| |
“Bill in accounting wants a raise. Sheila in human resources says she’s sick and tired of Trey and Marla. She’s demanding you fire both of them. Tim called in sick again, and Leroy lost his glasses.” I tapped my finger against my tablet.
My boss, Susan Vandenmeyer, placed her glasses on the tip of her nose. She sat behind her large, black desk, only her head visible above her large computer monitor. “They’re starting early today. I’d be amused if my coffee had had time to kick in.”
I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. When I had first taken this job, Mrs. Vandenmeyer had scared me to death, but it was my first long-term position, and I wanted it to work out. The pressure from myself had made her seem even more terrifying. She was demanding, punctual, and accomplished things in an hour that would take other people all day to finish.
She also had a dry sense of humor, and now I called her Susan instead of Mrs. Vandenmeyer. She was my favorite person whenever she wasn’t giving me an insanely short deadline (on those days, I called her Mrs. Vandenmeyer).
“I reminded Bill that I’m the head of the marketing department, not payroll. I told Sheila if she can’t handle Trey and Marla’s feud, then she may be in the wrong line of work. I told Tim that a hangover doesn’t count as a sickness, and Leroy is on the phone, getting a rushed order of glasses as we speak.”
Susan let out a breath that, to the untrained eye, wouldn’t have been noticed. But over the past year, my Susan-vision had become laser focused. It had saved me hours of work and frustration learning to read the woman.
For instance, if I didn’t want her to micromanage me at a certain time of the month, then I sent her chocolates and caramel mochas.
“How is the new media manager?”
“Lyle’s eager to learn.” I glanced around Susan’s office where we chatted every morning about that day’s work agenda. The cream couch lining her wall looked like it had never been sat on.
“But?” Susan prompted.
I sat down in the high-backed chair across from her desk. “But he’s not a quick learner. He’s always stopping by my desk, asking questions about things he should know the answer to or things I’ve explained to him. He’s an insecure perfectionist.”
“Ah, so he’ll end up being either the best media manager or the one we have to fire.”
“Exactly.”
“Keep your eye on him; be patient. Maybe he’ll learn to start thinking for himself. If he doesn’t get the hang of it by the end of the three-month trial period, we’ll hire someone else. Hopefully, it’s just new job jitters, or he has a crush.”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. I may need to mention going to dinner with Landon again.”
Susan didn’t smile (she rarely did). “That might be the best excuse I’ve ever seen a girl come up with.”
She was referring to Landon, my small cactus plant. I took him to dinner anytime I needed to deter an interested male.
I took Landon to dinner with me, then I would casually brag about how great dinner with Landon was at such-and-such restaurant the next time I was around the guy who had been asking me out. It discouraged most.
I didn’t want to lie, which was why the minute I got my cactus, I named it and even painted the name on the pot.
Telling people “no” at work was difficult for me, so when it came to personal relationships, I didn’t like to say no. Saying no was too awkward. I wanted people to like me and be my friend. Anytime you told a man no, he dropped off the face of the Earth. However, if you already had a “boyfriend,” those guys usually hung around, and I could be friends with them.
Maybe my new neighbor needed a lesson in diplomacy from me. Answering the door with “I’m not looking for a girlfriend” was the epitome of self-absorbed. I could have taught him a thing or two—like the fact that not every woman he met was going to ask him out. He could stand to learn a little tact.
After I taught him basic social skills, I could tell him how uninterested I was.
I was old-fashioned. I wanted love at first sight (mutually, of course). I wanted the man to sweep me off my feet (figuratively or literally was fine). I wanted him to be dazzled by my awesomeness (but be slightly more awesome than me, because I believed in marrying up).
If I had been able to say anything coherent when he’d been so rude, I would have rattled off my list of requirements—none of which he met.
It was frustrating how much brain space a nameless neighbor was taking up on a Monday morning. I had to start calling him Not-Hot Neighbor to remind myself that, though he might have looked good, his personality didn’t match.
When I glanced up, I realized Susan was talking. I’d missed the first half of what she said. “How are we dealing with the Trey and Marla situation this week?”
“I’m going to have a serious talk with them,” I told Susan. “I’ll give them the new activewear company we’ve picked up. Maybe they’ll stop fighting if they’re busy working on that. They’re so good at what they do, it’s a shame they can’t get along.”
