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“That sounds like a bunch of boondoggling to me.”
Before I can ask him what boondoggling means, Greta says, “She’s doing good. She’s learning the client profiles and—”
“And yet we’re stagnant at forty lousy returns a week. That’s ludicrous. Let me ask you something, Mrs. Wilburn. What would be the point of this company spending millions of dollars on advertisements to get people to trust DePaul & Company with their taxes if my team can’t handle them? And what really irks me is, all your team does is the basics. You put the file together, do the simple part of the return and send it to the level two associates for a more in-depth look. What’s so difficult about that?”
I look at Zahara. She’s twirling her pen. Ian has his chin propped up on his balled fist while his elbow rests on the table. Jake is lounging in his chair like he doesn’t care if he gets fired or not. And Mauve – she’s in the room, but she’s really not in the room. She has a way of checking out, probably for the sake of her sanity. I wish I had that ability.
Greta is still trying to maintain some level of professionalism with Mr. DePaul, but how do you reason with an unreasonable person? She says, “With four team members who are up to speed—”
“You’re averaging forty returns a month, which is how many per associate? Do some quick math. How many is that, Ms. Wellenski, or are the zippers on your jacket more important than what we’re discussing here?”
“Ten,” Mauve drawls out. I guess she wasn’t checked out after all.
“Yes. Ten,” the Dictator continues. “This is the ridiculous amount of work you all do every week.”
By this point, Greta’s had enough. Her face is flushed when she responds, “Mr. DePaul, that’s absurd, and you know it.”
“What I know is, I need these numbers up,” he says belligerently. “You’re the leader of this team, Ms. Wilburn. If you can’t find a way to make that happen, I’ll find someone who can. The floor is open for suggestions if any of you have ideas. Ms. Valentine? Zelenski? Fitzgerald? Wellenski? Bailey?”
Nobody says a word after he tosses out everyone’s surnames like Donald Trump was throwing rolls of paper towels to people in need. I glance over at Greta. She’s fuming mad but tries not to show it. He’s gon’ mess around and give her a heart attack.
“No one has anything to offer?” Mr. DePaul says, taking antagonizing steps back and forth by the table with his hands still behind his back. “This is why I’ve canceled your team meetings for the last few weeks. I was hoping without that break in your day, you’d accomplish more, but even that didn’t work. So, until I can come up with a plan, especially since no one here has anything to offer, go back to your desks and get some work done.”
The moment my butt leaves the soft cushioned chair, he says, “Ms. Bailey, I need you to hang back for a minute.”
Unbelievable. And to think I almost made it out unscathed…
At this stage, what would be the point of him asking me to stay behind and chat with him while dismissing everyone else? It’s so embarrassing because I know what they’re all thinking. All I can say is if I am about to get fired, so be it. It would probably be a blessing.
