The Job (12 page)

“You
do make a good point,” she says. “All right, then, let me get everything going
and we’ll pick up a quick bite.”

“Sounds
great,” I tell her. I want to tease her, saying, “It’s a date,” but I resist
the temptation. I’m on thin enough ice with her as it is.

Jessica
goes and unlocks the door and I lock eyes with Linda. She and her coworkers
must have arrived somewhere during the discussion between Jessica and me.

The
door’s open and Jessica heads to the register.

It’s
the strangest ritual. Despite having cashiers that clearly know what they’re
doing, big boss lady doesn’t even seem to trust them with something as
fundamental as opening their own registers in the morning.

“Hey,”
Linda says. “I hope this doesn’t disappoint you, but I just got back with my
old boyfriend, so you and I are going to have to stop seeing each other.”

“That’s
fine,” I tell her. “We agreed early on that this was just going to be a casual
thing anyway.”

Truth
be told, I
am
a bit disappointed.
It’s not that I thought she and I had something serious, but it
was
nice to have someone to feel close to,
if only as a casual thing, even knowing that it was only ever going to be for a
little while.

Oh
well. There’s always Jessica. With her attitude and body she must be amazing in
bed.

Maybe
that’s who I should go after.

“Okay,”
she says. “I think it’d be great if we could stay friends, though. I don’t want
you to think that I’m just tossing you out of my life entirely. Just, you know,
the bedroom.”

I
laugh. “You’re fine,” I tell her. “This is pretty much what we’d already agreed
to, so don’t even worry about it.”

“Great!”
she says. “Listen, Jessica’s done opening my register, so I’m going to get to
work, but I’m glad we could talk.”

“Why
does she do that?” I ask.

“Control
issues,” Linda says. “I’m just surprised she hasn’t tried to tie my shoes yet.
If anyone needed a long, hard, sweaty—Jessica, how are you this morning?”

Yup.
Jessica is definitely Linda’s soon to be replacement. She just doesn’t know it
yet.

“I’m
fine,” Jessica answers. “Are you ready for today? It’s going to be a big one.”

“What’s
going on today?” Linda asks.

Jessica
looks at me and says, “Today, we get the store back.”

*
                   
*
              
     
*

“Don’t
you think we should be getting back?” Jessica asks.

“We
haven’t even gotten our appetizers yet,” I tell her. “What’s the rush? It’s not
like we’ve got a five-course dinner coming.”

“I
just need to get back,” she says.

“Just
relax,” I tell her.

“I
don’t even know what we’re doing here.”

“I
just thought it would be a good idea for you and
I
to
sit down and see if we can work out some of our differences,” I tell her.
“Things have gotten a little out of hand on both our parts.”

“Maybe
so,” she says, “but what’s the point? After today, chances are you and I will
never see each other again.”

“Yeah,
maybe,” I tell her, “but don’t you think it’s nicer to part with lunch than
just the memories of how we’ve screwed each other over in the last couple
months?”

“I
don’t really care,” she says, and starts to get up.

“Where
are you going?”

“I’ve
got to get back there,” she says. “What if we have a big client come in and I’m
not there to answer their questions or help them find what they’re looking
for?”

“That’s
what your staff is for,” I tell her. “You can’t be there all day every day.
Besides, it’s not like I’m asking you to take a whole day off, I’m just talking
about the next twenty minutes to have some breakfast or lunch or brunch or
whatever we’re calling this.”

“Twenty
minutes?” she asks, now standing next to me. “That’s about nineteen minutes
longer than I can be gone from the store.”

There’s
something familiar in the way she’s talking, but I’m sure it’s a coincidence.

“You
work hard,” I tell her. “You need to eat. Otherwise, where are you going to get
the energy to micromanage everyone and stress yourself out to the point of
near-psychosis?”

“Yeah,”
she says, “calling me crazy is going to really work for you here.”

“Just
sit down for a minute,” I tell her. “The waiter’s coming with our appetizers.
If you find yourself having a conniption before the entrees arrive, you can
go.”

“You
don’t get it,” she says. “If I’m not there, the store falls apart.”

She
really is a control freak.

More
than my ex was but somehow this trait always attracts me.

“I
doubt you have any evidence to support that theory,” I tell her, “seeing as how
you’re never
not
there.”

“Fine,”
she says in a huff, resuming her seat. “But this isn’t leisure time. This is a
business lunch.”

“All
right,” I chuckle. “What business would you like to discuss?”

I’d
expected the silence. What I hadn’t expected was that she’d actually pull out
her cellphone, dial her own store and ask whoever’s on the other line if things
are going all right, all the while assuring her employee that she’d “be right
back.”

She
hangs up, and I can’t stop smiling.

“What?”
she asks. “I get that you don’t take your job seriously, but that doesn’t mean
everyone else works the same way.”

“That’s
hilarious,” I tell her. “I take my job very seriously. I just don’t fetishize
it like you do. Do you have any idea how condescending and insulting that phone
call was?”

“It
wasn’t condescending at all,” she says. “They all know that I like to take a
hand-son approach when it comes to Lady Bits.”

“You
know, out of context, that would be hilarious,” I smile.

“Oh,
ha-ha,” she says as a smile forms.

“And
you’re right,” I start. “You just told your employee that you don’t trust her
or any of your other workers enough to let them handle the store for ten
minutes, all the while assuring her that ‘mommy will be back soon.’ There’s
nothing condescending about that at all.”

“You
just don’t get it,” she says, shaking her head. “This is the way I work—it’s
the way I’ve always worked.”

“I
can tell,” he says.