“Perhaps it’s because they argue that they produce the best results. They’re not afraid to step on toes.”
I couldn’t help but feel like she was taking a dig at me, especially with her raised eyebrows pointing at me. Then, she began typing on her computer—the sign that our conversation was finished. I stood and fluffed the pillow I’d been leaning against while I tried to think of what to say to Trey and Marla. Their constant arguing made me tired. They bickered constantly about who contributed the most to SV Marketing. Everyone liked to think they were the hardest worker.
I tried not to be petty or discriminating in these arguments, because I knew the truth. Susan contributed the most. I knew most people liked to whine about their bosses and complain about their workload (I was one of them), but Susan was scarily efficient and amazing at drawing in new clients. Sometimes, I would have liked to yell at her, but there was no question in my mind that this company was so successful because of her. It was called SV Marketing for a reason. You didn’t start a marketing company with your own initials just to let it fall apart.
Susan brought in the clients, and I ensured everything went smoothly between Susan, the employees, and the clients. I combined Susan’s marketing knowledge with the client’s vision. Susan had taken to calling me the mediator. It had a nice ring to it.
I liked to think that if my marketing career ever fell through, I could look into a position as a diplomat on a tropical island.
When I stepped into the hall and closed Susan’s door, I could hear Trey and Marla’s raised voices coming from the conference room.
Maybe I should look into that tropical island job sooner, rather than later.
* * * * *
TUESDAY MORNING, I sat on my bar stool by my front window and peeked through my closed blinds, a large coffee cup in one hand.
After work yesterday, I stopped at the gym for my daily torture session and then ran into the local hardware store to buy a padlock. This morning, I made sure I got up an hour earlier than normal. I dragged one of my uncomfortable but chic bar stools to the window where I could watch this morning’s entertainment. Three cups of coffee later, I was left feeling jittery and impatient. I intended to find out if my neighbor was using my garbage can regularly.
I was only halfway through my current cup of coffee when Not-Hot Neighbor opened his front door and poked his head outside, looking for witnesses, I imagine.
Showtime.
He glanced around as though he expected someone to be lurking on his porch—a sure sign he was about to do something he shouldn’t.
He looked at my house. I’d purposefully left all the blinds closed this morning. I had a corner of them pulled apart barely half an inch so that I could watch him. Hopefully, if I held still, he wouldn’t notice me peeking through.
He stepped onto his porch with two huge garbage bags in his hands. What could he have possibly had in there? Bodies?
He was barefoot and only wearing a pair of black sweatpants as he jogged across the street. I knew I wouldn’t have been caught dead out there without some shoes. Talk about picking up germs, running across a public street. Gross.
I opened the blinds a little wider as he got close to my garbage can.
I definitely wouldn’t have been caught out there shirtless, but I didn’t mind the view too much. Too bad I wasn’t on good terms with him. I would have hired him as the face of the new activewear campaign. He made taking out the trash look good, the dirty little sneak.
He set down one garbage bag and tried to lift the lid, but it wouldn’t budge. Thanks to my handy-dandy screw gun—actually, it was Dave’s—I drilled a hole in the lid of my garbage can so that I could add a combination padlock to it and keep pesky neighbors out. I’d told Dave that I seemed to be having a pest problem. He was only too eager to lend me his screw gun, bless his heart.
I grinned while Not-Hot scowled at the garbage can. He grabbed the lock in his hand. He even tried to guess the number combination. He gave it a tug.
With a quick snap on the string, I raised my blinds all the way, drawing his attention toward me. I raised my coffee cup in a toast to him. His eyes narrowed, and he stomped back across the road with his garbage bags. He stopped in his driveway and tossed the garbage bags into the back of his pickup that was backed into his driveway.
I hurried to the front door and unlocked it before stepping outside. There was no way to hide my ridiculously large smile as I tried to casually sip my coffee on the porch.
He turned around and put a hand on his hip as he studied me. He scowled at me like I was the bad guy for putting a lock on my can. Finally, he turned around and headed inside.
That would be the last time I had to deal with my pesky, rude neighbor.
He didn’t want a girlfriend, and I didn’t want an overflowing garbage can.