by Whitney G.
Unable to shake the thought of her away, I scrolled down my list of contacts and called the Housekeeping Director’s direct line.
“Yes, Mr. Weston?” He answered on the first ring. “Are you calling to tell me that we need to search for ghosts in your apartment?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Have you tried Facebook?”
“It’s one of your employees.”
“Oh.” His tone immediately went soft. “Well, you know I’m not allowed to disclose names on my end, so do you already know which one it is?”
Something told me to hold back on her name. “The green-eyed girl.”
“Sir, we employ quite a few green-eyed girls.”
“This one has a smart ass mouth and a tendency to steal things.”
“One of my employees stole something from you?” He gasped. “Give me the dates and times you first realized that things were gone. I can cross check every past schedule and make sure that whoever it is, is punished severely. Can you tell me exactly what was stolen?”
“No…” I realized this wasn’t going to go anywhere. “Thank you for your time.”
“Mr. Weston, what exactly—”
I hung up and started the car. I needed to get a grip on myself. I didn’t chase women, ever. I never had a need to, and I wasn’t going to start now.
Our fucking was simply memorable, and I’d forget about her eventually.
I always did.
Blog Post
Gillian
Two years ago…
I got fired today.
FIRED.
F.I.R.E.D.
The second I walked through the revolving glass doors, I spotted my boss standing at the main desk with his arms crossed, biting the stem of his glasses. Some of my coworkers were staring at me in disgust from the glass doors above, and a security guard was holding a box of all my belongings.
“Well, I honestly never thought I’d say these words to you, Miss Taylor,” my boss said the words slowly, as if they were causing him physical pain. “I’m going to have to let you go.”
“For what?”
“You know for what.” He shook his head. “You know exactly for what. I need you to hand over your badge, and know that, as of today, you’re no longer welcome on this property.”
I stepped back and held my hand over my laminated namesake, not willing to give it up.
“You don’t think I have a right to be pissed off about what happened?” I asked. “A right to be angry?”
“You have a right to feel however you want to feel, Gillian. You don’t have the right to react the way you did. Do you have any idea the damage you’ve caused?”
“The truth is never damage…”
“It is when the lie is more compelling.” He clenched his jaw. “And when no one asked you to insert your feelings—regardless of how you think this situation affects you.”
“It more than affects me.” My throat constricted and I tried not to cry.
Warm tears fell down my face and I begged him to reconsider. I said that I was sorry, that I didn’t mean to do what I'd done. I promised to make it up to everyone. I even offered to demote myself to the lowest of interns, but it wasn’t enough.
His mind and his boss’s boss’s mind had already been made up.
“We had to report it to other institutions,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t waste my time applying to our competitors, if I were you. At least not for the next five to ten years, okay? It takes a while for people to forget this type of thing.”
“Did you at least report the other person? The other person who’s actually at fault?” I was sniffling, trying not to cause too big of a scene.
“No, Gillian.” He gave me a short hug. “The only person in the wrong was you.” He wished me all the best, and then ordered the security guard to take my badge and escort me out of the building…
I’m currently typing this post inside of a Park Avenue Starbucks—shivering and soaking wet from a sudden summer rain, and I’m trying my best to figure out where the hell I’m going from here. What I’m going to do next.
My final paycheck has been expedited and is supposed to arrive in my mailbox tomorrow. My name will be delisted from the company’s website, and everything I contributed will be washed over and repurposed.
So, just like that, at age twenty-five, my so-called dream of a life is over.
I’ll need to find some new dream to obsess over and pursue, and maybe one day I can go back to my old dreams.
The only things I know for sure are that my days of living in an apartment on Lexington Avenue are long gone, that daily espressos and lattes are now unaffordable and absurd, and that I’m going to have to find a new job (or two) ASAP if I want to stay afloat in New York City.
Write later…
Actually, no. I won’t. This is the last post I’ll write here for a very long time.
Gillian
GT
**Taylor G.**
* * *
1 comment posted:
KayTROLL: What you did was not only hurtful, but it was also selfish, immature, and incredibly STUPID. Did you really think that you wouldn’t get fired for doing something like that? I saw what you were plotting before you deleted it Tuesday, and I thought you’d know better than to go through with it. At least you’re only 25. You have plenty of time to grow the fuck up. Grow. The. Fuck. Up!
Gate A6
Gillian
New York (JFK)
Jake’s demanding words played in my mind for the umpteenth time as my fingers strummed my swollen clit, as I orgasmed for the third time since the night he fucked me. My nipples hardened as a cold draft of night air blew against them, so I pulled the blanket over my body and rolled over. I tightened my grip around my pillow, envisioning Jake taking me all over again, but just as I was about to replay our night all over again, my cell phone rang.
I didn’t bother looking to see who it was. I groped its frame and hit the side key to silence it.
