I'm up for regional manager in the spring, which means my file has to stay spotless, which means I double-check everything. Everything! Except, apparently, the autocomplete on my email.

I meant to write to Rex Gray, the car collector, the wealthy one, the one whose five-figure loan I need signed before Friday. I typed "Rex," hit the first name that popped up, and fired off my quick little message without even reading the address line. Rookie mistake, right? And I didn't even notice until hours later.

Here's what I sent him.

"Mr. Gray, just a reminder that your signed loan documents are due by Friday. I'll also be bringing a floppy disk backup of your financial file to Mandy's baby shower this weekend, so we can review the numbers in person if needed. Please confirm receipt. Kaylie Fowler."

Professional. Crisp. Perfectly fine, except it landed in the inbox of a completely different Rex. Rex Adkins. The park ranger. The one I have been arguing with about carburetors for two years straight.

His reply showed up twenty minutes later, and I could feel the grin through the screen. "Kaylie! Well, this is a surprise. Two whole years of you telling me you'd never need my help with anything, and now you're bringing me files? A floppy disk? Are we restoring a car together? Blink twice if you're finally admitting my way is better."

I stared at my phone in the staff break room and said a very bad word out loud. Debra from accounting looked over. I told her it was a software issue.

So I typed back something short and cold, or at least I thought it was short and cold. "Wrong Rex. This is a professional matter regarding a client. Please disregard."

That should've been the end of it! Should have been!

Four minutes later: "Interesting. Because from where I'm sitting, this appears to be a woman who needs a mechanic's expert opinion on some financial documents. I accept. My rates are steep, though. I charge in apologies. One per carburetor comment, please, plus interest."

This man. This absolute menace of a man. I've known him since the charity car show two years ago, where he had the nerve to correct me about a Holley carb in front of forty people. Forty! And yes, he was right about the float level, but that's not the point. The point is that he's been insufferable ever since, and now he thinks I'm asking him for help.

So I wrote back, terse as I could manage. "You are not the client. You are a park ranger. The client owns eleven cars and a boat. Kindly stop replying."

And do you know what he did? He doubled down!

"Eleven cars and a boat, you say? Then I'm definitely your guy. As the client in question, I'd like to request special terms. Reduced interest. Also, your email autocomplete clearly wants us to talk more than you admit. The computer never lies, Kaylie. It's science."

I actually laughed. Out loud. At my desk. Alone. Then I got mad at myself for laughing, because this was a compliance issue! My promotion! A client's records, even accidentally sent, even just mentioned, is not a joke!

"You are compromised," I typed. "You now know details of a client file. This stops now or I report you to your supervisor at the reserve. I am serious. Delete this thread."

"Ooh, threats. She threatens me and I haven't even sung yet."

Sung yet. What did that mean, sung yet? I should have ignored it. I should have deleted the thread and called Rex Gray's assistant as a responsible adult who wants a promotion. That is what I should have done.

Instead I typed, "Sung yet? What are you talking about?"

Twenty minutes later I got an email with an attachment labeled VOICEMAIL TRANSCRIPT. The transcript read, and I quote, word for word:

"Oh Kaylie from the credit union, she thinks my torque wrench is a toy! She brings me floppy disks like it's 1998, oh Kaylie, oh Kaylie, my carburetor joy!"

There were three verses. THREE. Verse two was about brake pads. Verse three rhymed "regional manager" with "banter manager," which isn't even a rhyme!

And at the bottom he'd written, "Dare you to listen to the actual voicemail all the way through. It gets worse. I do a key change."

A key change. He does a key change.

Who does that? Who takes a mix-up this embarrassing and turns it into a three-verse parody song and dares you to listen? And why, why why why, did I save the voicemail instead of deleting it? Why did I play it twice?

I'm not proud. But the man committed. He really committed to that key change. It was terrible! Awful! I listened to the whole thing twice!

I fired off my angriest email of the day, all caps in two places, which Debra could probably hear me typing. "You are a grown man of twenty-nine and you recorded a PARODY SONG about a WORKPLACE ERROR. Report incoming. Supervisor. Monday morning."

His reply came in under a minute. "My supervisor has heard me sing. He'd side with me. Also, you know my age? Flattered you checked. For the record, you started this by writing me love letters about floppy disks."

"They were NOT love letters!"

"'Please confirm receipt, Kaylie Fowler.' Very romantic. Very signed, sealed, delivered."

I put the phone face down. I picked it back up. Face down again. Picked it up! What is wrong with me?

Because here's the part I haven't said yet, the part that made my whole afternoon go sideways. Two years of banter, sure, two years of him being right about engine parts and me being right about everything else, and it's been fun in a way I haven't admitted to anyone, least of all myself. He's twenty-nine and built like someone who carries rescue equipment up cliffs for a living, and he argues with me like I'm worth arguing with. When was the last time that happened?

No. No no no. Promotion. Clean record. Client files. Friday deadline. That is my life this week.

So I sent one final email before I left the office, and I made it count. "Rex. The client is named Rex GRAY. You are Rex ADKINS. I need his signed documents by Friday for a loan that has nothing to do with you or your singing. If one more email arrives from you, I will drive to your reserve and report you in person, and I will enjoy it."

Two minutes later: "You'll drive out here AND enjoy it? Best threat I've ever received. See you Saturday at the shower, then. I'll be the handsome one holding your floppy disk."