Rude Boss

Quintessa

“Excuse me, Quintessa, I was told to give this back to you,” Shanice says discreetly, lowering a ripped envelope and card on my desk – the card I gave to Essex.

Unbelievable! He had her bring it back to me. At this point, I don’t know what kind of individual I’m dealing with, but nothing is coming across as normal. His behavior is unacceptable, and I, for one, will not accept it anymore.

I’m fed up.

I’m so fed up with this man, I feel like jumping up out of this chair to go tell him about himself.

Anger is steering me in that direction. Like all the other times where I’ve bit my tongue, I cannot do it this time. I gather up the ripped envelope and the card and head toward the elevator.

Turn around, Quintessa. Turn around. It’s not worth losing your job over. You just got an apartment. How are you going to pay your bills if you barge into this man’s office? You know he ain’t wrapped tight.

I dismiss those warnings while stepping into the elevator. I press the twelfth-floor button. I know I’m too far gone when my voice of reason can’t keep me in check. I guess I’m blanking. Is that what they call it when you just don’t care anymore? When you have to say what you have to say without any regard for the consequences?

The elevator doors open to the twelfth floor. I get off and it feels like I’m walking in slow motion like the good guys do in action movies right as something explodes.

Shanice sees me, glances at my hand to see I have the card, and then she looks at my face.

She stands up and says, “Ms. Bailey, stop! You can’t go in there. You don’t want to go in there. Trust me.”

I keep on walking, ignoring her warning and the terrified look on her face like her job is on the line if I make it to Essex’s office without her stopping me. That’s what she gets for wearing six-inch stripper heels to work. She can’t catch me. Even if she could, ain’t nobody gon’ stop me from getting to his office.

Got me messed up…

I understand his mother just died. I get it. But he was like this before she died. And if you want to be this person, fine, be that person. But don’t be nice to me outside of work, then when you’re here, you act like a psychotic idiot – got everybody walking around here on pins and needles. Not today!

I pull the door to his office, immediately blinded by the all-white office. The massive L-shaped desk he’s sitting behind is white. The chairs that face his desk are white. The area rug is predominantly white with black checkerboard patterns on it. The keyboard, monitor, mouse, wet bar, bookshelves – they’re all white. I feel like I’m inside of a space capsule – fitting since I’m stuck in the twilight zone. He’s on the phone with someone on speaker and I couldn’t care less.

I say, “You have a lot of nerve! You know that!”

He looks up and sees me. His lips trim to an intolerable, harsh line. A frown instantly comes to his face. He says, “Mr. Cruz, I’ll have to call you back.”

He presses the button on the phone to end the call, then leans back in his chair, clicking a pen in his right hand. The frown gradually fades until he’s void of emotion, but from what I know about him, he’s fuming. Right now, my mind won’t let me care.

Shanice finally makes it to the office and says breathlessly, “I’m so sorry, Mr. DePaul. She walked right past me. I tried to stop her.”

“Go back to your desk, Ms. Davison. I’ll take care of it.”

“Okay,” she says and leaves like the puppet master instructed her to.

His burning eyes set heavily upon me when he says behind clenched teeth, “What right do you think you have to barge into my office?”

“What right do you have talking to me like I’m some idiot you don’t know? Let me remind you, Mr. DePaul—you’re the one who wheedled your way into my life. I’ve never asked you for anything. I didn’t ask you for this weird job, a jacket, didn’t ask you to have lunch with me, buy me furniture or help me paint. I’ve never asked you to do anything for me. I do something as simple as buying you a card, and you throw it back in my face like it’s nothing when I was genuinely concerned about you and your loss. I figured it must’ve been devastating for you to lose your mother, but since you’re right back at work and back to being a jerk, I see now I was wrong.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, so here’s what I suggest you do,” he says, standing tall, looming like a cobra, ready to strike. He flicks the pen across the room. “I suggest you go back downstairs and do…your…job before your mouth writes a check your behind can’t cash.”

“Oh, we’re throwing out suggestions now? I have one for you. I suggest you seek some mental health services because if my mother just died like three days ago, there’s no way I’d be at work. Oh, and I also suggest you learn how to talk to people before you find yourself alone, staring at expensive empty walls, wondering why life passed you by so quickly without you being able to form an emotional attachment to anyone. Aren’t you tired of being a cold, empty shell-of-a-person?”

And now he’s taking slow, intimidating steps toward me.

Crap! You’ve done it now, Quintessa.

I’m so livid, I have tears in my eyes, but they won’t fall. I won’t let them. I don’t want him to think he’s finally broken me. And I’m not wrong in this. Not wrong at all! He’s wrong, and because of who he is, no one has ever had the balls to tell him that.

He stops a foot away from me and asks, “Are you done?”

I look up at his darkened gaze and for a moment, I fly into the depths of his eyes, completely mesmerized – temporarily forgetting I hate this man. I absolutely hate him! “Yeah, I’m done,” I say and slam the card into his chest. “I’m so done!”