Minutes later, it rang again and I groaned—silencing it once more. It was no use. It rang again—sounding even louder this time, and I forced myself to look at the screen. Unknown number.
“Hello?” I didn’t attempt to hide the annoyance in my voice.
“Why aren’t you at the airport, Miss Taylor?”
“What?” I sat up. “Who is this?”
“This is scheduling with Elite Air.” She hissed. “And unless I have the wrong number for Gillian Taylor, which, I’m sure I don’t, I need you to answer me. Now. Why aren’t you at the airport?”
“I’m not…” I hit my lamplight and glanced at my alarm clock. It was only five in the morning. “I’m not scheduled to fly out until Thursday. A turn to Philly and then Reagan International.”
“No, you are scheduled.” She snapped. “For a very important meeting. We sent you two emails this weekend, updated your employee portal, and left a voicemail yesterday regarding the change.”
I swallowed. I’d thought nothing of those normal update emails, deleting them as soon as they appeared. I started thinking of possible excuses I could give as to why I hadn’t listened to them or bothered to check my status for an entire weekend, but the woman on the line beat me to it.
“You have an hour to get to JFK,” she said, “Come in uniform to the conference room in terminal six.” She hung up without another word.
Fifty minutes later, I pushed my way to the front of the city bus and nearly ran into a family of four attempting to get inside the airport. I headed straight for the crew line at security—holding up my badge as the TSA agents waved me through.
Please don’t let me be late. Please don’t let me be late…
I rushed from terminal to terminal, adjusting my neck scarf with every step, frantically counting down the seconds in my mind. By the time I made it to the conference room, I had exactly one minute to spare.
There were twenty other flight attendants inside, all dressed in th
e same Elite Airways issued navy blue blazers and skirts. Every set of lips was stained in the same shade of Chanel red, every bun was perfectly coifed and positioned to the right, and every wrist bore the official glittering bracelet with the company’s signature charms: A white dove and a globe.
I spotted an empty seat near the back of the room and made my way over. Before I could ask the girl next to me if she’d received a phone call this morning as well, the door opened and a beautiful African American woman walked into the room.
Dressed in a form fitting navy blue dress and dark grey heels, she flipped her long, wavy hair over her shoulder and glanced at her watch. Her hazel eyes scanned the room as she took her place at a centered podium. Her lips were stained in a light pink, and from the way she smiled her set of pearly whites, she reminded me of the picture perfect models in all the Elite Airways commercials.
She took a folder out of her bag and looked directly at us. “Good morning, welcome to the meeting, and shut the hell up.”
The room fell silent.
“My name is Alicia Connors and I am a fifteen-year veteran and senior purser for Elite Airways,” she said. “I’ve been flying for the airline since I was fresh out of college, and although I enjoy it very much, this is honestly the one part of my job that I couldn’t care any less about. That said, since I am the only flight attendant here who has ever—” She suddenly stopped talking and stared at something across the room.
Taking a deep and exaggerated breath, she walked over to a woman in the front row and tapped her on the head. “Excuse me. You. Yes, you. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I was…” The woman’s face turned red as she looked up. “I was sending one last text to my boyfriend.”
“In the middle of me talking?”
“I…”
“Does your boyfriend cut your checks at this airline?” Miss Connors asked. “Is he the one holding this meeting right now?”
“I’m…I’m sorry…”
“Yes, you are sorry.” She snatched the woman’s cell phone and held it up to her face, reading the text aloud. “Hey, baby. As soon as you get out of your meeting, have your pussy ready for me. Make sure it’s soaking wet…” She shook her head. “Yes, I can definitely see why this message was far more important than what I had to say.”
She tossed the phone into the trash can and rolled her eyes. “You are on my shit list for the rest of this session,” she said. “And since your sexting was so important, you’ve just cost this entire class my very interesting and in-depth background story that would’ve landed you on my good side. At least, temporarily.”
“I really am sorry.”
“Save it.” She rolled her eyes. “Mindless repetition does not impress me.” She returned to her place at the center of the room and silently counted us, writing a few words down on her clipboard. “Does anyone have any idea why you were asked to be here today?”
She looked around the room, but no one raised a hand. “Interesting. You’re here because you’re the least important employees we currently have on the payroll. You are the bottom feeders and the trolls, but since we have successfully completed the buyout of three mid-sized airlines, we are finally upgrading last year’s pond scum from reserve attendants to full time flight attendants.”
There was a brief buzz of excitement that filled the room—a couple of whispered yeses, a few murmurs of “Finally…”
“Within the next ten days,” she said, “If you’re interested in staying with us, you’ll receive an updated line, i.e. your new schedule that will tell you when and where you’ll be flying over the next few weeks. And before you ask, yes, I’m more than aware of how scheduling is done at other airlines, but this is not other airlines, so spare me your thoughts and unwanted opinions. If you have another job, I suggest you put in your notice to quit it ASAP. You won’t have time to hold it anymore. Any questions?”
