Elle stepped from the elevator, approaching the thick, smoky glass which isolated Eaton Global Tech's highest echelon of executives from the droves of employees who buzzed about the compound. All things on the other side of this sparkling wall symbolized the pinnacle of corporate accomplishment. In a crazy way, Elle was reminded of the trophy cases which still lined the athletic corridor of her beloved Central High School. Folks passing by would step in close and admire the finely-crafted plaques and statues, some pressing their faces against the cold glass trying to make out the names and dates. But they could never expect to touch the prizes, or actually hold them and know the weight of what they represented. That honor was reserved for a privileged few and Elle couldn’t see how this enclosed protective box was any different. For a split second, she was struck by her outsider status, then recalled the official photograph of the 1995 Girl's Track Team. That was the year they’d become State Champs and she, team captain. It was her 18th birthday and there she was, kneeling beside the two-foot bronze chalice, surrounded by her victorious teammates. She loved that the picture and trophy were encased for all posterity at CHS and smiled, remembering how she’d felt that day, a champion against the odds.
Then it hit her. The outcome of her time in this cosseted place didn’t really matter that much. While she honestly sought to be an agent of change, she knew that real transformation was a long term proposition. For now, the triumph was in the doing. She’d stand her ground, unwavering, and speak her piece — loudly, if need be. After that, whatever happened or didn’t, she was still a muthafuckin’ winner.
Elle saw the receptionist through the glass busily pecking the keys on her computer, her upper body rising from the avant-garde, bluish curve of desk. Elle pushed the buzzer and the woman looked up with a slight bounce of her sleek, blonde ponytail. The door unlocked. Elle stepped inside.
“I’m Elle Rollins. I have a 9:30 with Neville Powell.”
The receptionist nodded. “Please have a seat, Ms. Rollins. Mr. Powell's E.A. will be out to get you when it's time.”
E.A. was EGT speak for Executive Assistant and referred to those who had accepted a much-lauded twelve month assignment as a glorified lackey for a high-level exec. The idea was to school aspiring employees on the pressures of corporate management before they became mid-level managers themselves. Elle had been offered such an opportunity some years back and the burden to accept was intense. But it was so not her thing. Her manager at the time had expressed strong disappointment, saying it was hard to imagine why she’d turned it down. Difficult to imagine that being an all-out flunky to a middle-aged, self-important white dude might somehow not appeal to her? Please! Still, there are those who would say her choice had not been career-enhancing.
Elle sat on the silver and blue flecked couch along the wall, as her tenure at EGT drifted through her consciousness. All up, it had been a Godsend. She’d raised her son in an environment where he could thrive and want for little. She’d gathered a litany of skills and perspectives which served her life beautifully. She was respected, even admired more often than not. Still, that wasn’t the whole of it. There were many moments when she’d felt deeply misplaced. Odd man out. Like being sabotaged in Shark School, or fighting over a prized account with McKay and his ass of a manager a few years back. And most demeaning, the time she was forced onto an official development plan by another dick of a manager who routinely criticized her technical skills. At this point, she was dog-tired of the bullshit. The bold disrespect dispensed by Ranjan had prompted a fundamental shift in Elle. She felt full. Spilling over.
Elle folded her arms and crossed her legs, somewhere between being completely pissed and utterly sad about the position she was in, and the reason she was in it.
Then a man showed up and called her name. “Ms. Rollins?”
Elle looked up.
The man was very dark-skinned, possibly African, and spoke with a foreign accent. “I’m Idris Kadiri, Neville Powell's EA. He's ready to see you now.”
Elle stood, offering her hand, “Idris, nice to meet you.” He was not what she’d expected.
“A pleasure,” he said, then gestured, “this way.”
They turned left and strode down the long corridor which ended with a huge corner office. Powell's E.A. opened the door and ushered her in. “Elle Rollins,” he announced then closed the door as he left.
As Elle approached Powell's desk, a giant slab of natural steel balanced by pyramids of forged metal, she caught his intense brown eyes. Wow! Is this a beautiful man or what? Pushing her hand forward, she smiled.
He appeared especially fit and sported a deep tan. His thick, light-brown hair was blended with gray at the temples, and his smile — a high def. liquid crystal billboard fit to command the attention of every female within striking distance. The man was so ridiculously fine that Elle was becoming uncomfortable. Thank God for the nerdy glasses.
“Ms. Rollins,” he said, shaking her hand. “Let's have a seat, shall we?” He picked up a pen and pad.
Elle was glad for the chance to avoid the ‘powerful man on the other side of the big desk’ situation, as Powell walked to a pair of stuffed high-backed chairs which flanked a low coffee table.
“Can I have Sarah get you anything…coffee…water?” he asked.
“No…thank you.”
Elle sat, removing a file and pen from her briefcase before placing it on the floor.
