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Six
Shit,” I mutter. Hope I’m not in trouble. Eh, it’s not like I’ve monumentally screwed something up. Well, not to my knowledge. And there wasn’t anything alarming when I read through my emails on the subway earlier. I snatch the note off my computer and crush it in my hands as I head for his office. The door’s open, so I knock on the frame. Whatever this is about I’ll smooth it over with a smile the way I always do. Plus everyone knows girls who wear glasses aren’t troublemakers. At least not according to mainstream television.
“Good morning, Mr. Whitley. You wanted to see me?” Good, Olivia. Keep it cheery. Easy breezy does it.
Boss man looks up from his desk, straining to smile. Part of me wants to cheer him on like he’s a baby pulling himself up for the first time—Come on, Mr. Whitley, you can do it. Almost there! “Yes, Olivia. Please come in. Take a seat.”
I do as I’m asked, smoothing out my skirt before I plop down on one of the russet-colored leather chairs. He sets his silver fountain pen on his desk and leans forward, resting on his elbows like something bad happened. Maybe someone died and that’s why it’s so weird around here. Oh, no. Was it Fawn? Did she choke on a shrimp when she lied for me? No, that can’t be it. I got a message from her this morning.
“You missed the Fenwick dinner last night,” he says.
I smile, keeping my tone gentle. “Yes. I’m sure Fawn mentioned I had a terrible bout of food poisoning yesterday evening. But according to her, the meeting went perfectly well without me.”
“Yes, I heard as much too.”
“Great, then I’ll follow up with Fenwick this morning.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he says, like he’s gladly removing something from my plate and encouraging me to relax, go on vacation. Not that I’ve had a chance to travel past the tristate area since I started working at this firm.
“Why is that?”
Mr. Whitley stares at me for a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity. What? What is it? Finally, he opens his mouth. “It’s come to my attention that in the past several months you’ve been showing up late, leaving early, and, more concerning, missing deadlines.”
C’mon, man. Like three deadlines. Surely, that’s not so bad.
“With all due respect, Mr. Whitley, I primarily oversee commercial real estate contracts. It’s not like we’re litigating murder trials.”
“See!” He points a firm finger at me. “That attitude right there. You’re not taking this job seriously. You’re not taking yourself seriously.”
Sheez. What’s with the hostility? All this over nothing.
“I’m not taking myself seriously?” I say.
“That’s right. Now I understand that you’re young and you have other... interests.” Whitley has to be referring to stand-up. It’s no secret around here that I’m a comedian. Hell, three p.m. at the coffee machine is basically my own personal open mic night. Not to mention, I got them to hire me as the entertainment for the holiday party last year. I wrote some killer jokes about the firm. Now, those were some big laughs. A pretty big paycheck too. My boss continues, “And it’s hindering your work.”
“Can you be more specific?” This is a little trick I learned in law school. It throws the ball right back at them and lets you listen out for any holes in their claim.
“Yes.” He pauses as if quickly collecting his thoughts. “I don’t think you’re a good fit for Whitley, Bauer, Carey, and Klein.” Can’t argue with that. “I’m sorry, Olivia, but we have to let you go.”
My face cracks into a smile and I spit out a chuckle. He’s got to be setting up for a hilarious punchline. After a moment of his solid silence, his words begin to sink in. We have to let you go. I’ve been present for this entire conversation but he can’t be serious. “You’re kidding, right?” I ask.
“No, we’re not all joke tellers.”
Well, damn. Then this is really happening. My chest tightens and I struggle to breathe for a second. Me? No job? No boss? I shake my head, trying to reassemble the rattled pieces until they make sense. “Just to be clear, I’m being fired?”
“Yes.”
“Huh,” I utter, and attempt to sink into the chair but the stiff leather has no give. No more contracts. No more bullshit meetings. And no more trying to find an empty ladies’ room for my post-coffee deuce.
“If you leave respectfully,” Whitley continues, “you’ll get a month’s severance out of the deal.”
That doesn’t sound so bad. None of this sounds that bad. But I’m an adult with bills, student loan debt, and a company-sponsored health plan. It would be irresponsible to take this lying down, right? I must fight to save my shitty job! “And there’s nothing I can do to change your mind?” I ask.
Yep, that’s about as much fight as I can muster. (Let’s call it an honorable attempt.)
“No.”
So that’s it. The chains of corporate America dissolve into a month’s worth of pay. And just in time for summer. No, no, I should be freaking out right now. Panicked. Maybe even devastated. But the truth is I’m grateful Mr. Whitley has the balls to do what I couldn’t. Because the way I see it, fired is just another word for free.
