by Brianna Cash
I work at a credit card company. The office is divided into cubicles, where each employee answers calls from card holders and their questions. My job is not glamorous. My job is not fun. My job can be stressful on a good day. But I get great benefits and a decent paycheck without having a college degree.
My boss, Alice, is in her late fifties. She lost her son years ago in the war. I think I remind her of him. She has a soft spot for me. She’s always buying me lunch or asking for my opinion. She invites me to parties at her house. She’s extra lenient with any mistakes I make, although I don’t make many.
And she’s never yelled at me.
Alice has yelled at everyone. Even people who aren’t her employees have been reprimanded by her.
She also treats me as her personal assistant.
I’m not going to complain. She gives me a nice bonus at Christmas. And I don’t care that I’m a coffee runner or the person who makes her hotel reservations when she goes out of town. I don’t care that I’m the person who goes to get lunch when we order out, or the person she can count on to lie for her when she needs to get out of something. It’s time away from the phones where I’m not reciting policies to card holders or listening to their inane excuses. She knows I hate my job. I’ve never confirmed it, but she knows.
I may be a frustrated perfectionist because of where I ended up in this disappointing life, but I’m incredibly reliable when it comes to my equally disappointing job. I’m professional. Polite. Level-headed. No matter how demeaning the customer is. No matter how foul their language gets. No matter how loud their voice carries through the speakers. It doesn’t faze me.
Or, at least, no one thinks it does.
My ability to remain calm infuriates the customer, but I can’t help that. I only do my job, as best I can, then go home and try to forget it all. Usually in a cloud of flour and whatever other ingredients I can get my hands on.
I’m in the middle of a call with a disgruntled customer, one who’s upset because she got a late fee, when Alice sends me an instant message to come to her office as soon as possible. Sending an affirmative reply, I wonder briefly what errand I’m going to run for her today.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but two days late is still late.”
“But this is a fifty-dollar charge after only two days!” Her voice is shrill as she screams into the phone. “I sent the check a week ago, it’s not my fault you didn’t cash it in time!”
“I’m sure you’ll notice on your statement it says to send payment at least two weeks in advance to allow for situations such as this. Now, since we didn’t receive that payment yet, I could sign you up for automatic, paperless payments right now over the phone. Your payments will never be late again, and you can avoid unnecessary fees like the one you saw on your online account.”
“I already paid you! You just didn’t cash the check!”
Mentally rolling my eyes, I urge her, “If you set up those automatic payments, you get a one-time discount of almost a hundred dollars based on your current balance. And to avoid a double payment, you can cancel the check you mailed with a simple phone call to your bank—if you’re not sure how to do that online.”
“I. Already. Paid. You!”
“That’s not showing up on your account. Like I said, you can cancel that check and sign up for automatic payments. You’ll be saving money if you do.”
It’s exhausting how customers will go round and round with you. They want you to remove the late fee, but the truth is, most of them haven’t sent that check yet. Most of them are just pissed off that they forgot or didn’t have the minimum in their accounts to pay it when it was due.
They have a million different excuses. Usually, it’s all bullshit.
“Who’s your manager? I need to talk to someone higher up than you.”
“My manager, Alice, isn’t in right now, ma’am. If you’d like, I can give her your information and have her call you later.”
“Call me later? I’ve already waited on hold for twenty-two minutes before I got you! And you’re not helping me at all!”
Her wait was only four minutes before I picked up. We have a computer system that tracks all kinds of information, including how long I’ve been on the phone with her, how many times she’s been transferred—if at all—and how long she’s been on hold.
Of course, I don’t mention that. The customer is always right. Even when they’re lying through their teeth.
“I’m sorry about your wait, but yes, Alice can call you back to discuss your current late fee. I see we already rescinded one for you three months ago. And two others within the last year.”
And…she hangs up on me. Funny how that happens as soon as you mention their previous indiscretions about making payments on time.
Pulling off the headpiece that allows me to talk on the phone hands-free, I log out of the phones. I roll my shoulders and neck, trying to ease the ache of my tight muscles. A few seconds later, I knock on Alice’s open door.
“Owen, come in. I ordered lunch from that Thai place. It should be here in about fifteen minutes. Would you mind going down to get it, so they don’t have to wait when they get here?”
“Of course. Anything else I can do for you?”
“That’s all for now.” She cups her hand around her mouth and motions me to come closer. “I got you the Pad Thai.”
“Thank you. You didn’t have to.”
“And you didn’t have to tell that bitch who calls in here every other month to get late fees taken off her account that I was busy. Did you know I get an alert on my computer every time her phone number comes up on our caller ID? Along with our other repeat offenders… I thank the heavens every time you get her calls.” She stands up from her desk, pulling a few bills from her purse and shoving them into my hand. The order was already paid for when she called me in here. She just likes to give the delivery guys a cash tip.
I weave my way through the cubicles to the exit. The hallway is eerily silent after the door of the office swings closed behind me. It’s funny how easily I drown out the sound of ringing phones and the monotone of every other co-worker’s voice. I don’t even realize exactly how loud the office is until I get into a quiet space.
