Rude Boss

Quintessa

I seriously need this.

Need it so bad, I’m trembling for it. I’ve been without it for so long, I wouldn’t know how to act if I got it. It’s been a long time coming.

A long time.

But how would it feel if I got it? Will I like it? Regret it? Crave it? Maybe I’ll grow tired of it…

I bite my lip and cross my legs, anxiety taking over my body as I stare down at the shiny red heels I chose to wear, thinking I should’ve been more conservative and gone with black flats. What was I thinking? Red may send the wrong signal. Or am I overthinking this? Yeah, I’m definitely overthinking.

I shouldn’t be this nervous, but I am. That’s what I get for waiting so long. Now, I don’t remember how to do anything. Should I be indirect or forthright with what I want? Or maybe I should play it cool. That’s it. I’ll be laid back about it. They don’t like it when women are aggressive these days, do they?

No. They don’t.

I take a breath. “Okay, Quintessa. You got this,” I tell myself. “There’s nothing to it. Just get in there and do what needs to be done.”

I have to do this. I feel like it’s my last chance, in a way. I’ve been so down and out lately. Surely this will lift my spirits because I’m seriously in a bad way. I’m the female version of the man TLC described in the song No Scrubs. I guess that’s why I can’t get no love, but hey, at least I got a car.

I glance at my watch. What’s taking so long? I’m only growing more anxious sitting in this room, lounging on a black velvet sofa on the first floor of the DePaul building. I place the folder that’s holding my resume on the table next to a stack of Essence magazines. The interview was supposed to start at 8:30. It’s now 8:52, and I got here at 8:15. What’s the point of being punctual if the interviewer won’t hold up their end of the bargain? It’s not like this is a doctor’s appointment where they put you back in a patient room and show up whenever they want – this is an interview. And at a place like DePaul & Company – with its staunch reputation for orderliness and punctuality, I would’ve expected things to run a lot more smoothly.

I release a slow breath like I’m trying to calm my nerves, but at this point, anxiety is turning into annoyance. I could’ve been done with this interview by now if I wasn’t sitting alone in a room with a retro couch. I uncross my legs, stand up and pace the room while intermittently glancing at my watch. I declined the receptionist’s offer to prepare a cup of coffee for me after she’d shown me into this room, but since it looks like I’ll be here a while, I decide to go ahead and prepare a cup for myself. I take a sip. The hot beverage is enough to relax my nerves temporarily, and so I immediately go for another sip. The door swings open and I hear a woman say, “What are you doing in here?”

It almost sounded like she yelled it.

It shook me – scared me so much, I spilled coffee on my white blouse. Pulling the fabric from my chest to avoid burning myself, I say, “The receptionist told me to wait here for the interview.”

I hurry near the sink to grab a few napkins, attempting to repair my coffee-stained blouse, but there is no repairing to it. It’s ruined. I can’t believe this!

I toss the napkins in the trash and take my resume folder from the table. It’s official. I’m a living representation for Monday mornings.

The full-figured black woman, who’s wearing a black skirt suit and high heels, swings the hair of her long, blonde wig, says, “You were supposed to be upstairs a half-hour ago.”

“What? That’s not what I was told. The receptionist told me to wait here. I got here early, and I’ve just been sitting here, wasting away, waiting to be called for an interview.”

“Yeah, well, let’s hope that’s a good enough explanation for Mr. DePaul. He doesn’t tolerate tardiness from anyone, so don’t get offended if he dismisses the interview altogether. That’s just the way it is.”

I almost choke. None of this is my fault. And why is she implying that Mr. DePaul, himself, is the person doing the interviewing? Or maybe I didn’t hear her correctly.

I say, “Just for clarification, did you say, Mr. DePaul, as in the Mr. DePaul?”

“Yep.”

“I’m not interviewing with the CEO, am I?” I ask, stepping on the elevator with her. She presses the button for the twelfth floor.

“You are.”

“I can’t be!” I say, in full panic mode. “What in the…is this standard practice around here?”

“No, it’s not, but Mr. DePaul specifically requested to interview you. Surprised me, too. He hasn’t interviewed anyone in years.”

“But, but—look at my blouse. What kind of first impression is this going to make?”

The woman grins. “Oh, please. If I were you, I’d be more concerned that I was late than with what’s on my blouse.”

We exit the elevator. I say, “But I wasn’t late. I told you that.”

I find it a struggle to keep up with her in these five-inch heels. I haven’t worn heels in years. My toes are squished together, my blouse is messed up and now, I’m supposedly late at no fault of my own. Could this morning get any worse?