The Job (13 page)

“Here
are your entrees!” our waiter, who must be the sneakiest tray jockey in the
business, announces.

We
both say thanks and he goes on his way.

“All
right,” she says, finally picking up a utensil, “let’s say that I would like to
have more free time, and that I do realize that means I’m either going to have
to give my people the keys to the store—”

“Seriously,
what
is
that?” I ask. “I’ve been
around a lot of controlling people—worked for a lot of them, too—but I have
never known someone who was so insecure about their business that they wouldn’t
let at least one manager have the keys to the store.”

“Yeah,
whatever,” she says. “What am I supposed to do, though? This is the only way I
know how to do it.”

“It’ll
take a bit of time to work that out of your system, and you’re such a—let’s
call it a ‘special case’ that your need to control will likely just take form
in some other area of your life, but what I would suggest is that you start out
by taking your most talented employee aside and make them assistant store
manager,” I tell her.

“That’s
quite a promotion,” she scoffs. “I don’t even have…” she starts, but stops
talking and nervously forks her food.

“You
don’t even have what?” I ask.

“Nothing,”
she says. “Don’t worry about it. So, where are you from?”

“Here,”
I tell her. “I think you were about to tell me that you don’t have
any
managers. That can’t be true, can
it?”

“Well,
I’m always there when the place is open, so—”

“Good
lord!” I exclaim. “Jessica, you’ve got to let your employees move up and take
some more responsibility, or are you really so conceited that you don’t think
anyone might know one thing a little better than you do?”

“What
about you?” she asks. “I don’t see you with any—well, I guess you wouldn’t call
them managers, but you know what I mean.”

“José’s
my number two,” I tell her. “It’s reflected in his responsibility and his pay.
Under him, I’ve got Alec, though I think I might have pulled the trigger on
that one a little early. Yeah, I like the guy, but he’s pretty damn lazy a lot
of the time. I can’t be everywhere, and the guys on my team each have different
strengths, different areas of expertise. When I come across a situation that
I’m not quite sure how to tackle, I’m comfortable asking the advice of one of
my employees who has more experience with that given thing, or may have some
insight that I’m lacking.”

“Well,
it sounds like you lucked out,” she says. “I wish I had people in my store that
would be willing to—”

“Ivanna
knows shoes a lot better than you do. She’d be perfect as manager of that
section,” I tell her. “Linda is probably half the reason you’ve got as many
customers as you
do
have, because she
has a way about her that people really respond to. Cheryl seems like she knows
everything there is to know about dresses, skirts, pants and blouses. She might
be a great choice for assistant manager, or at least a floor manager. The rest
of your staff, I haven’t really gotten to know so well, but they’ve all got
their strengths, but the wine is dying on the vine. You’ve got to trust your
people or they’ll never trust you.”

“You
don’t think they trust me?” she asks.

“I
don’t know,” I tell her. “I think most of them like you because you’re a pretty
likeable person, you know, when you’re not being all neurotic and controlling.”

She’s
still forking her food, but I have yet to see her eat anything.

“How
do you know so much about my staff?” she asks.

“I’ve
spent almost two months around them,” I answer. “I don’t have as much face time
with them as I’m sure you do, but when you’re even casually around people, you
can come to know their strengths pretty quickly.”

A
smirk crosses her face. “I think you just don’t like the idea of an ambitious
woman,” she says. “I think you’re so used to your world of testosterone and
power tools that the thought of a woman who not only owns her own business, but
runs it, is a threat to you.”

“That’s
because you don’t know me,” I tell her, shoveling a forkful of food in my
mouth. “I actually find your ambition to be one of your most attractive
qualities.”

It’s
super fucking attractive. I somehow always end up with chicks that don’t have
much ambition at all though.

“You
find me attractive?” she asks. “Just like a man: the only compliment you people
can give is when it has something to do with the idea of screwing the woman
you’re giving it to.”

Duh.
She must know she’s a goddamned bombshell.

“Now,
there’s an unfortunate assortment of words,” I laugh. “No, what I’m saying is
that I love people who are driven. It doesn’t matter, man or woman, I think the
quality itself is attractive. Trust me, if I was hitting on you, you’d know
it.”

“Oh
would I?” she asks. “You’re that smooth, are you?”

“Quite
the opposite,” I tell her. “I have a particular clumsy charm, but it’s hardly
something that I’d call smooth. It’s more like how that kid with the thick
glasses and the lisp endears himself to you when he gets his tongue stuck on
the flagpole in winter.”

She
smiles and, as she realizes that I not only explained, but demonstrated my
point, her face goes a little red.

“Well,
you do seem like the clumsy type to me,” she says.

“Not
with everything,” I tell her and look her in the eyes until her face reddens
even more and she looks away.

“Now
you’re hitting on me,” she says.

