Backroom Confessions

by Rose Jackson-Beavers

  Backroom

  Confessions

  Rose Jackson-Beavers

  Published by Prioritybooks Publications

  Missouri

  This book is a work of fiction. The incidents, characters, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be interpreted as real. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Prioritybooks Publications

  P.O. Box 2535

  Florissant, Mo 63033

  Copyright 2004 by Rose Jackson-Beavers

  All Rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Library of Congress LCNN

  2004093409

  ISBN 0-9753634-1-7

  Cover design by Majaluk CDMG

  Edited by Jill Ronsley

  www.suneditwrite.com

  For information regarding discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Prioritybooks Publications at 1-314-741-6789 or rosbeav03@yahoo.com.

  Others books by Rose Jackson-Beavers

  Summin T’ Say

  Quilt Designs and Poetry Rhymes

  A Hole in My Heart

  Caught in the Net of Deceptions

  Acknowledgements

  To all those who support my writing and read my columns, you are the reason that I love what I do. Your support is appreciated. Thank you for being a fan. To my editor, Ishmael Sistrunk, thank you for all your hard work. To my parents, L. J. and Connie Booker, no love can ever be as strong as what I have for you. Your belief and faith in me have always given me the determination to succeed in everything I do. Thanks for the love and support you have given to me and to all my brothers and sisters. To Deborah Sistrunk, you have truly inspired and supported my writing. Thank you. Diane Page, you are a remarkable woman. To Edna Petty, this one is for you because you pushed me so hard to publish this one. To Cedric and my baby girl, Adeesha, God gave me the perfect family. I love you both dearly. I’m so blessed to have you both in my life. I give all thanks to the Almighty God. It is Your grace that has blessed me and given me the talents that I have, and without You in my life, I could do nothing.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to McKinley and Sylvester Jackson, both of whom taught me the meaning of love and family. Your memories will live on through your family.

  Backroom

  Confessions

  Chapter 1

  “Jerickca, why is it so difficult for you to understand that as the director, you must separate yourself from your employees. It’s just not professional to mix business and friendship on a job,” Anthony said.

  “I’m not mixing friendship and business. I’m a supervisor who can talk and laugh with her staff but can walk away with the same expectations that you have of your staff and know that the job will get done.” Jerickca was getting sick and tired of her husband’s assumptions. She didn’t have personal friends at work, but she made an effort to be seen by her staff as approachable.

  “I still say that you need to treat your job as a job. When you start laughing and sitting around with your staff, they’re going to slack off and not accomplish your goals.” Anthony threw up his hands, exasperated.

  “I don’t see that happening. I’ve been managing people too long, and I can tell who can or cannot handle relationships. I know that some employees can’t tell the difference between a co-worker and a personal friend. But there are only a few like that. It doesn’t matter if it’s with me or someone else. People who don’t have business skills won’t be able to fit into the job.”

  “Mark my words, Jerickca, you may be heading for trouble. It’s best to separate your relationships. Keep your friends and job separate. You’ll have less trouble and problems. You really need to stay away from backroom gossiping with your subordinates.”

  “Believe me, I do understand your concern, but people need to feel comfortable on the job. They need to know that they can laugh, talk, and spend positive time together. Happiness increases productivity,” Jerickca said as she turned to walk away. “You run your company and let me do the same with mine.”

  “Forget it. I don’t see why you are having such a hard time understanding this issue. Didn’t you learn anything when you got your Master’s degree?”

  “Don’t go there with me!” Jerickca screamed as she slammed the door to the bedroom. She lay across the bed and thought about her job. She wasn’t doing anything wrong, but her husband, Anthony, was a successful businessman who knew what it took to get to the top of his profession. She knew that Anthony was only trying to help, but she enjoyed going to the backroom occasionally. Sometimes she needed the light banter and friendship that went on in that one little special room.

  Jerickca knew that whenever she saw the door to the back office closed, a conference of some sort was going on. She would just gather up all her nerves and push the pine door open. Sometimes the staff were having a conference about something that they didn’t like about the job: a new policy, lay-offs, or a grant ending. But most of the time, they were gossiping about a co-worker or talking about a current event. She also knew that if they were not talking about the job, it was about something private in someone’s life, and they were not yet willing to discuss this with their supervisors—only with their peers.

  Other topics included family, relationships, and sex. That was usually the topic of the day. If anyone wanted to know what to do about sex problems, all they had to do was head to the backroom and talk to one person. After five minutes or so, the backroom would be packed with all kinds of people, from the supervisors to the secretaries. Everyone wanted to hear the juicy conversation that was going on. When people wanted to share their concerns, they went to this room to get the support needed to face their problems. All the employees knew that when they needed emotional support or advice for their particular problems, all they had to do was walk toward the back of the building and push open the heavy wooden staff door. It was a pattern that had been established to solve any problem. As she lay on the bed, she turned because she heard the phone ringing. She picked it up.

