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Quintessa
Three weeks later and I’m still here at DePaul & Company. I didn’t think I’d make it, but here I am, walking into the building feeling like a regular ol’ employee. I bought some new clothes, but that new-hire smell – yeah, it has officially left me. I’m one of them now and I think I’ve done a good job of falling in line. Since I made the mistake of texting Mr. DePaul three weeks ago about that jacket, I haven’t heard a word from him or seen him in the parking lot, the office or the café. He’s canceled our Tuesday team meetings three weeks in a row. It’s like the stars aligned and everything is working in my favor. That’s probably because I took Zahara’s advice, kept my head down, handled my work and bounced. Get in, get out.
I walk to my desk and set my coffee thermos next to my keyboard. I lower my purse to the floor.
“What up, Tez,” Jake says.
Weeks ago, when Zahara had told me about the nicknames for the group, I decided then and there that I wouldn’t use them. But, since everyone started calling me Tez, I call them by their group-assigned nickname on occasion.
“Good morning, Bieber,” I respond. “How are you?”
“Chillin’. You know me.”
“Yo!” Mauve says, walking to her desk with a green smoothie. She usually has one every morning.
“Good morning, Rockstar,” I tell her.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…good morning,” she drawls. “Another day, another dollar.”
Zahara, Greta and Ian walk in together. Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve noticed that Zahara is not a morning person. She doesn’t like talking until she’s two cups of coffee in. Ian is the quiet one. He’s a perfectionist, so his time is spent staring at the computer screen, going over every return with a fine-tooth comb. Greta doesn’t talk much either, but that’s because she’s the manager and strives to maintain a relationship with us to where we know she’s the boss and not our work friend.
We settle at our desks. I’ve been maintaining addresses for our clients and fixing file discrepancies. I haven’t worked on any tax returns yet or had any one-on-ones with clients. Greta says that usually happens after a month, so I have another week or so for that. For now, I do minor work and shadow my coworkers in the afternoons. Today after lunch, I’ll be shadowing Ian.
After a few sips of coffee and a silent mantra to prepare myself for another day of work, I stare down at the spreadsheet and compare it to the address information on file for this customer. For some reason, they didn’t use DePaul & Company to prepare their taxes last year (if they filed at all), so I have to send them a letter, reminding past customers that it’s time to file and hopefully, they’ll return to the firm. It’s a way of reminding them of our services and their tax obligation.
The letter I send is a form letter, so all I do is type the person’s address. I’m midway doing that right now when I get a ping from Zahara via the interoffice messaging app on our computers.
Zahara to Quintessa: code red, code red!
Mauve to Quintessa: code red, newbie. There goes our chill Monday…
Ian to Quintessa: code red. let the purge begin!
Jake to Quintessa: code red…welcome to the circus
Greta to Team: Code red. Do your job and stay focused.
Oh no.
Code red means Mr. DePaul is on our floor. I instantly feel my body seize up like my immune system is forming this outer shield to protect me from the fire-breathing dragon who’s lurking, ready to set someone ablaze. I start panic-typing to Zahara.
Quintessa to Zahara: Zee, why is he here? u hear anything?
Zahara to Quintessa: nope.
Quintessa to Zahara: why is Ian saying something about a purge?
Zahara to Quintessa: lol…’cause he’s a nerd. Don’t listen to Ian. This is the most excitement he’s had in a long time. Just give it a few minutes and the dictator will be gone. And make sure your drink isn’t too close to your keyboard. He doesn’t like that at all…
When I was first hired, Zahara told me Mr. DePaul’s visits to the floor were rare. Mauve told me just last week that the last time she could remember Mr. DePaul coming down here was like two months ago. Why is he here now? Is somebody about to get fired? Am I about to get fired?
It’s so quiet in my area, I can hear his expensive, Italian leather shoes as they get closer and closer to our department.
Jeez, please bypass us.
I try to focus on work and pretend nothing’s amiss, but it’s hard to work when a warlord is standing over your shoulder. What kind of toxic work environment is this? When did it become acceptable in the corporate world to be afraid of the CEO or anyone else in management? And I’m not talking afraid like you’re about to get fired. I’m talking afraid as in afraid for your life.
I decide to message Zahara back.
