by K. T. Mara
He was already waiting for me when I left the elevator.
“Yup.” I exited the lobby and headed toward the town car. A gust of wind hit me. I caught a glance of my reflection in the passenger window. My brown hair was covering my eyes. My hair was a mess. It’d been three months since I had a haircut. Coincidentally, it’s the same amount of time since I got laid.
No one would see me anyway. Although New York is the city that never sleeps, it was 5:45am; the roads were deserted except for a few stray cars. Most of them were taxis, probably taking home some drunken partiers. In two hours’ time, the city would go live again. Commercial neon signs would light windows and street vendors will be opening their shops. Crowds of people frantically going to work would replace the serene silence.
But that was in the future, and I was in the present. Gus said I needed to appreciate the now aspect of life, instead of being consumed by things that haven’t happened yet.
I slid into the passenger seat and rolled down the windows as Leonard drove in silence. He was a quiet man, not much of a conversationalist. He didn’t believe in small talk, which was the primary reason I hired him. My trips with him were some of the only moments of peace I had in a day; a much needed break from the draining effects of human interaction.
Leonard was also dedicated to cleanliness, a trait we shared. The car was washed once every week, twice if it rained a lot. The interior was vacuumed at least every other day, even though no one ate in the car. Even the dials of the radio were polished spotless, despite it never being used. Leonard hated radio music, and I hated everything on the radio.
The morning shows were shit. It was nauseating listening to their fake laughter. News channels were no better. Sure, they had a few funny stories about a cat stuck in a tree, but they were out-numbered by the issues. People listened to the news for serious stories, even though serious and tragic are often interchanged, and after they’ve thoroughly fucked with my mood, they’d start talking about market reports and the stock exchange. I had twelve hours at work to listen to that. I didn’t need to hear about the collapse of yet another Fortune 500 company during the only downtime I had.
I looked out the window, surprised to see that we were already halfway to the office. It was one of the setbacks of being lost in my head. Time passed far too quickly. Sometimes that was a good thing, but as Gus has never failed to point out, I missed a lot when I was shut away with my thoughts.
And by a lot, he meant the world. Not that I was missing anything worthwhile. Important things are emailed. They are faxed, called, or reported in person. The insignificant things didn’t leave remnants, or reminders, of their existence.
-- I’m wary of all morning people. There is something unsettling about a person who likes to leave the comforts of a warm bed and soft pillow. Absolutely masochistic. --
BEEP BEEP BEEP
My hand unsuccessfully reached for the alarm clock on the bedside table.
BEEP BEEP BEEP
Maybe if I waited long enough it would magically stop.
BEEP BEEP BEEP
I heard a rumor alarms automatically shut off after twenty minutes, because at that point, the person is either dead, or they really don’t want to get up. Who knew alarm clocks had logic?
BEEP BEEP BEEP
Today seemed like a perfect day to test out that theory.
BEEP BEEP BEEP
I wondered how late for work I needed to be for them to fire me on my first day. So really, if I stayed in bed, I’d be able to solve two theories, which will, undoubtedly, be much more productive than any first day of work could be.
BEEP BEEP BE—
Silence?
A looming figure created a shadow over my face.
“Good Morning, Miss Trevelynn.” The sickeningly sweet voice sent a sharp shudder through my body, immediately putting me on high alert. “Please, get up and get dressed for breakfast. You have a busy day ahead of you.”
“Mrs. Trout,” I mumbled, opening an eye to glare at her, “I thought I fired you.”
The old woman smiled, making her crow’s feet more pronounced. “And I thought I told you it’s not your decision.”
It never is. Nothing ever is.
“My apartment is the size of her walk-in closet. Why would she think I needed a maid?”
“I am not a maid. Your mother hired me to wake you in the morning and prepare your meals. You will, of course, be responsible for everything else; including laundry, groceries, housekeeping, and cleaning.”
I stared at her. “So basically, you’ll be doing nothing that I want, and everything that I don’t want.”
The old hag smiled, but like all of her smiles, it felt sinister.
I heard her younger sister was diagnosed with Parkinson’s a few months ago. She was also the more agreeable of the two, and she never purposefully tried to make my life a living hell.
Wasn’t that how life worked, though? In the grand scheme of things, the nice die and the mean survive. It was a twisted play on natural selection ensuring the sardonic reproduced and created lovely cynical babies; at least, that was how things worked on my family tree.
The sound of pills rattled inside a container caught my attention.
She pulled out a small orange bottle from her purse. The familiarity of it sinks my stomach.
I ground hard on my teeth to keep myself from yelling.
“I already said no pills. I said no when the doctor prescribed them. I said no when I moved out. My answer has not changed.”
“I’m afraid this is not your decision.”
Again with this not being my decision. I was twenty-six years old, and yet I had as much control over my life as when I was a child.
We locked eyes. She thought she could intimidate me, but I was a grown woman, and I was not afraid of disapproval anymore.
“Get. Out.”