  “Hello, Deborah.”

  “What’s up, girl?”

  “Just feeling a little down lately. Anthony and I were at it again. We’ve been arguing a lot about our relationship and my business practices. You know how he hates that I spend time being personal with my employees.”

  “Maybe you and Anthony should keep your opinions about your jobs to yourselves—especially since the two of you don’t see eye to eye on engaging workers.”

  “You’re right about that!”

  “Anyway, what is so special about that backroom?”

  “It’s just a place where staff goes to communicate. It’s their own little corner where they feel safe to have interesting conversations. You argue in the backroom, fight, make up, and sabotage or support each other.”

  But what Jerickca didn’t say was that you also arranged dates for the single person, had birthday parties, housewarmings, wedding and baby showers, and going- away parties. Mostly, it was the place that you felt safe enough to tell a lie just to get out of a difficult situation, because you knew others would have your back if you didn’t.

  “Jerickca, you could create a problem by spending so much time with the workers. You’re next in line to supervise hundreds of employees, even though I know you would prefer not to. Hanging out in that backroom could become an issue—all that gossiping could start problems between your workers.”

  “You’re right about that. If I had my preference, I wouldn’t take that promotion. Anyway that’s in the future, so it’s no use focusi
ng on that.”

  “Just be careful. I know it’s difficult to be professional all the time, but try to spend less time with your subordinates. As an attorney, I need to warn you that you could be promoting a hostile work environment.”

  “That would be true if I allowed staff to malign each other or hurt our clients, but I would never allow that to happen.”

  “Good. You know I told you that you need to emphasize taking care of yourself, Jerickca.”

  “It just seems that everyone wants a piece of me. I want my employees to be happy, but I don’t want it to be at my expense. My relatives, employees, and even some of my friends treat my kindness like a revolving door. The more I give, the more they take.”

  “Then you are going to stop giving yourself to others and start taking care of yourself by doing something special. We’re going to Clayton, to that spa I told you about tomorrow. Just be ready and I’ll pick you up in the morning around ten.”

  “Alrighty, then! I need it too. I’ll see you at ten.”

  Jerickca wanted all her staff to enjoy working for her, but she took a special interest in those working the new PRIME Grant she recently received. To give them freedom to laugh away their stress, she allowed them to congregate in the backroom to ventilate bad feelings and just to enjoy good-old-fashioned conversation.

  What was the backroom? It was a large area divided equally into four spaces, each about the size of a small bathroom. These spaces were nothing but a miniature cubicle with no walls attached, about six by twelve feet wide. Yet all four of the employees in the backroom knew their boundaries. There were no markers and no roped off area, but everyone knew where each area began and where it ended. The backroom had four large desks, each with a phone, a bookshelf, a chair for visitors, and a storage unit. Located in the far right corner was an enormous gray and white copy machine that stood at attention, waiting for someone to control it by pushing its buttons. The workers had insisted that the copier be put in their area to cut back travel time through the building to secure copies for their monthly mandatory paper work.

  When it was really quiet, you could hear the hum of the dorm-size Sangus refrigerator in the left corner near a cherry wood four-shelf bookcase. But most of the time, you heard talking, whispering, and high-pitched laughter. It sounded as if the workers had completed their work and were now ready to get down to the serious business of the day—gossiping. This was simply the act of studying, investigating, and deciphering a person’s character morally and emotionally to find out their motive for existing. Then workers would destroy whomever they were discussing at that time, rip them to shreds like a dishrag that is chopped and sliced up by a garbage disposal. Especially if that person had allowed himself or herself to get caught doing something that was forbidden, like dating someone’s husband, or cheating, or not documenting their time when signing in and out appropriately to handle their personal affairs. Some of the workers were known for using the company and taking advantage of the flexible schedule.

  Others were becoming bolder in leaving to pay their bills or meet doctors’ appointments rather than working to earn their pay. Many of the workers would just leave and pretend to be in the field seeing clients without realizing that the supervisors and everyone else knew that when they had left the job, their hair was a mess—matted down and without curls—but when they returned, you would have thought they’d just left a professional model shoot, because their heads had been completely pampered and primped by a professional hair stylist.

  The staff that was selected to work on the PRIME Grant often gathered to laugh and to discuss conversations about the good ole’ days. One conversation that Jerickca could clearly recall was when she walked in the room and the janitor was telling about men having sex with chickens in the south when they couldn’t get to a woman. It seemed crazy that educated and intelligent people participated in these off-the-wall conversations, but somehow the questions and answers that would be provoked would be funny and intriguing. Jerickca thought about the conversation on the chickens and why any man in his right mind would put his penis in a chicken. The janitor had responded. “Because it’s hot and that’s why men are so crazy about sex, hot holes for long poles.” Jerickca just sort of smiled and walked out of the room, but she had a serious conversation for her mom who lived on a farm as a child. The chicken story was a little too hard to believe, so when Jerickca met her mom for lunch the next day, she told her about what she had heard. She remembered the conversation so vividly.

