by Jamie Knight
What the hell has gotten into him? I think, finishing up my tea, and shutting down my computer. What the hell is eating him at work so badly that he feels like he needs to act like that? Act loving and mean from one minute to the next?
With these thoughts in mind, I quickly grab my keys, my purse, and other essentials and head out the door.
I don’t know. And I don’t really care, I think from behind the wheel of my car and while preparing to drive out of my parking lot.
I’ve got work I need to focus on, not Dennis’s mood swings.
I think that, but I really feel completely differently: his mood swings are never a good thing.
And they are never simple, either.
Chapter Three - Tommy
Hoo-boy. Deep breaths, deep breaths. If you ever want to get out of the black hole, the cesspool known as the “legal assistants’ floor,” you’ve got to be braver than this and more in control than this, Tommy.
I look at myself in my crappy rearview mirror, ready and willing to admit the truth. It’s not even 9:30 in the morning yet, and I’m already sweating like a well-dressed pig.
Emphasis on the pig part. My clothes are rumpled enough to look like they came out of a pigsty, at least. My hair is a little on the unkempt side. And yes, before you ask, I’ve washed it this morning, like I do every morning.
And of course, on the day I need to look my best and feel my best, this is what happens — I’m sweating, way too much. My clothes are already wrinkled and disheveled. I don’t look like I deserve a promotion. My suit, despite being “nice,” has the unfortunate “frump” vibe to it, even though it was bought recently.
It’s the only suit I have. The only one that fits me. It’s something my dad got me for my high school graduation. It was way too big then, and it’s way too big now, over ten years later.
I sigh, fighting with the collar of my dress shirt and the collar of the suit jacket, to try to get them to lay flat or to do something other than looking like they don’t want to have anything to do with me.
No such luck, though. Messing with the jacket and dress shirt seems to only make things worse, and I look more disheveled or frumpier. And now, I’ve got even less time than I had before.
I swear under my breath and decide to get out of my car and get going. No amount of fiddling with my jacket or the slacks is going to make it look any better or any less ill-fitting. And I’ve got bigger things to worry about this morning.
Like my interview with one Ms. Joan Vanacore, one of the new lawyers around here at McKenzie Tech. She’s been brought in to form the new legal department. It’s something bigger and more formal than the legal assistants’ group I’ve been part of for the last few years.
I’ve heard she’s a recent transplant from Missouri. I also heard she ran a pretty big law firm over that way and was well-liked in the community and among her peers.
I got the lead about the job through the grapevine on the legal assistants’ floor here at McKenzie Tech. Originally, I wasn’t going to even bother with it. I’ve been trying to get out of being an aid for at least over a year, since I got my law degree, and each time a job opening has come up, it’s been taken by someone else.
So, when I originally heard about this inter-office opening, I wasn’t that interested. Except for when my “coworkers”— I prefer to think of them as co-conspirators in my pain and suffering — rode my ass again about always being in the assistants’ pool and never climbing the corporate ladder.
Plus, I needed to make some more money. When you have a father like mine — an old guy who doesn’t seem to realize that it’s the twenty-first century and that no, that latest lottery ticket isn’t going to make all your worries go away — you learn to keep trying to move out of the house.
I climb out of my car, grab my file folder full of resumes and letters of recommendation, and start the long journey across the parking lot to the main building of McKenzie Tech.
“People give you a ton of shit once they see anything different about you, and the guys I have to work with down on the legal assistants’ floor are no fucking different. I have no allies there, so I need to leave them behind,” I whisper to myself, holding the folder close to my chest and picking up my pace.
“I need to leave them at their level if I’m ever going to get anywhere.”
I don’t have time to waste, trying to catch my breath.
Focus on getting Ms. Vanacore to like you. She’s picky, I’ve heard. Not one to just take anybody for the job, so you’ve got to show her that you’re somebody. That you are not just another run-of-the-mill aid, and that you’ve actually spent time gaining skills and knowledge.
While everyone else sits around doing the bare minimum, you’ve been taking over the work they’re too lazy to do or don’t do correctly.
Finally, I make it to the main building. I stop for a moment, deciding I should catch my breath. Ms. Vanacore isn’t going to want me collapsing the minute I get to her interview or being so out of breath that I’m gasping out every answer. That’s going to make her send me right back down to the legal aids’ floor.
After a moment or two of catching my breath, and of trying to get rid of some of the sweat, so it doesn’t soak too much into my clothes, I walk inside the main building. Jog is more like it, but whatever.
From the main entrance, I make my way as quickly as I can to an elevator, hoping and praying that I don’t have to wait around for one to come to get me.
Thankfully, I don’t have to wait long at all — no more than a minute or so. I quickly get on, ignoring the looks of some of the people already in the elevator. I’ve seen that look before. The “what are you doing trying to get ahead; you belong stuck down in the assistants’ pool forever” type of look.
I ignore it, reminding myself that I have something more valuable than their perfect bodies. I have a brain. A valuable one. One that’s going to be worth a higher, more well-paid position.