She picked up her purse and walked toward the door. I was sickened by my own sense of relief that she actually listened.
Just when I thought it was all over, she turned around and smiled one last time. “Your breakfast is on the table. Make sure you eat before it gets cold. You’re looking awfully pale lately, Marie.”
“My name is not Marie!” I screamed to a silent room, the door was already clicking shut.
--------------------
Contact F
Name: Franco Walker
Age: 35 years old
A.K.A: Sir Nags-a-Lot
Occupation: My Babysitter
Mood he invokes: Unadulterated Annoyance
--------------------
At exactly 10:06am, the door to my office was banged open, and in walked Franco looking obscenely pleased with himself for getting the door opened. It wasn’t even fucking locked.
He dragged a folding chair to the front of my desk and sat down.
“Good morning, Connor,” he smiled.
“Yeah, you too.”
“I see you have not made the changes I suggested. You’ll be doing them soon, I hope?”
“Uh huh,” I nodded. “Soon.”
“And by soon, do you mean tomorrow? Because you’ve been telling me ‘soon’ since your first day here – four years ago.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “The word soon is so arbitrary. It could mean in a minute, an hour, or even a year.”
The smile slipped off his face. “W-which is it for you?”
“When I retire.”
A beep came from my laptop. I turned my screen around to show Franco my inbox. His eyes widened in surprise at the dozens of unread emails from the past twenty-four hours, all of them marked urgent.
“I don’t doubt that you’re very busy, but I think the changes you need to make are just as important.”
That was a big exaggeration. The changes were nothing more than solutions to complaints I was getting from Human Resources. I asked for the names of those who complained, but of course all I got was they’re anonymous.
When I become CEO, anonymous will al
so come with your social security number and address.
“We can work on them together,” Franco sighed. He pulled out a piece of paper with the list of modifications I needed to make to my office. My office. If it was supposed to be for everyone, it would be called a lounge, where they can gossip and sing fucking show tunes, for all I cared.
“First of all, we need to address your door.”
“What about it?” I snapped.
Franco smiled nervously, “C-Connor, just hear me out. It’s nothing big. Mr. Polsky just thinks you’re creating a hostile atmosphere by always leaving your door closed.”
“Wait. These weren’t worker complaints? They were from Polsky? The same Polsky who I caught on multiple occasions picking his fucking nose?”
Franco didn’t respond, giving me my answer. I was only annoyed before; now, I was fucking pissed.
“I’m not doing anything. I don’t give a shit what he thinks.”
“But he’s the Director of Human Resources!”
“And I’m the COO. I’m one notch below CEO; ergo, I outrank him.” I pointed to the list in Franco’s hand, “Burn that thing, and make sure he gets a memo telling him to mind his own fucking business.”
Franco ran and closed the door. He looked at me sternly. “Someone could have heard you.”
I didn’t even try to look contrite. I hoped someone was eavesdropping. Then that someone could run to Polsky and deliver my message; I knew Franco wouldn’t.
He returned to his seat and sighed. People tended to do that a lot around me.
“I know you and Mr. Polsky don’t get along very well,” Franco began.
I wanted to toss Polsky down a bridge like the fucking troll that he was, but I kept that part to myself and signaled for Franco to continue.
“But some of his concerns are valid.” Franco started tapping on the plastic chair he was sitting on. “Besides your own, you don’t have any chairs in your office. Whenever I come in here, I have to grab one from outside, or setup my own folding chair.”
“I already let you keep the folding chair in here. Complain anymore, and that will no longer be an option.”
Franco sighed again. It occurred to me I needed a poster made that banned sighing. People needed to stop blowing their used air in my face.
“Where would your other visitors sit?”
“They can use your chair. After all, sharing is caring.”
“But…”
Another beep sounded from my laptop. The sender is Ronald Dukee, the owner of an up-and-coming programming firm we’ve been trying to acquire.
“Hold that thought, Franco.”
Before he could open his mouth to argue what we were talking about was important as well, I said, “This is important to me.”
I opened the email and skimmed his reply. It was in response to a message I sent him two weeks ago about an offer to buy-out his company.
Dear Mr. Shaw,
I thank you very much for your offer, but I am currently entertaining offers from multiple organizations, such as yourself. I am still waiting for a reply from some of them, but I will be glad to keep you informed on the offers.
Ronald Dukee
CEO, Dukee Industries
I quickly typed my reply.
Dear Mr. Dukee,
No need to keep us informed on the dealings. We withdraw our offer.
Connor Shaw
COO, ShawTech
“Did something bad happen?” Franco asked.
“No,” I replied, but I was feeling very annoyed. I made Dukee a fair offer, and he not only waited two weeks to reply, but now he wanted me to get into a bidding war. His company wasn’t even that extraordinary. They invented a chip that could extend wireless peripheral capabilities by one-and-half times the current leader. It was an interesting project, but nothing more than a frivolous add-on. The current wireless mouse could already reach far enough. Any farther, and most users wouldn’t be able to see damn screen.
