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LAUREL
The steam from the coffee rises as I walk back to my desk. I let the liquid try and wake me. The first appointment is at eight o’clock, so the data entry of my glamorous to-do-list for today begins.
“How long until files are done?” Bruce asks, not removing his eyes from the phone.
“A week. There are over 10,000 files and I still have to keep this place running, too.”
Scrutiny turns from the phone to me, and his lips curl. “I don’t pay for attitude. Just get it done.”
Turnaround has been bad since Bruce took over. Out of the four supervisors I’ve had, Bruce is the worst. The guy has it out for women. We have lost many prominent clerks because of his foolishness.
The desire to leave Bruce without an office manager has been high. As he claims, everybody is disposable. While that might be true, efficient clerks are troublesome to locate. One day, Karma will catch up.
The first appointment strolls in, and it’s a middle-aged woman. “Good morning, are you here for the 8 o’clock?”
She nods, and signs in.
“I’ll let Bruce know you are here.”
The pandemic caused the company some hard times, but sellers were desperate for money after losing their jobs. Bruce sold a half a million dollar home for just over two-hundred thousand dollars. The seller was desperate for money. So, he took the best offer he could get.
Bruce is a piranha and he will eat you alive if he benefits. The market is climbing. If the seller would have lingered six more months, a full priced offer could have been received. In the current market, homes are selling almost fifty thousand over the worth.
“Mrs. Applebee, Bruce is ready for you.”
Bruce turns on his charm. Why don’t people see through him? It’s all about money. He couldn’t care less about the clients.
Sellers accept offers on three houses today, bringing Bruce a commission of two-hundred-grand. How can sleazeball make this kind of money? Why do people want to work with him?
A couple of years ago, the thought of getting my real estate license seemed like a good idea, but the profession is difficult. They make no money unless a house is sold. There is no guaranteed salary.
After Bruce’s last appointment at four-thirty, he shuffles out of the office.
“Any closer on getting them done?”
I want to throw my damn computer at his head. “Still gonna be a couple weeks, Bruce.”
He leaves without a response, and leaves me with the silence of the empty office. I square away tomorrow’s appointments and turn out the lights before locking the door. I don’t have to worry about this place until the morning hits.
The parking lot is gravel, so I’m careful about walking to my Honda Accord. It’s a piece of junk, but it gets me from point A to point B. It’s so old, there are no automatic windows. My mother keeps trying to talk me into upgrading, but why waste money when it’s still running?
The trip home is absurd with bumper to bumper traffic on the expressway. One of the many things I hate about getting off at five. Everybody is escaping work. I crank the lever to roll my window down, and then turn up the radio, appreciating the spring breeze.
About six, I roll into the driveway. Home at last. I make a beeline to the bathroom. Am I the only one that does my best thinking while in the shower? Most ideas pop into my head when I’m not focusing. I turn the lever on the hot side and get undressed. The heated water trickles down my body, soothing the aches of sitting in an uncomfortable desk chair all day. My neck rolls side-to-side, letting it run down every inch as I lather the loofah with soap and begin washing. That’s when the phone rings. Crap! I usually call my mom on Wednesdays. I let it go to voicemail, deciding to call her back when I’m out instead of rushing to answer. No need to slip and fall.
Not even twenty seconds later, it’s ringing again. And then a third time.
The water turns off, and I wrap the towel around my frame and run as fast as my feet can to the phone.
“Hello?” I say, my neck propped to the side, supporting the phone in between my shoulder and ear.
There is an unexpected voice introducing themselves as Mandy from Memorial Hospital. “Is this Laurel?”
I hold the towel tightly so it doesn’t fall. “Yes.”
“They have brought in a patient named Lacey and she has you as her emergency contact.”
The floor is like jelly underneath me, and I sink to the floor, my ass making the first impact. The towel falls off. My sister goes to college in Texas. Our parents didn’t like the concept of her moving there by herself.