Powell took the spot across from her and glanced over his timeless specs. “So…we have a situation.”
She didn’t speak.
“I scanned your email,” he began, “but could use more detail. Why don’t you share your side?” He raised his hand in her direction. “Take it from the top.”
Elle shifted in her seat, tugging the hem of the tweed Chanel she’d purchased yesterday. The dress was shorter than she normally wore for business and she felt exposed. Even the opaque gray hose added to provide the illusion of length didn’t give comfort. “I can tell you the facts,” she said, “as I know them,” cautious about telling her side. She locked her gaze on his.
He waited.
“If we need to provide context,” she said, “I’m prepared to outline my tenure in the organization.” She removed a page from her folder and leaned forward placing it on the low table between them.
“I’ve checked your personnel file,” Powell advised. “Your history of success and contribution is undeniable…a few blips notwithstanding. Tell me,” he stared intently, “getting an E.A. apprenticeship is pretty important around here, why’d you turn it down?”
The question surprised Elle. “I …uh…didn’t feel suited for the role,” she managed, inspecting his face carefully now.
“And that means?”
She switched gears. “I love selling. Never been interested in management. More problems, less money.”
He nodded. “So, the circumstance around Globetrotter.”
“It's not complicated,” she said, her hands resting atop the folder on her lap. “I was poised to win and Ranjan robbed me. This validates the facts.” Elle budged to the edge of her chair and pushed another piece of paper towards him. “As the highlighted portion indicates, that's my target for the quarter. And below it…where I finished.” She leaned closer to the table, placing her French manicured fingertip next to the florescent blue stripe, “Finally, this is the top line revenue I lost due to the denied pull.”
“So, a three-million-dollar deal evaporated?” he asked, a frown crossing his lips.
Elle swallowed hard and sat up straight, the memory of the loss still poking at her. “The day I requested the pull, McKay's posted revenue was 200,000 dollars ahead of mine. Had Ranjan supported me in closing my deal,” her jaw tightened, “I would have blown McKay off the field. But, as you know, it went another way. And at that point, McKay didn’t need more revenue to win Globetrotter. He was in. The winner by $200k.”
“And you were willing to accept the loss at that time?” Powell asked.
“Of course,” she grimaced. “I didn’t like it. Thought it was suspect. But the man said no, done deal.”
“Until…” Powell leaned back in his chair.
“Until I learned that Ranjan pulled for McKay a week later. Twice.” Elle's voice rose a few bars. “His actions contradicted the rationale he gave me and disregarded the guidelines.” Powell didn’t react. “Ultimately, McKay's tally rose to this.” Her ankles crossed, she locked them under the chair and bent her body forward, using the tip of her pen to point to McKay's final number. Elle also flattened her left hand across the lapels of the double-breasted dress, hoping to obscure what little cleavage might be spilling forth. “So I lose Globetrotter. I miss my number. I’m denied significant dollars. All because of Ranjan's actions.”
“So why did Ranjan approve McKay but deny you?” Powell asked.
“His stated response is the team didn’t need it.” She made a face. “But the team still didn’t need it when he approved McKay. I can only conclude that his denying me, was about me, in particular.”
Powell eyed her for a moment, then stated point blank. “You’re calling discrimination.”
Elle stared back. “Based on my experience with Ranjan over the past months…yes…that's my conclusion. Can’t say I know exactly what his problem is. But he's been consistently unaccommodating, down-right disrespectful, and now he's in my pocket.” She pulled another document from the folder. “Here's a timeline detailing many of our interactions.”
Powell leaned forward, picked up the paper and read silently for a few moments before placing it down.
“You have any thoughts about it?” Elle asked.
“None that I’ll share.”
No surprise here. Elle didn’t expect him to answer directly. But wanting some indication of where his head was, she persisted.
“Which comment do you find the most inappropriate?” she asked.
Powell was silent.
“Mr. Powell, I understand your hesitation,” she decided to provoke. “I’ve known a lawyer or two in my time and realize that speaking authentically is, well, considered an occupational hazard among your breed.” She stopped, accessing his face with care. “I get it. But there's something I hope you’ll understand.”
Powell leaned back; his eyes fixed. They seemed darker, almost black. “And that is?”
“I didn’t come to this conclusion lightly.” She titled her head and looked away, considering her words. “The first time Ranjan criticized what I was wearing, I was taken aback. Confused.” She returned her gaze to his, shrugging. “As most people would be, I imagine. But over a few months, the pattern showed itself.” Pointing towards the paper, she continued. “And seeing it here, documented with dates and times, brings even more clarity.” She shook her head. “I won’t accept it. Something will be done.”
Powell's face, though tough to read, had tightened a bit. “Did you address Ranjan as directly as you’re speaking to me?” he asked.