Though it’s still hard not to feel their eyes — their stares and their judgments about me. Those are blaring loud and clear throughout the whole elevator. I even hear them whispering about how sweaty I am or how disheveled my clothes are, and I have to ignore this too.
I hold more tightly onto my folder of important papers and hope that, come this time tomorrow, I will be riding up to one of the partners’ floors, serving an actual partner and doing actual legal work as an associate lawyer and assistant, not just heading to my regular swamp.
I get out at the executive’s floor at the top of the building. I move swiftly and decisively, knowing that my interview time is quickly approaching and that it’s being held in one of the conference rooms on this floor.
I move so fast; I don’t even notice her. Not until I’ve already run smack dab into her, knocking her keys and drink container from her hand.
Chapter Four - Melissa
Refilling my tea in the coffee bar at the entrance to the executive’s floor, I think over the conversation I had with Dennis this morning. I also make up my mind to not think about Dennis anymore today. My mind has been preoccupied with him, and what his attitude might be trying to tell me about his personal life, the whole entire walk here.
But that all comes to an end when a frantic man comes barreling out of the elevator on my floor, clutching a file folder to his chest. Tall and broad-chested, he looks out of place here, as if maybe he should be playing the role of the Incredible Hulk rather than working behind a desk for a technology company.
His face is sweaty and flushed, but his deep-brown eyes are determined. I see him before he sees me, but what happens next is unavoidable. He slams right into me, and it’s only then, only after my drink has flown out of my hand along with my car keys, that he notices me there.
His eyes go wide in shock and horror, but it’s too late. Everything in both of our hands has already gone flying. My drink cup lands next to one of the tables.
Some of my tea splashes onto t
he carpet, but thankfully it’s not the whole thing. Somehow, the cover has slammed down on the drink-hole on it before any more damage is done. My keys fly far. They end up on my desk, but not before knocking back my portrait of Dennis.
The man’s papers and file folder, those are the biggest “casualty” of this whole collision. They go everywhere, like an explosion. Papers shift open into the air and flutter down all around us, like big-business confetti at a wedding nobody asked for.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, out of breath. “Fuck. Sorry,” he says again.
Each time he gets more and more out of breath. I actually see sweat beading on his forehead and on his face. His cheeks are beet red. I assume that’s out of embarrassment rather than him feeling cold, since he’s also sweating.
But he’s still devastatingly handsome, even though he’s frantic. His stature is very tall and towering. His big chest muscles make him look commanding.
He quickly hustles to pick up my drink container. He doesn’t bother to get my keys, but he does stop and stare at the picture on my desk.
What he thinks when he sees it, I don’t know, and I don’t care to know. Whatever it is, it’s something complex enough to keep him there a moment. Either that or catching his breath.
I busy myself with picking up his papers, as well as the folder they go in. I move quickly, thankful that there aren’t dozens of these, just a good handful. I pick one of the last few pieces of paper up, unable to keep from looking at it.
It’s a resume. Another paper I pick up is a letter of recommendation. There are a few different letters of recommendation, it looks like, and from a variety of professional relationships — mostly to do with the law. One looks like it’s from a professor, yet another looks like it’s from a boss at an internship or something of that sort.
“Stop looking at his personal papers,” I grumble to myself, hurrying to pick up the rest of the fallen papers and put them in the folder. “It’s none of your business what he does.”
As I turn around, this thought is in my head, but it quickly changes. When I see how totally and completely disheveled the man named Tommy is (I got this from looking at his resume), I know I can’t let him go to an interview looking like that. Not when he looks like a half-drowned rat dressed at its own funeral.
I go up to him, handing him his folder. At the same time, he hands me my drink container, murmuring yet again, “I’m sorry,” but this time he adds something to it.
He says, “I should’ve looked where I was going.”
I take my drink container and grab his other hand. Without stopping to ask him whether he wants me to do this or not, I drag him with me to one of the private bathrooms.
“Come on, Tommy. If you’re going for an interview, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you go in there looking like that.”
I say this as I take him with me, but he’s not even really putting up a fight — and he could if he wanted to. He’s nearly twice my size.
Amazingly, he follows dutifully along, as if he is more than willing to have me give him an impromptu makeover. And he should be. I’m always impeccably dressed. Even today, even with running short on time, I’m dressed in my best. In a flawless blouse, fancy heels, and fancier slacks.
I pull open the door to the private bathroom, pushing him ahead of me.
“Get in there. I’m going to fix you up as quickly as I can.”
Again, Tommy seems to follow my lead — my coercion — into the bathroom, even though he could resist it if he wanted to. I follow him in, close the door, and get to work. I only have a few minutes, if that, to work my magic.
Chapter Five - Tommy
Oh, my God. I don’t have time for this. I’ve got to get to my interview! If I’m late, I might as well throw in the towel. I might as well set my resume on fire, for as much good it’s going to do me if I’m late!