A few hands flew into the air.
“Good. No questions.” She shrugged. “Unfortunately, due to some recent events and incidents I’d not care to discuss, all flight attendants are being retrained on every single aircraft in our fleet. To streamline this process, each of you will be paired with a designated senior flight attendant for the next few months who will share your same line. These months will serve as your full-time probationary period. Any questions about that?”
More hands flew into the air.
“Good to know.” She hit the lights and tapped the wall, forcing a screen to slowly drop down from the ceiling. The airline’s white globe logo appeared onscreen, and then the words, UNOFFICIAL REMINDERS, appeared in bold.
Without prefacing anything, she clicked through all of the slides—speaking so fast that I could hardly understand what she was saying.
“Skip, skip, skip,” she said, passing slide after slide. “This rule is common sense, this one should be common sense, and this one is not common sense, but if you’re foolish enough to break this rule, you deserve to be fired. Skip, skip, skip.”
Uneasy murmurs filled the room and the girl next to me whispered, “Is she being serious right now?”
“And lastly,” Miss Connors said, pausing as she skipped through at least twenty other slides. “Don’t shit where you eat. This goes for affairs with the baggage boys, trysts with the gate agents, and especially the pilots. We have enough Cockpit Connies and cheaply made Hallmark Channel movies about that sad little scenario to last us a lifetime. And besides…” She hit the lights and the screen slowly returned to its position. “As you should already know, it’s against company policy as of eight years ago. No relations between employees are ever permitted, and if you don’t like it, go fly for Southwest Airlines. In closing, you can read the file you’ll receive via email later for all the fine print on that. Last chance, are there any questions?”
Everyone raised their hands, including me.
“Wow…” She looked around the room and raised her eyebrow. “After that entire, informative presentation, no one has anything they want to ask? Nothing at all?”
Our hands were still clearly in the air.
“Well, that’s all I have to say today,” she said, looking at her watch, “Please be sure to check your employee portals later today for a file that recaps everything you learned today. Also, sign this clipboard on your way out. You will be paid a four hour per diem for today’s meeting, even though we’re leaving early. “
No one made a move, and she crossed her arms. “Hurry up and sign my damn paper so I can go home and enjoy the rest of my day.”
We quickly pushed up our chairs and formed a line.
I overheard a few people asking her questions as they signed the clipboard, and she sounded as if she was actually answering them. When it was my turn, I grabbed the pen and cleared my throat—attempting to make eye contact.
“Miss Connors?” I asked.
“Sign the paper.”
“I have an important question.” I waited until she was looking at me. “My other job has been great and really flexible with me, and I really think that I owe them a full two weeks’ notice. I know you said we start within the next ten days, but is there any way I could have a four-day extension on starting full-time so I can do the right thing?”
“Of course.” She nodded. “I will do everything in my power to tell a billion-dollar airline that we should hold off on the final process of a years-in-the-making merger for one replaceable employee who wants to do the right thing for her other job.”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m just saying that I feel like I owe them a more advanced notice.”
“Sign the paper and step out of the room. Now.”
“Miss Connors, I’m just—”
“You have half a second to sign my paper or else I’ll be giving you an advanced notice about your loss of this job.”
I signed the paper and quickly left the room.
“Well, I can honestly say that I’m going to miss having you as an employee, Gillian.” Mr.
Sullivan shook my hand hours later. “You’re always welcome to pick up flex hours on the weekends if the airline decides to give you inconsistent hours again.”
“Thank you very much.”
“You’re still working today though, right?” His glasses slid down his nose. “Jacqueline and Maria are still out sick.”
“Absolutely.”
“Good.” He opened his drawer and handed me a brown paper gift-box. “This is for you. The resident in 80A said he wanted to ‘express his gratitude’ to the employee who cleaned his room the most.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He shrugged. “But right after bringing me this, he signed off on banning our services from ever entering his unit again.”
“I’m sorry.” I tugged at the thin, pink ribbon that was tied around the box. “I hope it wasn’t something I did.”
“I highly doubt that, Gillian,” he said. “Anyway, the assignment lists were redone over the weekend, so be sure to take a look. I need you on mailroom duty for an hour or two. Then floors 65 and 72. Oh, and—” He paused as his office phone rang. “Don’t forget to tell HR what your official last day will be before you go.”
I gave him an understanding nod as he answered his phone, and walked away. I locked myself into the employee changing room and quickly slipped out of my Elite uniform and into The Madison’s required khaki pants and short-sleeved white polo shirt.
Stocking my cleaning cart with supplies, I glanced at the new assignment board and noticed that a huge red “X” had been marked over unit 80A. There was a note written next to it: Resident will be hiring his own private service. Was adamant about canceling ASAP for some reason. DO NOT CLEAN.
I shook my head and set the brown gift box on top of my cart. I debated whether I should wait until I was off to open it, but I couldn’t resist.