The Things We Do for Women

The Things We Do for Women

stories

Seth Johnson

Whitepoint Press

San Pedro, California

***

Copyright © 2013 by Seth Johnson

All rights reserved.

A Whitepoint Press First Edition 2013

Cover design by Monique Carbajal

Cover photo © iStockphoto.com/MariaPavlova

Author photo by Stephanie Johnson

Published by Whitepoint Press at Smashwords

***

For Sam

***

Contents

You’ve Got to Give a Little

The Birth

Homeward

Careful Handling

Have You Been Smoking?

The Things We Do for Women

Sally

Clean White Sheets

No One Ever Went Out There

I Just Want to Sleep

You Heard Nothing?

One for the Cat Lovers

Acknowledgments

About the Author

The Things We Do for Women

You’ve Got to Give a Little

All day I’m up and down elevators. I go to this meeting, I go to that meeting. These men gawk at me like starved dogs. I throw it in their faces—cross my legs, pick up a pen, whatever. Sometimes after a meeting has ended I’ll linger in the room. I’ll review my notes (the few I took just to throw away) and see what trivial things some man employs so he can trail behind me. He’ll review his notes, check his cell phone, whatever. That’s my life. Up and down elevators, in a meeting here, another there. It’s exhausting.

It’s 2:30, and I’m just trying to make it to the finish line. My office is on the nineteenth floor. I just met with these new faces, Bruce and Amy, from Implementation, and now I’m looking out my window at the city and across the Ohio River at Indiana. It’s depressing. Not that the view would be any better but by now we were supposed to have been moved to the thirtieth floor with the rest of the department. That talk was going on before Thanksgiving, and it’s now July. Typical.

From up here I see things most people don’t. On Main Street, traffic is stopped at a red light. Small figures of people move along the sidewalks. A train is crossing the river on that rusty bridge. The building across the street has a flat, grass rooftop on which there are two rectangular gardens of sorts, as if anything could even survive this drought. Far down the river a barge is pushing towards who knows where. It’s close to the water tower near my condo.

I sit at my desk and check my email. There’s nothing that demands immediate attention, so I check my cell phone. Joseph will call soon. It’s been almost two weeks since we spoke. Not that I’m into playing games, but he’ll cave soon. It’s only a matter of time before he comes crawling back. He must be going for a record now. In the past I had to put my other boyfriends on my blocked number list.

I’m grinning. I had old, baldheaded Bruce going. I had decided I should have some fun with him, considering I had to skip my biweekly bootcamp class at the gym. Sitting at the table, his eyeballs almost rolled out of his skull and into my cleavage, one of many places I’m definitely not lacking, and I’m no fatty.

We met in the Seiko Room. It’s a tuna can of a conference room in our Plaza Building two blocks away. The building is trash, but the walk isn’t so bad. Even on hot days I like to get outside. The Plaza used to be some sort of clock factory when Abe Lincoln or someone like that was around, so they’ve cleverly named all the conference rooms after clock companies. Nick (I call him Nicky), a manager under me, told me that when he worked in that godforsaken building, he called the Seiko Room the Psycho Room. He said before he came to Product, his leader would drill him and his teammates every morning at 9 a.m. He called those drills his 9 a.m. Inquisition Meetings, whatever that means—hilarious anyway. Nicky. God bless him. A few months ago he and his girlfriend got engaged, but I’ve seen him strut around in the company gym. I don’t do that stuff. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve sort of dated married men before, but I’ve learned it’s not fair for some to have their cake and eat it too. I didn’t get married for several reasons. For one, marriage is mostly only good for money, and I don’t want any man getting his hands on mine.

In the meeting with Bruce and Amy, I’d shift my sitting, lean forward. Bruce’s eyes followed my chest like a pendulum. Amy, on the other hand, is about my age, and I’ll say this: She never had it. She wore very little foundation and only a hint of eye makeup. Her skin was way too pale and looked sickly under her dowdy, brown hair. And God! She wore two French braids that stopped just short of her nape. French braids. I thought maybe we would begin playing Barbie then later jump some rope. How she got her job, I have no clue. I’ve interviewed dozens of people, and if a candidate ever came into my office wearing French braids, I’d immediately know the most worthless hour was underway. Amy. Poor girl. I’m not sure what she was going for, but whatever it was wasn’t working. She’s a pariah. She may think she’s hot stuff working in Implementation, but I got news for her. She could never lead a team like I do. I know words like pariah (words most people don’t know) because I was once a poet.

Out of all the students in my middle and high schools, I was the best poet. I even won third place in the county’s young author’s contest. In college, I took a few English classes, but everyone knows there’s no money in writing that stuff. I knew that if I ever wanted to write poetry, I’d just write it. I don’t need a school to show me that. But anyway, I know a lot of words others don’t. In meetings I’ll sometimes say them just to throw people off. It’s one of many ways I get my kicks. One word I use a lot in meetings is efficacious. Another is fruition. Some people know them but aren’t comfortable using them. When I put them to work, eyeballs light up and behind those dumb sockets a brain eases, knowing that everything is going to be all right. Cathy from Product is here.