“Owen! How’s it going?”
Clive saunters toward me as I’m waiting for the elevator. He’s wearing a bright smile today. I’m sure he’s going to tell me why. I’m not sure why he’s so friendly with me, but he always is.
“Ah, pretty good, Clive. Just going to get lunch.”
“You’re a good man, Owen. Can I tell you what a great day I’m having? Of course, I can.” He comes to a stop beside me, fixing his hair in the reflective shine of the closed elevator doors. “The girl downstairs? The receptionist with the blond hair? She’s taking me dancing tonight.”
Blond hair?
“I’m not sure who that is, Clive. I only know Sadie and Megan. Sadie has dark brown hair and Megan is a redhead.”
“You didn’t hear?”
“Didn’t hear what, Clive?” I’m starting to get exasperated but keep a neutral expression. Thankfully, the elevator dings and the doors sluggishly slide open a second later.
“Megan’s moving to the West Coast. I guess she found a sugar daddy that wants to knock her up first chance he can. She’s going to be one of those rich bitches who marries for money.”
“Oh. Well, ah… Good for her. I guess.”
“The blond? Sarah? She’s Megan’s replacement. She’s hot. And we’re going out tonight.” He smiles wider, his cheeks pushing up the bottom edge of his sunglasses. Yes, sunglasses. While in an elevator. Inside a building. He practices different expressions in the mirrored wall, raising his eyebrow and aiming finger pistols at his own reflection. Does he honestly think any respectable female finds him attractive?
“Great news, Clive. I haven’t met her yet. I hope you two have fun.”
“You still with that girl? Penelope or something?”
“Penny. Yeah.” I suppre
ss a sigh. When did I mention her to him? “We’re still together.”
“You guys wanna come? Sounds like there’s going to be a bunch of us going. If Sarah’s talking to her friends all night, I could at least chill with you.”
I tumble out of the elevator the instant the doors open, shooting him a regretful smile over my shoulder. “We’ve got plans tonight.”
“Too bad. Next time, yeah?”
He has a frown on his face. Is he seriously disappointed I’m not going?
I nod, playing along. “Absolutely.”
He walks around the elevators to whatever offices are located on the first floor while I move toward the lobby. I have no idea why he thinks we’re friends. We’ve never done anything outside of this building. We’ve never done anything inside this building except exchange pleasantries, which I always try to keep as short as possible.
The food isn’t here yet, so I head over to meet this new receptionist, who is indeed, blond. Platinum, bottled, blond. She has way too many layers of makeup caked on her face, and her eyelashes are either fake or she’s some kind of mutant. She gives me a disinterested look before turning back to her cell.
“Sadie,” I offer to the pretty brunette receptionist I’ve greeted at least a couple thousand times. She’s worked in this building longer than I have, and she’s always professional, but not overly friendly. At least, not to me. I’ve seen her flirt with some of the men that walk through here every day, I’ve seen her act like friends with some women in this building, but to me, she’s always a bit stand-offish. She’s never rude, but she’s always had a business-only vibe toward me.
Today is no different.
Her green eyes meet mine and she gives a short, “Owen,” in reply. When I lean on the counter and nod in the direction of her new co-worker, she raises a brow, then promptly picks up the ringing phone, ignoring my silent question.
Turning to the fake Barbie, I hold out my hand. “I hear you’re Sarah, Megan’s replacement. I’m Owen. I work on the eighteenth floor.”
She eyes my hand with one arched brow and a scowl painted across her lips, then glances at her computer. “Eighteenth floor… The credit card place?” She scrunches up her face, inching away from my outstretched hand.
“Well…” I cough into my fist, not knowing what else to say. I’m a friendly person. I’ll be seeing her every day. I like to know the people I surround myself with, even if it’s just the people in the same building.
Looks like it’s not going to happen with this girl.
“Nice meeting you, Sarah.”
Sadie
“What’s with the creeper?” Sarah asks, glaring at Owen as he stands near the front entrance in the lobby.
“He’s probably getting lunch.”
“Why’d he try to shake my hand?”
“That’s what people do when they meet someone new.” I explain this slowly, like I’m talking to someone unfamiliar with the English language. “It’s a friendly greeting, a way to introduce yourself. Owen’s one of the nicer guys that works here. He always says hello. He’ll remember your name. If you tell him something, he’ll bring it up the next time he has a minute to chat.”
“That’s creepy.”
“Actually, it’s really nice not being ignored all the time.”
“Oh, I’m never ignored.” She bounces the ends of her hair on an open, flat palm as she shrugs one shoulder and pretends to be coy. Her eyes are on own reflection in the mirror set up in front of her computer.
I’ve already seen her in action. She’s not coy. Just dumb.
“Give it time.”
She’ll be ignored here. If she keeps up her snotty, better-than-everyone-else attitude, she’ll be subjected to things much worse than being ignored. I can’t believe Megan is being replaced with this bimbo. Luckily, Megan will be back from break soon and I can go to lunch, leaving the traitor here with the bimbo, who will never be a decent replacement for her.