“What
is
that
supposed to mean?” she asks.

“Well,
that’s a gray hair, isn’t it?” I ask. “You’re what? Twenty-seven,
twenty-eight?”

“I’m
thirty,” she says. “And how exactly did you manage to insult me for being too
young and too old in the same breath?”

I
grin. She looks like she’s in her early twenties. Not a single wrinkle and I
can tell because her face isn’t plastered with makeup. Thank God. This way I
know what I’ll be waking up to in the morning once I fuck her.

“I’m
not saying you’re either too young or too old,” I tell her. “I think that
you’re too stressed out, and it really shows in the way you deal with your
employees and your customers.”

“How
does it show to my customers?” she asks. “I have a spectacular game face.”

“You
really don’t,” I tell her. “Remember last week when that woman came in looking
for a new handbag? She made some stupid pun and you terrified pretty much
everyone within range of your too-long, too-loud, wide-eyed laughter. You kind
of looked like that kid in school
who’s
extra nice to
everyone because she doesn’t know how to relate to people.”

“You
know,” she says, “if you just brought me here to insult me, I really don’t see
the point in continuing.”

“Before
you use what I’m saying as a pretext to go lord over your staff and make
everyone, especially customers, nervous, why don’t you just take a minute to
have a bit of the onion rings?” I ask. “They’re pretty tasty and you haven’t so
much as looked at your food because you’ve been too worried about what may or
may not be going on at the store.”

She
closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. When she opens them again, she hails a
passing waiter and orders a double shot of whiskey.

As
the waiter’s walking away, Jessica leans forward and says, “Look, I know I come
off as overbearing, but I guess I just don’t trust that things would get done
if I’m not there to oversee it.”

Oh
shit.

Is
there any way the woman I’ve been texting could be Jessica? I can’t imagine
that would be possible.

That
response, as I recall, is almost verbatim to what that woman told me last night
during a similar discussion though. I decide to test the theory.

“Your
staff seems like they’re all perfectly capable women doing a great job for you.
You’re acting like they don’t know Prada from Donna Karan and would just as
soon kill and eat your customers as give them good service,” I tell her.

“Do
you
know Prada from Donna Karan?” she
asks.

“Not
even remotely. Really, I’m just proud of myself for remembering the names,” I
answer.

She
tries to hide it, but I can see that brief flicker of a smile come over her
lips.

“They’re
a good staff—great, really. Without them, I don’t know if I’d even have a
store. They just don’t have that—oh, what’s the word?” she asks.

“Inside
experience?” I ask.

She
cocks her head a little and eyes me.

“That’s
what most control freaks use as their justification for their control
freakery
,” I cover.

It’s
her. It’s got to be her.

The
wording’s different, but the idea is exactly the same. Add to that the knowing
look she gave when I used the phrase “inside experience,” and I’m almost
certain that I’m talking to the woman who’s been giving me something to look
forward to after work for the last while.

“That’s
a good way to put it,” she says.

“Then
why don’t you train them so they’re less dependent on your being there to solve
every problem? You’re not superwoman.”

“It’s
not that easy,” she says, but doesn’t have anything to back up the statement.

“It’s
precisely that easy,” I tell her. “When I saw how fast José learned what I
taught him, I kept teaching him more. Now, if I were to die today—knock on
wood—he could take over the business without even the slightest bit of difficulty.
Not everyone has that ambition, but you’ve got a whole staff full of people who
want to know the things you won’t let them learn.”

“Yeah,
but what happens when I give away that information and they go open a competing
shop across the street?” she asks.

“I’m
sorry,” our waiter, coming seemingly from nowhere, asks, “is there something
wrong with the onion rings?”

“Not
at all,” I tell him. “We just got caught up talking.”

“Okay,”
he says, “here’s your drink, ma’am.”

“Thank
you,” Jessica says and downs it, immediately handing the shot glass back to the
waiter.

The
expression on his face is hilarious.

“Would
you like another?” he asks nervously.

“No,”
she says. “That one should do it, thank you.”

“All
right,” he says. “Your entrees should be out momentarily.”

He
walks away.

“Do
you really think that your employees are going to open a store just to drive
you out of business if you give them the super-secret handshake?” I ask.

“You
never know,” she says.

“Do
you have—well, of course you must know how much money it takes to open up a
shop, even a small one, in New York. Do you pay any of your employees that
well?” I continue.

“I
pay my employees very well,” she says. “And I don’t think it’s really any of
your business anyway.”

“Maybe
not,” I tell her. “I just hate seeing someone run themselves into the ground
when they don’t have to, but if you’re dead set on losing your store—”

“I’m
not going to lose my store. What are you talking about?” she asks.

“Well,
most employees are loyal to bosses who treat them with enough respect to let
them move up in the world,” I tell her. “It’s the ones who think their bosses
are trying to stifle their growth that end up putting a knife in your back.”

She
laughs. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Okay,
let’s say it doesn’t,” I start. “Let’s say that all of your employees are just
thrilled to pieces that you don’t give them any more responsibility than you
think they can handle which, from the look of things, isn’t that much. Now,
you’ve killed whatever ambition they do have and you’ll end up with a situation
where they actually
can’t
take care
of things when you’re not there, so sick or healthy, injured or able, no matter
what, you’re going to have to be there all day every day for the rest of your
life,” I tell her. “Or, at very least, until you decide that it’s just not
worth the stress and you end up having to sell the company, but I really see
you as being the type that would hang onto this sort of thing until your dying
breath. Maybe afterward if you catch a break with rigor mortis.”