Good Pet

It doesn’t matter that my body size is at least twice, maybe three times that of Ms. Vanacore, I feel small and helpless in front of her. I feel young. Powerless. Like I’m her son caught in some illicit affair, and I’m just now catching hell for it.

“I know about the culture around here at Mckenzie Tech, son.” She clears her throat and gives me a cold stare. “I know it’s not uncommon for men in powerful positions to get involved with their secretaries, aids, or whatever, but if you’re going to work for me, I’m not going to have any of that. I’m not going to have you have a questionable relationship or association with one of the receptionists.”

Out of the corner of my eye, my head still hung, I take a glance at Melissa’s table. She’s not looking in my direction anymore. Instead, she is on her smartphone. I can’t tell what she’s doing, but whatever it is, it’s not enjoyable. Her brow is too furrowed, and her mouth is too sour to be anything pleasant. On top of that, her fingers are typing madly on the screen, dancing and stabbing at the glass like some demonic ballet dancer.

“It gives off the wrong impression, Tommy,” Vanacore says, oblivious to my wandering eye. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned by being in this business for over thirty years, it’s that an image can cost you more to lose than it did to make. If you want to get anywhere, if you want to advance in any way, you have to carefully craft your image and your persona, and that means carefully choosing with whom you spend or don’t spend your time.”

She pauses, murmuring thanks for some drinks that are brought to us. For me, it’s a straight glass of rum. For my boss, it’s a legal moonshine. Yes, legal, label-produced moonshine. It’s from some small distillery down south somewhere, but apparently, they’ve taken a literal back-woods tradition and turned it into a legitimate business.

Raising my head, I take a sip of my rum. I swill it around in the glass out of nerves, and for the cool, adult aura gives me. I take another sip. “I understand, Ms. Vanacore, ma’am,” I say.

Ms. Vanacore takes a sip of her clear liquid moonshine, sucks it through her teeth, swallows it, and sighs contentedly — like she’s been “dry” for most of her life, and she’s just broken her personal prohibition on this brand of alcohol.

“I’m glad you understand, Tommy. It’s not that I’m trying to be unfair or judgmental, son.” She gives me that motherly look. That sober, “I’m sorry, but I have to do this for your own good” kind of look, that’s full of warmth and harshness. “I’m just looking out for your best interest. Someone as driven as you can’t afford to have rumors and wrong ideas floating around about you or your work ethic, standards, and morals.” What she says next, I’ve already predicted. “You’re not one of these big CEOs, son. You can’t just deflect these kinds of things, and have any and all reputation trouble suddenly fixed. If you’re going to be working with me, people are going to be watching you, and you better hope they like what they see.” She pauses, taking another sip of her moonshine. I take another sip of my rum, allowing the liquid to burn through me. “And people might not take kindly or correctly to what you may or may not be doing or saying with a secretary. Especially when you’re coming across that chummy.”

I feel Melissa react to this. I don’t need to see it. I feel her hackles go up, as well as mine. While I can hear that Ms. Vanacore is trying to be prim and proper in her words, the perfect guide, I hear an undercurrent of jealousy. It’s underneath what I had previously identified as disgust, but even so, I can’t do much with that observation. I can’t do anything about her words, either. Out of jealousy or not, goodwill or not, she’s right.

Seeing my sober, thoughtful posture, Ms. Vanacore says, “I’m glad to see you’re taking this seriously, Tommy. I’m glad to see how much thought you’ve given to my words.”

Baskets and platters of spicy, breaded, meaty, and fried food float in. Everything from spicy fried pickles, to gumbo, to crawfish fried and grilled, along with corn potatoes, carrots, all of that and more gets set down between our words.

“I was right to choose you for this position,” Vanacore continues after the waitress is gone. “Only a mature young man such as yourself would be able to take such criticism and advice from me, without running to HR and complaining that I’ve violated your ‘safe space’ or some bullshit like that.” She laughs heartily at her own observation, but to me, it’s no laughing matter. “This generation has gone way too soft if you ask me. Most of you need to go back in the oven for a little while if you know what I mean.”