Clive rounds the corner and struts over to us, his eyes and smile all for Sarah. Once at our desk, he taps his pointer finger on the counter, and Sarah giggles appreciatively. I bet she’d shake Clive’s hand.
I bet she’d shake a hell of a lot more than just his hand.
“Ladies.”
I don’t know why he made that plural. Since Sarah started, I could run out from behind the desk screaming, naked, with my hair on fire, and he still wouldn’t notice.
“Clive.” I smile, gaining just a touch of his attention. “Someone on the seventh floor needs to be escorted out.”
“Oh.” His brows pull together. “Someone got canned, huh?”
“My money’s on that Martha chick. Who’s your pick?”
“Seventh floor, the interior design business, the divorce lawyer’s offices, or the shrink’s place,” he murmurs. Blondie looks on like she’s catching everything we’re saying, but she’s absolutely lost right now. Maybe I’m a bitch, but I’m glad. She’s not going to last long here. “Ooh, I’m going to bet on David.”
“Damn! I didn’t even think of him!” I tap my finger on my bottom lip. “I wonder if you’re right.”
“Are you changing your bet?”
“I don’t know…” I drop my hand and chew on the tip of a pen. Martha, who slams her boss and the company she works for on social media every chance she gets, or David, who comes in drunk half the time and has been repeatedly caught looking up porn on the office computer. David seemed sober on his way in today. He wasn’t stumbling, his clothes weren’t wrinkled or buttoned incorrectly, he remembered his briefcase... In fact, he’s been with it for a couple weeks now. He might be getting better.
At hiding it, or being a decent employee? Who really knows?
“No. I’m going to stick with Martha.”
“We still betting twenty?”
“Did you get a raise? ‘Cause I sure as hell didn’t. Yes, we’re betting twenty.”
“Let’s go see who’s a winner and who’s a loser.” He flashes a smile at us as he moves toward the elevators.
Maybe betting on who gets fired is a bad game to play. Maybe betting on aspects of the work lives of the people in this building is a bad game in general. But we have to keep it interesting, or we’ll go crazy with the monotony.
Megan flies through the door, right behind the Thai delivery guy. He stops in front of Owen and they do a quick exchange while Megan runs in her high heels, late clocking back in. “Oh my God, that guy drives so slow. I hope Owen’s not giving him a big tip.”
“It’s Owen.”
After sharing a knowing grin, we both laugh.
Owen’s uptight, overly polite attitude and predictability means he’s definitely giving a tip. The delivery guy could give him the completely wrong order and Owen would still tip him. I swear, nothing rattles that guy. He’s never had a bad day. He’s never lost his temper. He’s never even sighed in frustration, exasperation, or boredom.
“You think he’s a robot in disguise?” Megan whispers, watching him walk toward the elevators. After hitting the button, he looks over and raises his hand at Megan. She waves back. “At least he’s got a nice ass.”
My eyes rise to check the validity of her statement. Not that I need to. I’ve looked—many times—but I like pretending I haven’t noticed, and this is new information. Plus, it’s a great reason to admire his entire backside again. Not just his ass, but his entire physique.
It would be rude not to notice the time and effort God put into that specific male specimen. The broad shoulders and trim waist weren’t enough. He was also blessed with a strong jaw, straight nose, great smile… And let’s not forget his thick, black hair that only accentuates blue eyes so pale you suddenly want to go for a leisurely swim. In their impossibly cool depths.
I drop my eyes to my computer screen before they get carried away. Owen’s off-limits. For more than one reason. “You’re checking him out? I thought you already caught your man.”
Megan sweeps her hair off her shoulder to mee
t my accusing stare. “I can still look. You ever consider him?”
I laugh, refusing to glance over again. “Owen’s just a baby. And not at all my type. Besides, Clive says he has a long-term girlfriend.”
“Clive would know.” She pushes me away from the desk. “Go to lunch. Do something fun. And then tell me all about it.”
“Not today.” I sigh. “Today’s just lunch.”
“What’s that mean? What’s she normally do on her lunch that’s fun?” Blond Bimbo asks as I walk toward the entrance.
“Don’t worry about it. Just remember, if Sadie has a story to tell, it’s going to be a good one.”
She’s almost as interested in my extracurricular activities as the person I was paired with for that online writing course I started last night.
Smiling at Megan’s reply and the fact that my boring, cop-out of a writing partner already has more information about me than I’ll ever give Sarah, I step out into the hot, late summer humidity. It’s almost September. The good weather isn’t going to last, and I’m going to soak up as much of it as I can before the air turns crisp and cold.
I flirt with the guy at my favorite hot dog stand, already knowing from past experience he’s not worth my time for anything more than buying lunch from. He doesn’t remember, though. He was too drunk to know I got all the information I needed on him in the alleyway behind a bar one night. He’s only a five. Not even a six or a seven. Considering how hot he is, I was sadly surprised at his low rating. I accept my lunch and a killer smile from him, then head a half block away to the park, sitting in the sunshine to eat and contemplate what my weekend plans might be.