Elle cleared her throat, lifting her chin. “TechGirlz,” she said, ignoring his question. “Ranjan's office denied my grant request for TechGirlz a few years back.”
“Another measure of bias against you?” Powell asked.
Elle shrugged. “Motives can be implied. But I’ll tell you what I do know.” The beat of her heart sped up. “Turns out, the grant was awarded to an all-boys high school in Wilmette, IL. To construct a state-of-the-art computer lab.” Elle lifted a page from her packet and slid it towards him. Powell picked it up and read.
“Quite the counterpoint to the idea of a van outfitted to travel wherever girls with fewer advantages might live and go to school. Don’t you think?”
He removed his glasses, holding them in his right hand.
Put the fuckin’ glasses back on. Elle was again struck by how flat-out gorgeous he was. Hell-bent on not baring any frailty, an old technique learned years ago bailed her out. The standard advice when unnerved during a pitch was to imagine the other person naked, thereby empowering you while leaving them stripped. But Elle didn’t see that working. So, in her mind, she spotted his face with ugly red blotches and blacked out his front teeth.
“Let me be clear, Ms. Rollins…” Powell squinted, deep lines traversing his forehead. “While one could construe impropriety in these situations, they are more or less, allegations. Circumstantial at best. And your list of demands is, shall I say, far-reaching.”
Elle smirked; she couldn’t help it. She knew there was no controlling what he’d offer. That shit didn’t matter. These bastards would treat her with some measure of fairness or face certain exposure. During her years in that taut corporate cage, Elle had learned the very distinct difference between exposure and visibility. Visibility had always offered a chance to strut your stuff, reveal your value; exposure — not so much. In this case, she was the one destined to enjoy visibility. If it came to that.
“As my lawyer indicated,” Elle spoke while grabbing another page and placing it face up on the table. “I’m unwilling to accept anything less than the items on his list. Certainly it's your right to deny that request…and I can live with that too.” She made a face which said fuck it. “Be advised, however, I’ll be compelled to share my side…in a more public forum.” Elle paused, giving Powell an opportunity to speak. He didn’t.
She decided to help him along. “Got an interview booked with a particularly influential, highly independent tech site next week.”
Powell peered at her, leaning back in the cushy, oversized chair. “A blogger?” He blew it off. “Ms. Rollins, you can’t imagine we’d be concerned about that.”
“Your call,” Elle said, shaking her twists. “As you know, EGT's status on women in the workplace is well-established. Ninth best on Working Mothers’ list, and seventh, I think, on Fortune's.” She paused, folding her arms across her chest. “I don’t know but, perhaps the fact that my recent experiences deviate from such praises might be of interest to the site's ten million subscribers…or the editor's three million twitter followers…or maybe some of the twenty-six million who viewed her recent YouTube post.”
Powell was silent, and impossible to read. Just then Sarah's voice intruded. “Mr. Powell, pardon the interruption. Your 10 AM has arrived.”
Elle gathered her papers, placed them in the folder, and it in her briefcase. She stood. There was no reason to continue, she’d done what she came to do. Your move, bitches – was in her head. What she said was, “Thank you for the audience, I won’t take any more of your time.”
Powell stood as well, extending his hand. They shook and when Elle tried to pull away, he held on, his grip especially tight. She straightened her shoulders, looking square into his eyes.
“You’ll hear from my office by end of business Monday,” he said, a preamble to that stunning smile showing ever-so-slightly at the corners of his lips.
A surge of adrenaline blazed through her. “I’ll look forward to it,” she said.
As Elle reached the doorway, Powell spoke again. “Oh and, give my best to Liam.”
She stopped in her tracks. Liam. She giggled, though not out loud. I should have known. Turning to glance towards Powell, she nodded.
In the outer office now, Elle noticed the receptionist's small collection of dolls on the rear credenza, she did a double take, spotting a tiny vintage Lucky Locket Kiddle doll. Elle's heart was suddenly captured by her most vivid memory of the grandmother whose name she carried. When Elle was four years old, the bratty girl next door had yanked Elle's favorite doll right from her hands. The dolly was a tiny pocket princess with a sweet brown face and pigtails that stretched past her feet. Running to her grandmother and crying, Elle begged for help. Gammy Lu, a quarter Cherokee they say, looked sternly at Elle before bending over and wiping her tears. Then she said, her dark eyes fixed on Elle's, “Don’t never let nobody take advantage of you… nobody. You want what's yours in this world…you got to take it.” Elle remembered being rooted to that spot in the kitchen. Then marching to the front porch, she snatched her doll away from the little bully, who started to cry and took off running towards home.
In her twenties, Elle had dropped her second middle name, Lucinda, thinking it old-fashioned and downright backward. Perhaps it was time to reconsider.