The red light on my desk phone blinks, but that message can wait until tomorrow. Joseph doesn’t have my work number anyway. Besides, he’s usually booked until the late afternoon. He’s a banker—or an adjuster or an advisor or something like that. It doesn’t matter because like I said, I’m not into the marriage thing, but whatever he does keeps my VISA in my wallet when we go out, which is nice.

I look over my notes from my 10 a.m. I tear them out of the yellow legal pad, crumple them, and throw them away. I review my 12 p.m. Prospective meeting notes. Before I trash them I notice that my ladybug doodling has suffered, probably because I hadn’t yet eaten lunch. I hate it when people schedule meetings at lunchtime.

Outside my door Nicky is sitting at his cubicle with his back towards me. He’s working hard, plugging away on that keyboard. Mr. Somebody, God bless him. Some leaders close their office doors. Not me. I remember an onboarding course that gave great attention to being approachable. That’s a fine term, but I prefer accessible. Open office doors are always welcoming, and fortunately, I’ve never had to have a closed door discussion with someone under me. This is because I’m a good judge of character, and my interview process is scrupulous. But it’s not just that; I can weed out the losers solely by reviewing resumes. That adage to not judge a book by its cover is a joke. I judge and move on and always get the cream.

Baldheaded, tan-toothed Bruce and eight-year-old hipster Amy have me thinking. Going in I wasn’t sure what the meeting was about. Paula (that’s my old hag of a leader) had delegated me to attend. She probably sent an email with agenda items, but I also probably didn’t care to look. To be honest, most of whatever she does isn’t all that important. And if the company wants to cut some top-heavy salaries, it would serve them well to look into her practices. She’s been here for twenty something years, and you wouldn’t believe the damage control I’ve had to play to save her ass. I’m convinced she’s only working for insurance.

Anyway, going in I wasn’t sure what the meeting was about. Paula had told me in passing that these two were from Corporate and were going to document our process. Despite Bruce’s apparent perverseness and Amy’s horrible genetics and bad taste, they were friendly. They were friendly all right, but sitting here watching Nicky type away, I realize what is happening. I’m not stupid.

They introduced themselves. I said my name, gave them my infamous, limp-wristed handshake, and we all sat in our respective chairs. Bruce asked how long I had been with the company. I told him four years, smiled and held that smile as I turned my eyes to Amy.

Yeah? Bruce said, really excited knowing that the next half hour or more would be spent looking at me. You’ve done quite a bit in such little time.

This was my first job after I got my MBA, I said. The company has been good to me.

We’re all fortunate, Amy said then glanced at her manila folder on the table.

It was obvious that I intimidated her, but I’m not one to push people around, so in sincere declaration I told her I agreed.

Bruce continued talking and brought up my team’s auditing process. He wanted to know how we could measure our analysts’ work. Ha! I almost laughed. I’ve heard this junky verbiage spoken in every low caliber business class claiming to be the next Six Sigma. Just to nip it right there I leaned toward the glare on Bruce’s head and said, You can’t measure it. Our audits aren’t like those at the Service Center. They’re deadline driven, not case-by-case driven.

Bruce continued to ramble something, and while he spoke Amy pulled a few sheets of paper from the manila folder. She slid them across the table to me.

Bruce asked me to give them a look. Take a gander, he said like some sister-

screwing hillbilly. Can you verify that this is accurate?

It was my team’s process. I’ve seen a million of these stupid flowcharts, and this one in particular should’ve been very familiar because I wrote it a few years ago, but at that moment it wasn’t completely memorable. I went over the pages slowly, as if I cared. If YES, go to BOX C. If NO, return to START. I hate these things, but I kept at it, trying not to think about tonight’s plans, what I would tell Joseph when he called. And I thought maybe I shouldn’t call him Joseph. He never seemed to take to it.

Those process flowcharts bore me. I almost couldn’t fake it. And sitting there in the Psycho Room, I was becoming stir-crazy. But I gave it another three or so minutes and slid the flowcharts back to Amy and told them that it looked about right, simply because I didn’t intend to touch that crap again. Associates like Bruce and Amy constantly want to categorize and simplify. They like to scroll and click their little mouses and insert some four-word statement in a triangle that’s supposed to capture an analyst’s work functions and expectations. Sure, those charts are great if the State decides to audit us. At least we’ll have some documentation, but what they don’t document is the human element. And that’s why I’m such a good boss. That’s why I was such a good poet. I understand people. Bruce probably only has his bachelor’s degree. And poor Amy, who just wants to make it in this world, is simply plain and super jealous of me. Bruce wasn’t the only one looking at my cleavage. And when I came into that conference room, she got a good look at my skirt and heels that click and clack throughout these buildings, demanding attention. If she has a graduate degree, it’s most likely from some online joke of a program that emphasizes process flowcharts.

Other than a few more dumb questions from Amy and Bruce, little else happened. The meeting was brief, almost too brief, and I thought time management was especially an issue with these two when they insisted we have a few follow-up meetings to include IT. When I knew we were wrapping things up, I asked them what the deal was, what all of this was about.

In a rehearsed delivery, Bruce said, This is an annual efficiency check to ensure the company’s documentations are up-to-date. We’re also trying to locate areas for opportunity.

Those sly