Rude Boss

Quintessa

The first night in my new place was a success. After all the work I did yesterday, I slept like a baby, then woke up refreshed. I went to Bed, Bath & Beyond specifically to purchase a shower curtain. I found a pretty one with big sunflowers on it – something to brighten my day when I drag myself out of bed in the mornings. I bought some plush, yellow bath rugs to match.

I swung by Lowe’s to pick up the turquoise paint for my living room and while I’m there, I get some light blue and dark blue samples, just to see how they would look. After a quick lunch, I’m ready to get to work. Ella said she’d be here by three. It’s a little after two. I haven’t heard from her so far today.

I lay down some plastic to protect the beige carpet and add sample brush strokes of light and dark blue. Then I try my first choice – the turquoise. It’s perfect. I’m no interior decorator, but in my head, I can already envision what the room will look like – the curtains, the sofa, couches, area rug…I see it all. It’ll be a paradise when I’m done. I need that kind of space to decompress.

My phone rings. It better not be Ella calling me saying she can’t make it. I carefully lower my paintbrush and walk over to the kitchen counter where my phone rests. Whoever it was hung up before I could reach it. I pick up the phone and see a missed text message from Ella:

Ella: sorry…have to do something with my sister. I can be there around 6

I text her back:

Quintessa: okay, but don’t stress. If you can’t make it, don’t worry about it.

Ella: thanks, Quin

I check other notifications on my phone. I had assumed the caller who was quick to hang up before was Ella but turns out, it wasn’t. The Dictator shows in my call log. You already know who that is and yes, that is how I saved his number in my phone.

Why did he call me? He didn’t leave a message. Should I call him back? No. Maybe he called me by mistake. How would I look calling him back if he called me accidentally? Like I’m just sitting over here waiting for people to talk to and don’t have anything else to do with my time?

So, I don’t bother. I take a water break and look at the five strokes of turquoise paint I put on the wall. Slow progress is better than no progress. I take pride in doing things on my own, but painting has to be one of the most frustrating activities I’ve ever done. It’s so messy. I already got speckles of paint on my hands – probably got some in my hair, too. Now, I’m rethinking my whole decorating strategy. I should’ve just left the wall white, but it’s too late now.

I go back, dip my brush and give it another go. My arms already hurt. Feels like I’m lifting ten-pound weights. At this rate, it’ll take at least two weeks for me to paint one wall.

Lazily, I take another break by sitting on the floor, eating Cheetos. It’s times like this – times when I’m alone – that I overthink my life choices. What would’ve happened if I’d gotten married earlier, or taken a different job after college? Where would I be? Would my life be better than it is now? Would I be starting over like this? Would I be staring at a messed-up wall and eating Cheetos I don’t even like?

A knock at the door takes me out of my thoughts. I hop up, open it and there’s a Hispanic guy there, dressed in navy blue khakis with a matching color shirt.

Opening the door, I say, “Hi. Can I help you?”

“Yes, I have a furniture delivery.”

“Um, no. You must be on the wrong floor. I didn’t order any furniture.”

“This is the address, ma’am,” he says, looking down at a clipboard. “Are you Quintessa Bailey?”

“Yes, but I—”

“Then I have a living room set and a kitchenette to deliver.”

“But I’m trying to tell you I didn’t order this.”

The guy studies the paperwork again and says, “The order was placed by Essex DePaul.”

My stomach bottoms out. Now, I know why he called. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The guy leans close, holds the clipboard out in front of me and says, “Here it is right here.” He points to Essex’s name.

“Hold on for a minute, please.” I motion to close the door.

He says, “Miss, we can’t take this back to the warehouse. If we don’t drop this off today, we’re both getting pink slips. That was the boss’s orders.”

“And Essex is your boss?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

My head splinters. This is maddening. I ask, “And just how many furniture deliveries do you usually make in a day because I didn’t think Essex was in the furniture business?”