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Quintessa
Orientation goes just the way Mr. DePaul told me it would. I’m in a conference room on the first floor where there are bagels, eggs, bacon and coffee. Imagine my surprise when I learn I’m the only new hire going through orientation today, so what’s with the breakfast buffet?
While eating, I watch some boring videos where people I don’t know are talking about the company’s culture and core values. I swear companies make you watch this crap just to keep the new person out of their way. Another video comes on explaining the dress code: business informal. Men are supposed to wear a business suit with a tie or a nice pair of slacks and a sports jacket. Women are to wear business suits or dresses with high or low heels. I should’ve known this company wouldn’t be business casual. That would be too easy.
Next, I watch a video about the company’s start, hosted by Mr. DePaul, explaining how he built this company from a one-bedroom apartment and grew it into the conglomerate it is today. He’s so confident and suave when he speaks, it’s almost sickening. I never understood how people could transform themselves into a corporate working machine like he apparently has, but I suppose somebody had to do it. And he’s just talking and talking and talking like he’s one of those people who loves the sound of their own voice. Everything about him screams arrogance and I’m sure he doesn’t care in the least.
The snooze fest continues with yet another presentation. This one is about the benefits package and health insurance mumbo jumbo. I’m trying to be thankful that I have this job, but I’m bored out of my mind and my booty is numb from sitting in this chair for so long. I need a break. After the video is done, I get up slowly so the feeling gradually comes back to my legs and walk to the bathroom. After using the facilities, I wash my hands and stretch, then check my lip gloss. A white girl with light purple hair walks into the bathroom wearing a red short-sleeved blouse, a short purple leather skirt and black calf-length combat boots. She has on black lipstick. There are two piercings beside her lips and one on her nose. Maybe she should watch the dress code video again.
“’Sup, newbie,” she drawls out.
Naturally, a smile comes to my face. “Hi, I’m—”
She steps into a stall and slams the door closed.
“Oooo-kaaay. I’m nobody,” I say quietly and exit, returning to the dreaded conference room.
Shanice walks in and asks, “How are you liking it so far?”
“Um…ah…I’m just going to say it. It’s boring.”
“I know, but we all had to sit through it. It’s company policy.”
“Sure. I understand.”
Understand that this is a total waste of time.
Shanice goes over a few more company items with me before the human resources manager makes her grand entrance – a high-energy black woman with bouncy coils and burgundy oval nails. She discreetly has me sign a contract with the amount Mr. DePaul generously offered me in the parking lot yesterday, so he’s talked to all the right people to make it happen. After I sign, she tells me to keep everything hush-hush. If my coworkers knew how much money I was about to make up in here, it would cause a riot. Ain’t none of their business how much money I make, anyway.
I meet my manager. Her name is Greta Wilburn. She’s an older, silver-headed, heavyset woman. She looks young in the face, but you know she ain’t young because she still wears those blazers with shoulder pads. And if that wasn’t enough proof, those curls in her hair are the product of foam rollers. She looks like somebody’s grandma who’d be savvy at making somewhat acceptable TikTok videos and knows what a sneaky link is. She’s pretty cool, but I can tell the woman is burnt out. Is it the job or management? I assume it’s a little of both.
I meet my coworkers. There are two white guys. Jake is the cool one – has a swoop at the front of his brown hair and talks like a frat boy. I bet he likes Hip Hop music, too. Ian is more reserved. Wears glasses. Thick glasses that look like little round magnifying glasses. Every time I glance over at him, he’s squinting, looking at the computer – making a face like something stinks. Makes me wonder if the glasses are actually working. Mauve is light-skinned with freckles, and yes, her real name is Mauve (which I’m secretly digging). With her pale purple hair, I recognize her as the girl who spoke to me in the bathroom. And then there’s Zahara – like the dessert but with a ‘Z’ instead of an ‘S’. She has the same dark brown complexion as me – a real sista – the kind that’ll give you the lay of the land and not all that sugar-coated nonsense people like to hide in offices like these. Today, she has on some wooden earrings the shape of the African continent and is rocking a natural hair twist out. I’m having lunch with her at the café downstairs and she already thinks I’m her new work bestie. She’s spilling more tea than I’m able to wipe up.
“Oh, thanks for buying me lunch.”
“No problem, girl. I try to be as courteous as possible to the newbies, ‘cause you gon’ need it.”
I ask, “How long have you worked here?”
“Three years, and trust me, girl, I didn’t think I was going to make it for a while there until I finally got the swing of things.”
“How long did that take you so I can know what to expect?”
“You’ll be comfortable after about three months, give or take. And you’ll have a good understanding of everyone’s personalities, too. Once you get Greta’s nailed down, it’s smooth sailing. But girl, in the beginning, don’t let Greta intimidate you. Half the time she’s got a stick up her butt because if the team does anything wrong, the dictator comes wielding his mighty sword at her, not us.”
“Let me guess—the dictator is Mr. DePaul.”
She falls back laughing. “You’re a quick, study I see.”
“Only because I had a run-in with him already…don’t want that to happen again.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s just say my first interview was a disaster.” I take a bite of this chicken wrap and look around. This café is busier than most at-work cafeterias. And the ambiance is unmatched. There’s a wall of cascading water in the center of the large eating area. The chairs are spaced apart far enough to give people a little privacy with their conversations. Green, lush plants are plenty. The place feels like an oasis where one can get a brief reprieve from a stressful workday. That must’ve been the vibe he was going for with this setup.
I ask, “Is this the cafeteria for workers in this building only, or do outside people eat here, too?”
“It started out as a restaurant for the building, but when word got out about how good the food was since Mr. DePaul hired famous chefs and baristas, everybody in walking distance comes to eat and get their morning beverage of choice at The Restaurant at DePaul’s.”
