Rude Boss

I clear my throat and look across the table at him. Studying him. He’s more than attractive. He’s dreamy. If he hadn’t opened his mouth and spewed out such ugly words, he would be a dream. He’s a fine black man. His skin is chocolate-toned, smooth and rich. It’s giving delectable, I-want-to-savor-you vibes. His sable-black hair is cut close and edged. Beard trimmed and groomed like he just left the barber this morning. His lips – you’d think the beautiful set he possesses would be the focal point of his face, but it’s not. It’s his eyes. His eyes are deep-dark. Abyss dark. Void of emotion…dark. No decent human being lurks behind them. No kind-hearted soul. Just a ruthless businessman with no regard for anyone but himself.

Typical.

He’s dressed in a perfectly tailored suit. I’m sure it’s probably Christian Dior, Alexander McQueen or Ferragamo – something along those lines. For him, wearing famous designer fashion ain’t a thing. Meanwhile, I have to borrow clothes from my friend just to have something decent to wear to a job interview. Everybody can’t have their lives as together as some people.

Mr. DePaul’s cologne fills the room, but not more than his cantankerous energy. He has me on pins and needles. People in high positions have always made me feel less than, but he’s got me feeling wholly insignificant and irrelevant. I’m a goldfish trying to swim with the sharks, sitting here looking like a fool with coffee on my blouse.

I should leave. The moment I think I’m ready to, he closes his laptop with both hands and does so slowly, as if one of those large hands wasn’t enough to fold it closed. He looks up at me and says evenly, “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t cancel this interview.”

“Why are you thinking about canceling it?”

“You arrived late,” he says, glaring, yet he looks so poised and relaxed, like this kind of behavior is a part of who he is. I can’t even tell if he’s breathing, but he must be since he’s still alive and all. Just my luck…

Quintessa, you need this job.

“I wasn’t late, Mr. DePaul. My interview was scheduled for 8:30. I arrived at 8:15 and your receptionist showed me to a waiting room downstairs where I sat the rest of the time, waiting for someone to come get me. She must’ve forgotten to let your assistant know.”

He frowns, picks up a retractable pen and clicks it repeatedly. A bulge in his jaw spasms. He looks away from me for a second, then leans back in his chair. I don’t know what to do at this point. I’m a prisoner in here. Do I just sit here and watch this man throw a weird, silent man-tantrum, or should I take my folder and slide on out of here?

Quintessa, you need this job.

Right. A job. My voice of reason is telling me to stay put, so I sit here and listen as he clicks that awful pen – the sound is more aggravating than a ticking clock. After another few minutes of this, he sits straight-up again and says, “See how annoying that is—waiting for someone.”

Oh, so that’s what he was doing – teaching me a lesson.

I restate, “It wasn’t my fault.”

“More excuses. Is that the kind of employee you’re going to be, Ms. Bailey? If so, I can have Ms. Davison escort you back downstairs and out of those revolving doors as quickly as you came through them.”

Boy, oh boy, he knows how to get under a person’s skin. If I didn’t need this job, I wouldn’t need Shanice or anybody else to show me the way out of here. I’m almost ready to spring up from this chair and make a run for it. Then I think about how broke I am. I drove my Mitsubishi Mirage over here on fumes. I have thirteen dollars and some change in my bank account. The money I get in unemployment goes to buying food and giving Ella something on the bills, even though she says I don’t have to give her anything. I just don’t feel right not offering her something when I’m a grown woman who’s supposed to stand on her own two feet. And now this prick is interfering with my chance at making twenty-five dollars an hour.

“Well?” he asks, his thick brows raised.

“No, that’s not the kind of employee I’m going to be. I’m always on time, just like I was on time today, but—” I digress. He wants to blame me for this. Fine. Whatever.

“But what?” he asks, raising his tone.

“Nothing,” I respond.

He stands up – all six feet-four inches of him. Maybe five. He’s tall. Impressively so. I’m waiting for him to tell me to leave, but instead he asks, “Would you like some water?”

Why would you offer me water after putting me through the wringer? Nah, I don’t want your stuck-up water. I most surely do not!

I say, “No, thanks. I’m good.”

He walks over to a table in the corner of the room, picks up two bottles of water and saunters over to me. He sets a bottle on the table next to my folder. Didn’t I just tell this fool I didn’t want any water?

“Um, I—” I was going to tell him again, but with a man like Essex DePaul, the less you say, the less he has to hold against you.

Yikes…

He extends his hand to shake mine.

Nothing in me wants to shake this jerk’s hand. It’s one thing to be mean and evil and stand by that, but people who touted their evilness but tried to pretend they were nice – that’s some real psychopathic behavior.

I accept his hand and try to at least impress him with a handshake since I have yet to impress him with anything else. I attempt to lock his hand in a firm squeeze, but he beat me to it. Besides, I couldn’t squeeze his hands if I wanted to. It’s like trying to shake hands with a tennis racket – not the handle – the actual part that hits the ball.

He releases my hand, pulls out the chair adjacent to mine and makes himself comfortable, crossing his legs. He opens the water bottle and takes a long swig. After returning the bottle to the table, he says, “You should never shake anyone’s hand while you’re sitting.”