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“No one is so brave that he is not disturbed by something unexpected.”
— Julius Caesar
Tina
I release his hand, stunned. We stare at each other, neither of us saying a thing. That damn clock ticks loudly in the silence.
“Why?” I finally blurt out.
His brows draw down. “Why what?”
“I didn’t think you liked me in the interview. I disagreed with just about everything you said. Are you sure it’s me you want?”
O’Neal takes a step back and doesn’t reply for some time. It’s as if he’s concerned he might frighten me with his size, his authority, or his taciturn nature. Eventually he replies, “Yes.”
“But why?”
He shrugs. “Experience.”
“That’s it?” I shoot back.
He nods.
Oh yeah. The man’s talkative as hell in the playroom, yet apparently in the “real world” O’Neal is the kind of guy who never uses two words when one word will do. I take a deep breath to prevent myself from grabbing him by the collar and shaking more words out of him. Not that I could shake the big lug or even move him an inch. I want to ask him about the shit I heaped on him, and the way I treated him—but I don’t. Talk about frustrating!
The Human Resources manager walks into the waiting room, saving me from doing something I’d regret. Mrs. Lucille Hayes, the bespectacled, well-bred older woman with mousey brown hair is a subdued professional in her charcoal gray pants suit, plain white shirt, with very little jewelry.
O’Neal glances her way. “Lucille will take it from here.”
“Congratulations, Tina.” Her smile is sincere. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you around.”
“Um, thanks.” I exhale loudly.
Following Lucille down a flight of stairs, she takes me on a tour of the building. With each step I realize there’s no way out of this. I’m still reeling. Who would have thought O’Neal would hire me?
O’Neal’s “Under Thirty Tours” company caters to the over eighteen and under thirty market. In fact, people over the age of thirty are not welcome on the trip. Luckily, as a tour guide, I’m an exception. While seeing the sights of the USA, these young men and women also get to hook up, play up, and likely screw up while on tour.
Starting from the bottom, Lucille shows me everything, beginning with the massive ground floor garage and five full-time mechanics. O’Neal has nearly 100 staff, with forty off the premises touring with customers at any one time.
We return upstairs to view tech support, web design, marketing and various administrative support staff who have their own rooms. The call center is in an open area with individual workstations outside of O’Neal’s office. His office is like a large goldfish bowl with windows on both sides, maybe so he can keep an eye on his workers.
As we enter the call center area, an older woman pushes to her feet and cries out, “Oooh rah! Got a group down payment for ten!” I watch her move pegs on a board under the “Southern U.S.” section. There are graphs and details all over the walls.
“Oh, well done, Big Mama!” one girl calls out. Three others gather round, patting her on the back. Looks like this sale is a big thing.
I wonder if they work on commission.
Big Mama is a huge black woman and with the “Oooh rah!” comment I wonder if she was in the Marines. Six feet tall, she’s almost as wide. Her hands are big as roast chickens, her biceps cantaloupes, her legs as thick as tree trunks. To feel safe going down a dark ally, I’d pick her to bring along.
“Excuse me, everyone. Excuse me! This is Tina,” Lucille says raising her voice. “She’s taking over as the boss’s personal assistant while Alice is on a leave of absence.”
Everyone not currently speaking on a phone turns from their workstation to say hello. I smile, unintimidated and astonished that probably 90% of his staff are women. Harem, much? I think it’s a good sign—unless it’s a bad one. I’ll reserve judgment over the abundance of estrogen. O’Neal has also managed to hire a United Nations blend of nationalities.
Some reach over the short partitions to shake my hand as they introduce themselves. They all seem to have nicknames, like “Red” for the auburn-haired girl. I mentally note their names, planning to write them down when I can. A person’s name is important.
As a model I was essentially a business person, and a brand ambassador. Interpersonal skills, unique personalities, and different cultures are right up my alley. The nice, the crude, and just plain creepy—I’ve dealt with them all. I rarely feel socially outclassed even though I started life dirt poor. I’ve brushed shoulders with Russian oligarchs, political movers and shakers, Swiss bankers, famous authors, and temperamental Manhattan chefs.
In my current uninviting persona, I wondered how the “Under Thirty Tours” staff would react, but found I was warmly welcomed. At first people look away from the sight of my wart. Mostly however, no one bats an eye.
What an oddball mix of people, including one married couple. Dressed mostly in jeans, I see tattoos, nose rings, young and old. I spy a woman with maybe a month-old baby in a portable bassinet by her workstation. How the hell does she work with a newborn?
I’m soon inundated with questions I can’t answer such as “How do you like it here so far?” When they tell me ‘trivia night’ is tomorrow and ask, “Do you want to come?” I accept. Why not? Sounds like a fun way to get to know everyone.
They are all quite welcoming, which surprises me. I’ve always associated office employees as being dressed to the nines, competitive and jealous of each other. These guys are relaxed and friendly. They all seem sincere friends. A family of sorts, but a nice one. Not like the household I grew up with.
I tilt my head. “Why the excitement? Do you get commission on sales?”
“Yeah, we do but it’s more about making the boss happy,” a dark-eyed woman with a slight Mexican accent informs me.
A guy cursed with a baby-face adds, “He’s the best.”
“Really?” I innocently ask, and I’m inundated with a truck load of replies about paid time off when their children are sick, good medical coverage, overtime and so on. “Well, that sounds promising.” I say cheerily.
Lucille shows me my desk just outside O’Neal’s office, and next to the call center. I have a larger work area, with a two-drawer filing cabinet, a spacious desk, and a surprisingly modern computer. She gives me a stack of paperwork, all inside a folder with my name printed at the top. I scan through to find my employment agreements, health insurance, bank details, and various government forms.
“Payday is twice a month,” she informs me. “I’ll be back shortly.”
I’m filling out forms when Lucille walks past escorting the other candidate—Ms. Bubbly, blonde, and beautiful, into O’Neal’s goldfish-bowl office. The girl slips inside, and Lucille shuts the door.
Why in the world is he seeing her? To tell her she doesn’t have the job? Surely, he has HR for that. Lucille smiles at me as she passes by again, checks if I have any questions. I don’t. Still filling out forms, I keep sneaking a peek into his office windows to see what’s going on.
After a few minutes, O’Neal stands up, lowers the blinds, snapping them shut.
A million explanations for his behavior fly through my mind—none of them good. One of them, however, sticks out like dog’s balls. I’m stabbed with jealousy and resentment as I find myself thinking: “He’ll fuck her, but he won’t fuck me?”
It’s a bat-shit crazy idea, particularly as I don’t even want O’Neal. I force it away, returning to concentrate on the pile of empty forms in the file on my desk. Why did he shut the blinds? The reason could be perfectly innocent.
I snort and shake my head. Well, it could.
Twenty-five minutes pass while I try to convince myself that Max O’Neal doesn’t have that girl bent over his desk, his hand over her mouth to stop her from screaming his name. I’ve an overactive imagination and right now it’s running wild. My untrusting, cynical thoughts probably say more about me than him.
Resolute, I slip on my keen-employee, unwanted-virgin persona. My mask safely in place, I return to my paperwork.
