4
It was 5:55 PM on Friday when Anh stopped by my desk and put on her sad, hesitant face.
Anh (pronounced ‘On’) is this adorable little Vietnamese American girl whom I’ve known since I was a sophomore in college and she was a freshman. At barely five feet in heels and a year younger than me, I feel okay calling her a ‘girl.’ She wouldn’t mind.
I envy how thin she is; I like that she’s one of the few people who makes me feel tall; and I love her for getting my sense of humor, for having been my therapist/mom through a couple of wretched breakups, and for generally putting up with me.
Plus, she lets me pay less in rent even though our bedrooms are the same size. I think she does that because, even though she got me the job, she feels bad that I wound up working for Herr Klaus.
I refer to him as ‘Herr Klaus’ because ‘the Exec Comp Nazi’ might get me fired. Yes, I know, I know, I shouldn’t go around comparing my jerk boss to actual, real-life monsters who destroyed millions upon millions of people’s lives.
But if Larry David and Jerry Seinfeld could do it with a guy who sells soup…
Anyway, that’s why ‘Herr Klaus.’ Anh resisted the nickname at first because she’s so sweet and tries to look for the best in everyone, but my continual usage of it wore her down.
“Herr Klaus snapping the whip again?” she asked.
“Yes. And not the type of whip I like, either,” I mumbled.
That was a joke, and Anh knows it. In the bedroom, I’m about as vanilla as they come. (Pun not intended on ‘come.’)
Well… I was.
But we’ll get to that, too.
She laughed, then put on the sad face again. “Do you think you might be able to come out with us to the club?”
Anh had a bunch of friends who went out clubbing on Fridays to blow off steam. I had been able to join them exactly one night in the last four months.
“No,” I sighed, “it’s one of those Friday nights.”
“Awwww,” she said, and patted my head sympathetically, sort of like you would a poodle. It’s something she started when we first roomed together in college, and it stuck. By the way, she’s the only one who can do it and live to tell the tale. “Text me when you get off. I’ll slip away, get some Haagen Daaz at the grocery store, and we’ll crack open a bottle of wine back home and watch a bad romantic comedy.”
I love my roommate. Have I mentioned that I love my roommate?
Five minutes after Anh left, Klaus came out with his briefcase.
He was a short man who managed to be both scarecrow-skinny and yet have a small pot belly going on beneath his pricey suit. Except for a perpetually sour look, he was okay looking. Between that, his money, and the authoritative presence he struck that many women would mistake for confidence, he seemed to do all right with a certain class of Los Angeles gold digger.
“I need those documents for Teramore thoroughly proofed,” he snapped.
“Okay.”
“Not like last month on the Morings report,” he added snidely.
I had missed something minor – which meant Klaus had missed something minor, too, since he was supposed to proof all the reports, but would he ever admit to a mistake on his part?
See, that was a trick question. Klaus doesn’t make mistakes. According to Klaus, anyway.
The client had joked about the mistake in a phone call.
Klaus does not like to be laughed at. Or about. Or near.
So I had been catching hell for, oh, three weeks or so.
Inwardly I seethed. You make twenty or thirty great saves, and no appreciation. You make one lousy mistake, and you hear about it for weeks.
“Okay,” I said, forcing a smile.
“I don’t have time to continually look over your shoulder,” he continued.
I had to grit my teeth.
I’ll be staying four hours late tonight, when you could have just gotten the work to me earlier instead of dithering on the changes. Meanwhile, you’ll be having drinks at the ‘hottest new restaurant in LA’ with some silicone princess. And not ONCE will you be looking over my shoulder the entire time, a*shole.
“Fine.”
“Your continued employment here is dependent on your making a better effort. I hope you understand that,” he said, checking his smartphone.
If nothing else, I have learned self-control in my six months as Klaus’s secretary. Because there are many times when I am ten seconds and one letter opener away from a 20-year prison sentence for murder.
I think I could get off on temporary insanity, though.
If I made a video recording of how he treated me, I think it might even be ruled justifiable homicide.
“Understood,” I said in as annoying and chirpy a voice as I could manage.
“And another thing – ” he started in.
Mercifully, that was when my phone rang.
“Excuse me,” I said, relieved to escape a murder rap once again, and picked it up. “Exerton Consulting, Klaus Zimmerman’s office.”
“Hey, Lily,” a familiar voice said.
Stanley, the front desk concierge/guard. One of my favorite people at Exerton. Huge black guy, looks like he could benchpress a station wagon, but sweet as a teddy bear.
“Hey, Stanley,” I answered warmly.
“Mr. Zimmerman there?”
Stanley had had plenty of joyful run-ins with my boss through the years. He’d taken to using my ‘Herr Klaus’ nickname, too, but obviously he was worried about being overheard.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, he’s standing right in front of me.”
At which point Klaus began scowling and waving his hands in a ‘no, no I’m NOT’ kind of way.
“…although he’s on his way out to a very important meeting,” I amended.
With a silicone princess named Natalia or Buffy or Chantal.
Stanley sounded a little strange as he continued to talk. I couldn’t quite peg it, but it was almost as though he were… intimidated.
Which is hard to do with a 300-pound dude who can benchpress station wagons.
“There’s, uh… there’s this gentleman here who wants to speak to him.”
“Oh… tell him I’m sorry, but Mr. Zimmerman can’t. If you put him on, though, I’ll make an appointment for him next week.”
“Uhhh… he says he’s from LMGK.”
Oh CRAP.
LMGK was one of Exerton’s major rivals, a true international behemoth with offices in over two dozen cities across the globe. There had been rumors flying for months that LMGK was going to acquire Exerton, and things I had seen in the upper echelons tended to support those rumors. Like meetings between Klaus and all the other department heads with bigwigs from LMGK.
“Uh… hold on, Stanley.” I pulled the phone from my ear and covered the mouthpiece. “There’s a man in the lobby from LMGK who wants to speak to you.”
Klaus groaned and checked his Rolex watch. His very gaudy, very expensive Rolex watch.
“Oh GOD… of course this happens to me right now… what’s his name?” he snarled.
I uncovered the mouthpiece. “What’s his name, Stan?”
“A Mr. Brooks. Mr. Connor Brooks.”
“Connor Brooks,” I said to Klaus – who put on the snottiest expression imaginable, like one of the queen bitches from the old Lindsay Lohan movie Mean Girls.
“Who?!”
I shrugged.
“Screw it, he’s not messing up my Friday night,” Klaus sneered.
Versus YOU screwing up every single one of mine, I thought angrily.
“I’m out. Take a message, schedule an appointment, whatever, but I’m out.”
With that, Klaus started for the elevators. He was out of sight in three seconds flat.
I sighed and turned back to the phone. “Put him on, would you, Stan?”
“Sure thing, Lily.”
There was the sound of the phone exchanging hands.
I don’t know what I expected. Maybe a high, nasally voice, the sort of whine that would belong to a guy who didn’t have anything better to do on a Friday night except schedule business meetings. Or a boring monotone like the guy who says, “Bueller… Bueller…” in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.
But I certainly wasn’t expecting what I got.