The offer was only made so Pearcuns, our biggest competitor, couldn’t have it. Yes, pissing contests existed amongst the biggest of bigwigs, but we’re also not stupid. I wasn’t about to start matching supposed offers because Ronald Dukee’s ego was too big for reality.
“Ahem,” Franco cleared his throat.
I forgot about him. I swiveled my chair away from the laptop.
“Right,” he continued, “so about the chair situation.”
“There’s no need for more chairs. No one comes into my office.”
Franco looked puzzled. His eyebrows bunched together. “But don’t you have meetings in here?”
“No. All meetings take place in the conference rooms. You have access to my schedule. Shouldn’t you know this?”
His face turned slightly pink as he stared at the ground. “I was thinking about the international meetings. I forgot they took place over the phone and video calls.”
I blinked a few times. I didn’t mean to make him feel bad. “You excel at your job Franco, but I didn’t hire you to play messenger boy for the HR director.”
“Yes, my apologies, Mr. Shaw.”
Now it was my turn to sigh. Whenever Franco felt like he disappointed me, he would revert back to his obscenely polite self. When he first started working for me, it took weeks before he would stop calling me Mr. Shaw or Sir.
“I suppose you can get a few chairs,” I mumbled.
“What was that?” He immediately perked up like a puppy.
“Two chairs. That’s it.”
I wasn’t caving. Having sitting chairs in an office is reasonable, even if no one will use them. And I guess they’ll make the room look less like a prison cell.
“Yes!” he pumped his right hand.
It took a lot of effort on my part to not roll my eyes.
“I will pick you the most beautiful leather chairs, Connor! Just leave it to me!” He turned around and looked at every inch of the room with stars in his eyes. When I noticed him staring at the wall too long, I knew I had to clarify.
“Just the chairs. You are changing nothing else.”
“But…but since you’re going to have a team in here, and you’ll have to leave your office, anyway, while we’re at it, shouldn’t we take the opportunity and freshen up the paint? It’ll be very efficient. You love efficiency, right?” He gave me a stupid puppy dog look, which everyone should know only works on cute girls and babies.
I was more of a dog person anyway. “First of all, there won’t be a team. It’ll be two movers, bringing in two chairs. And second of all, they’re moving in furniture, not fumigating for rats. I don’t need to leave my office.
“Rats, huh?” he smiled.
He couldn’t really be thinking about planting rats. Could he?
“I’m not afraid of rats, and Lector is great at catching them.” Of course I was lying through my teeth. Lector can’t catch rats. I doubt he’s ever seen one in his life. The only thing he’s ever fought for is couch space
“Now about your door…”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“Got it!” He smiled and closed the door on his way out.
I didn’t feel relief. I knew he would come back within five minutes because he forgot something.
Six minutes and thirty-two seconds later, my door opened again.
“Oh don’t frown, you knew I was going to return.”
I did, but he was a full minute and thirty two seconds later than my prediction.
“I forgot to mention I really like the size of your office. It’s big and small at the same time.”
“So it’s medium?”
“Yeah, kind of like medium, but a little larger.”
This conversation was quickly becoming old. “Is there a reason behind your second visit?”
“Of course.” He walked over to my mini-fridge and pulled it open. “I have some great news for you.”
I kept my eyes averted.
“Connor, did you hear me?”
I heard him, bu
t right now he was digging in my fridge, and his ass was not-so-subtlety sticking out. I would not talk to his ass. It wasn’t even a nice one.
“I heard you. Come sit down first.” He turned around, holding one of my Cokes in his hand.
“You don’t mind if I have a drink, right? I’m really thirsty.”
Yes, I did mind, and it was pointless to ask after already taking it. I wasn’t going to make him put it back. His germs are already all over the damn thing.
He opened the can, and took a long sip.
“Ah,” he said. “That’s the stuff.”
He handed me a piece of paper. “This is your new personal assistant. Her name’s Rachel.”
I perked up immediately. “You got me a fuck buddy?”
Franco’s face reddened like a cherry tomato. “N-no! No!” He shouted again in case I didn’t hear him the first time. “No, no, no, no, no! How could you possibly think that?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Everyone knows personal assistant is code for personal call girl.”
“You’ve been watching too much porn,” Franco whispered.
“Maybe, but that is really beside the point. A lot of guys do it. I think secretaries are more common, but I already gave up on that boat.”
My secretary was a retired Norwegian body builder, who was taller, and larger than me. In her heyday, she competed in Ms. Olympia.
If she had a dick, there was absolutely no doubt who would win.
“Connor, please focus.” Franco pushed the paper farther across the desk. “I know you’ve been really overworked these past few months. A personal assistant will really help get you organized.”
“I’m organized.”
“Oh yeah? Find your stapler.”
“Fuck off.” I scratched my head, and reached for the paper. “I’m assuming this isn’t even my choice, and she’s already hired?”