  Lula Mae was an excellent conversationist. She knew the answer to most questions you asked her, and if she didn’t, she would tell you. Jerickca had become a fountain of information passed from her great-grandmother to Lula Mae and down to her. Lula Mae was a woman of sixty who grew up in the Deep South with seven brothers and two sisters. She was kind, gifted, talented, and had many skills. One skill that she had mastered was cooking. She was one of the best cooks in the south.

  She had a way with baked turkey, dressing, and sweet potato pies. Her turkey was so moist and tender, it would just fall off the bone. When visitors sat at her table to eat, as they tasted each item on their plate, they would hum and pat their feet while responding, “This is so good.” Everybody who knew her was impressed and spent hours crying on her shoulders and many more got first-hand counseling information. People would travel miles to eat her good cooking or just to get counseling for a problem too difficult for them to handle. Although she was not educated academically, she was a brilliant thinker, seamstress, storyteller, homemaker, and listener. So it wasn’t unusual to find Jerickca probing her mother’s mind.

  At Joe’s Crab Shack that day, Jerickca told Lula Mae what she had heard at work about the chickens.

  “Mama,” Jerickca said, unsure whether she should have asked the question or whether it would make her look stupid, “Have you ever heard of a man having sex with a chicken?”

  Lula Mae’s eyes widened and she cocked her head to the side. Finally, she flashed her warm smile and said, “’Course I have. Remember I grew up on a farm. I remember one day my oldest brother Gerald was in the barn feeding the animals when I went to tell him that MuDear wanted him. After he went to talk to her, I didn’t see him for a while. I was out playing when he first called my name and I went to look for him. I found him in the car, holding a chicken. He handed the dead chicken to me and told me to get another one and I took it to him. Later I saw him walking with the dead chicken and I asked my brother Sweet T, what he was doing to those chickens and he said that he was poking them. Back then, the boys said poking when they were talking about sex. So yes, I believe that the chicken story is true, though I never saw it directly,” she said with a wide smile. “It could all be a myth but anyway, who told you about the chicken?”

  “The janitor was discussing it on break with the workers and there was a big disagreement as to whether the story could be true.” Jerickca said.

  “You can never tell what is true or not but I believe that chicken story with all my heart,” Lula Mae said with a low chuckle.

  Although the Department of Adolescents and Children Resources had over two hundred employees, the social workers ruled the office. They were the sharpest and smartest group of people assembled in one company. With vast talents and skills, whatever they touched became gold, whatever they said was right, and whatever they did was seen in the most positive light. At least that was what many of the staff at the department thought. These twenty social workers were outstanding employees, and although brilliant and mostly positive, each carried his own baggage. Some of them were as tight as a baby swaddled securely in a warm blanket.

  They were Megan, Phoenix, Patches, and Denver. Their supervisor, Jerickca, shared a special place in their hearts, because she was as cool as a summer’s breeze in hot Arizona. She was smart, cute, and passionate about her work, and they loved her because she was always in their corner. No matter how bad or difficult they made things, Jerickca always found a way to justify their behavior
without them having to suffer dire consequences for their actions. I need it too.

  The Applicants

  Chapter 2

  “Good morning. Thank you for calling the Department of Adolescent and Children Resources. This is Karen speaking. May I help you?”

  “Hello. May I please speak to Mrs. Jerickca Parker?”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Parker is not available at the moment, but if …” Before Karen could finish what she was saying, she was rudely interrupted by Megan.

  “Do you know what time she will be in?” Megan said as if she was upset.

  “No, but as I was saying …” Interrupted again by the caller, Karen was trying hard to maintain her professionalism.

  “I sent my resume and I have not heard anything. Do you know if she received it?”

  “What is your name?”

  “Megan.”

  “I don’t recall that name, but if you leave your first and last name, I will leave her a message and I’m sure she will get in touch with you.”

  Karen moved the phone away from her ear as Megan slammed it hard back into its cradle. “I can’t believe these people,” she said to no one in particular. Luckily, she didn’t leave her full name because I would definitely tell Ms. Parker how she acted on the phone and she wouldn’t give her the time of day, she thought.

  Megan picked up the phone and called her friend Cynthia. “Girl, I don’t know why I’m even looking for a job ’cause I certainly don’t need the money. I don’t even have to work—you know what I mean?”

  Cynthia just laughed at Megan. Although Megan irritated the hell out of her, Cynthia stayed in touch with her because she was the kind of person who you stayed one step ahead of, and if you didn’t she would eat your butt alive. Cynthia would rather talk to her any day than become Megan’s next target. When Megan focused on getting revenge, an ugly situation arose, one that you would rather not deal with. So most people just tolerated her.