Essex
My new and improved fabulous life has become nothing but one meeting after another. Day in and day out it’s what I do. Meetings upon meetings. When you make it to the top, it’s to be expected, I suppose. I remember a rapper saying it was lonely at the top. Outside of all these meetings, it is. I’m living proof of that. Perhaps it’s the fact that most of my clients are multi-million-dollar corporations, and I cater my time to their every need. Yeah, that could have something to do with it.
This particular meeting is one of the more important ones – a one-on-one with Greta Wilburn, who heads up individual accounting. Individual accounting is how I started this business. The accounts only grew bigger from there, but if it wasn’t for the individual approach, DePaul & Company would’ve been nothing but a thought. I may not have consistent meetings with the other department heads, but this one with Mrs. Wilburn is a must.
As we’re wrapping up, she asks, “Oh, by the way, Mr. DePaul, how’d the interview go yesterday?”
That interview…
Quintessa flashes in my mind. I haven’t decided how I would approach her just yet to get her back in this office, but I don’t want to talk to Mrs. Wilburn about it. If I wanted her to know how the interview went, I would’ve told her in advance of the meeting. I don’t know why some people choose to test me as if they’ll get some special treatment. Mrs. Wilburn has worked here long enough to know me. She should know better.
I respond, “It went.”
“Then when is she starting? I need that position filled asap. My team is swamped, and here we are smack dab in the middle of tax season.”
Mrs. Wilburn is about as old as my mother. I feel sorry for the lady for having to still work so hard at her age, but her husband is on disability and somebody’s got to pay the mortgage. I try my best to be as gentle as possible with her, but I need things done a certain way around here. One thing always holds true – if somebody can’t do the job right, I can always find someone who can.
I glance up at her and say, “You don’t think I’m aware of that, Mrs. Wilburn? What you need to do is access your current team’s productivity. That girl with the purple hair is a borderline chain-smoker, and the African is at the café more than she’s at her desk.”
Mrs. Wilburn gasps and shakes her head.
“You disagree,” I ask, challenging her to dispute it when I’m already knowing I’m right.
“You know what…the way you speak of them—my team—is ill-suited for an office environment and a man with your position, for that matter. The girl with the purple hair—her name is Mauve. And the African, as you so eloquently put it, her name is Zahara, who’s my most productive team member, by the way.”
“Perhaps it’s all those frappés she sucks down. Whatever the case, they all—every last one of them—push the limits of the dress code. How about you remind them that they come here to work, not to express their substandard sense of fashion? If they don’t want to work or dress appropriately, they can leave.”
She looks at me like I’m speaking another language – face all wrinkled, expressing her disapproval through nonverbal communication. If the old bat wasn’t so good at her job, I’d been kicked her to the curb, but she’s been with me for so long, I wouldn’t want anyone else in that position.
She says, “I’m already short-staffed and you think I’m going to open my mouth and say something like that to my people?”
I shoot her a glare. “Your people? Need I remind you, Mrs. Wilburn, that you, and those under you, work for me?”
“I understand that, Mr. DePaul, but you’re being unreasonable. The team—”
“Stop wasting your time and mine. Go manage your team, Mrs. Wilburn. You’ll have additional help starting this week, and I don’t want to hear anything else about it.”
She glares at me, gathers her documents and her laptop, then goes on about her business.
That’s precisely what I do for the rest of the day – go about my business, which entails a working lunch and then another meeting at 2:00 p.m. When it’s closing time, and that’s 5:30 around here, I’m at my desk staring at Quintessa’s resume again like it’s a picture of her. In many ways, it is. It’s a snapshot of her life since she graduated from Florida State. In a way, it has led her right back to me. I have to get her back into this office.
Sending her an email would probably go over better than a phone call since my mouth usually gets me in trouble more than my fingers do. I draft an email to her, hit send and hope for the best.
It’s a relief to be off work.
I trudge into Gregory’s seeking a night to myself to unwind and clear my head. I’m here frequently. I’m a single man. I don’t cook and I don’t arrive home to a home-cooked meal unless I arrange one with my chef which I haven’t done in quite some time. Most days, I just prefer something like this. The place is sufficient enough for what I need.
Gregory’s is an upscale bar and grill where executives and people of note from the surrounding cities gather. I’ve seen players from the Miami Heat in here. Football players come through. Kevin Hart was here just last week. He thought it was hilarious when Billy, one of the bartenders here, told him they didn’t serve kid meals. Anyway, one burger costs a hundred bucks. Comes with fries. After the day I had, the burger I’m eating is accompanied by a side of Louis XIII cognac.
I take a sip and glance up at the group of women sitting at the opposite side of the bar. They’re all looking this way, then smile and turn away, chatting with each other. Women are here constantly – not for the food and drinks – but for the men, looking for some unsuspecting wealthy guy to show them a good time, even if it’s just for a night or two. I’m not a partaker. Never have been. I’m just here for food, but mostly for this drink.
“DePaul, how are you, my boy?” Billy says, returning my way after he’s fulfilled all the drink orders around the bar. He’s a chill guy – likes to run his mouth like bartenders usually do. I don’t mind the company.
I say, “I’m good.” I take a sip of Cognac. “I may need another one of these bad boys, though.”
“Ooh—two drinks in one night? That’s not like you. Must be a work thang.”
“Isn’t it always?” I ask, but it’s not this time. It’s a woman thang.