I’m thinking all this, but I don’t do anything to resist the sexy secretary — a person I know vaguely as Melissa, but mostly the “woman who has a British accent” — who is dragging me into a private bathroom.
She’s so hot – curvy in all the right places, and with a cute face, too. I can’t believe she’s come to my aid.
Melissa puts me right in front of the mirror and immediately goes to work on my hair. I don’t know how, but she has a small personal salon stashed in her pockets — a comb and a small thing of hair gel.
“Tommy is it,” she states this, rather than asks it, as she begins to try to get my hair under control.
She combs it and puts a little more gel in it, before trying again to style it into place. Amazingly, a few of my most unruly pieces behave themselves for once.
I answer her question.
“Yeah, my name’s Tommy,” I say. “Thanks for helping me out… Melissa?”
Melissa combs her long, delicate fingers through my hair, adjusting it, so it’s just so. Focusing the way she is, she looks content.
She nods. “You’re welcome. Interviews are not something to be rushed through, Tommy. You’ve got to make sure you’re not just selling yourself, but the right qualities and the right image.”
So saying, she finishes the primping she’s doing of my hair.
My God, she’s some Goddess of the hair follicle. Somehow, Melissa has managed to accomplish something with my hair that I’ve been unable to do for as long as I can remember —she’s given me a style. Now my appearance has some measure of collectedness and grace with that style.
Melissa moves on to my clothes. That’s something I know can’t be fixed nearly as easily. Not unless she has a suit my size that looks as good as hers somewhere hidden in those slack pockets. She does what she can, adjusting my jacket, the tie, and a bit of the pants’ cuffs by the shoe.
“You really could use a wardrobe update,” she murmurs.
Before I can get offended, she adds, “You’re much better looking… much more handsome than your clothes give you credit for. If you went out and bought some nice clothes that fit you well, it would really increase your confidence level.”
I don’t feel offended by any of her words. Oddly, I feel cared for or loved, like I actually am worth a damn to somebody, and while the person saying it is mostly a stranger to me, I don’t care.
The way her hands and eyes attend to me, it makes me a little breathless and a little lightheaded, but I force myself to focus on the reality at hand. I need to be mentally preparing for my interview, not getting lost in Melissa’s deep, inviting eyes. Light brown and golden, they remind me of the sweet eyes on a cat I used to have, named Scooter.
“Feel free to thank my father for that,” I say, finally answering her comment about my ill-fitting clothes. “My father doesn’t think big people deserve to look good in anything. Especially me— he says I will never amount to anything.”
I rub at my eyes, feeling stung.
Melissa’s angry, pinched face appears next to mine in the mirror.
“What a terrible thing to say,” she says. “What an ugly little man!”
She uses her handkerchief on me, on my neck and face, wiping away sweat. As she turns me to face her to make a few last adjustments to the front of my jacket and dress shirt, she says, “Own that interview, Tommy.”
Her mouth, beautiful and small, becomes dark, serious, and deliciously tense. “The only ugly person in this world is a man like your father. Or any person who would say mean or disparaging things to you.”
She pats the breast part of my jacket.
“Own it. Be confident. Remember what you have to give and remember what you’re worth.”
I smile, feeling uneasy and blessed at the same time. In my wildest dreams, I would’ve never expected a secretary — the refined, English one at that — to be giving me a pep talk. But I listen and listen well.
Melissa must know what she’s talking about. After all, only someone with guts, courage, and faith in themselves moves halfway across the world for a job. She ch
ose to set up her own life and thrive in her own way, and with no family for assistance.
If someone like Melissa can do that, then so can I. I can go in for this interview and give it my best. I can conduct myself with confidence and clarity, knowing I’ve worked hard, I’ve studied hard, and it’s my time to shine.
If someone like Melissa can move her own way through the world, then I can certainly move up in this one. I can take this promotion, and I can run with it. I can fulfill my dreams and goals of being more than just your average legal assistant.
“Thanks.” I clear my throat, choked by the bit of tenderness I am feeling for Melissa. “Thanks for your help and your support,” I say, extending my hand for her to shake it.
“You’re welcome,” Melissa says, extending her hand.
I take it and give one firm shake. The moment I do, electricity feels like it courses through my body — warm, bubbly electricity. I’m not sure, but it seems like something similar goes through Melissa. She blinks up at me in surprise. For a moment, there is a look of terror and joy on her face, as if she’s feeling the same thing I am, that we’re connected somehow, and not just by our hands.
I let go quickly, feeling my heart begin to race.
Melissa clears her throat and balls up the hand that was holding mine.
“Better hurry, Tommy. I think that interview of yours is about to happen without you.”
I quickly look at my watch — an old Velcro carryover from my teenage years that I haven’t been able to get rid of. It’s almost 10 o’clock, almost time.
“Shit!” I hurry to the door. “Thanks for the help, Melissa!”
As I leave, I hear her sigh. She shakes her head and murmurs something under her breath. I don’t hear it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was something along the lines of, “There he goes, messing up all my good work! And after I went to all that trouble!”