“Yep,”
I answer quickly and sit back in my chair. “I told you that you’d know it when
it happened.” I take another bite of my
omelette
and
add, “I think it’s great that you’re so driven, so focused. I just think it’s a
shame that you don’t trust yourself or your staff enough to have a life outside
of work. You should take up a hobby,” I tell her.

“Yeah?”
she chortles. “Like what?”

“I
don’t know,” I start, then, just to see how far I can push this without letting
her know that I’m the guy in her inbox, I add, “
maybe
you should take up painting.”

Her
eyes narrow a bit and I know what she’s thinking, but I know that I’m safe. The
reason I know that is because, based on our interactions, she can’t begin to
conceive of me as the guy writing those texts to her. She sees me as the
aggravating contractor who screwed one of her biggest contracts.

She’s
not wrong, but that’s not the whole story, either.

“Why
painting?” she asks.

“I
don’t know,” I shrug. “If painting’s not your thing, why not try music or
antiquing? I hear philately’s pretty fun, though I can’t imagine why. Hell,
start smoking pot. From what I hear, homemade bong crafting is quite the art.”

She
laughs her first sincere laugh, I think, since I met her and it’s disarming to
see even this small a glimpse of a softer side to her.

“Maybe
you’re right,” she says and finally relaxes enough take a bite of something.

“I
usually am,” I smile.

“You’re
kind of arrogant, you know that?” she asks, but at least she’s smiling at me.

Chapter
Nine

Learning
to Breathe

Jessica

“Mom,
it’s not that simple,” I groan.

“I’d
say it’s simple enough,” she says over her blueberry pie. “You’ve managed to
make some money, and I bet if you sold that store and the merchandise that came
with it, you’d have a nice little nest egg.”

“I’m
not selling the store,” I tell her.

“Why
not, dear?” she asks. “Are you having money trouble? Harold, grab my
pocketbook, will you?”

“I’m
fine on money,” I tell her. “But I’m not just doing what I’m doing to get
enough money to get me by until I die. I actually believe in what I’m doing.”

“Oh,”
she says, “I didn’t know you viewed selling clothes as some sort of personal
crusade.”

I
rub my temples. “Women’s clothing stores usually fit into two categories,” I
start, “either they’re geared toward bigger women or they’re geared toward
smaller women. My store is a place where any woman can come in, find something
that not only looks good, but makes her feel good, and—”

“Target
has clothes for big and small women,” my mom says.

“That’s
different,” I tell her. “They’re not
just
a clothing store. They can afford to expand their clientele a little bit. There
are more crossovers like mine than there used to be, but we’re still in the
distant minority. A lot of the places that do offer more sizes tend to stop
with single or double XL or the plus sizes they do have are just terrible. I’m
not just selling clothes. What I’m trying to do is to tell women, big or small,
tall or short, rich or poor, that they’re already beautiful, that they’re
already good enough to feel good about themselves.”

“Oh,
surely you can’t think that every woman is already good enough,” my mom says,
and I’m starting to wish that I didn’t bother coming over to visit tonight.

“What
did the doctor say?” I ask in order to avoid yelling at my mother all the
things I’ve wanted to yell at her since I was a teenager.

“Oh,
doctors don’t know anything,” she says.

“He
said that they’re going to go in and remove the tumor,” my dad says. “There
shouldn’t be any need for amputation.”

“That’s
good,” I say. “When are they going to do that?”

My
mom shrugs, but my dad answers, “They’ve scheduled surgery for next Tuesday.”

“They
said it’s not progressed to the point where they need to get right in there and
take care of it right this minute, can you believe that?” my mom asks.

“That’s
good, though,” I tell her. “It sounds like they’re confident.”

“Oh,
all doctors are confident,” my mom says. “So, when are you moving back home?”

“About
that,” I start. “I really don’t think it’s going to be in anyone’s best
interest for me to just move home. I’d have a huge commute every day, and I
wouldn’t want you and Dad to think that this isn’t your house anymore. Why
don’t you just let me pay the—”

“It’s
not about the money,” my mom interrupts.

“What
do you mean?” I ask. “I thought you were getting behind on mortgage payments.”

“We
just think that the city’s not the right place for you,” she says. “You’ve
always been such an innocent child,” read that as ignorant, “and I don’t think
you’re ready for that kind of world.”

“Mom,
I’ve lived in the city for years now. I think I’m good to go,” I answer.

“It’s
not just about that,” my mom adds. “How are you ever going to find a good
husband in that unrepentant Sodom?”

“New
York really isn’t all that bad,” I tell her. “Besides, I hardly think my
situation would be improved by moving back to a place where someone new moving
to town is a community event. I’d worry about inbreeding.”

“Now,
Jessica…” my dad starts. It’s a sentence that he’s never finished.

“I
know you’re having fun with your little rebellion or whatever this is, but it’s
time to come home where we can take care of you.”

My
phone beeps.

“What
was that?” my mom asks.

“I
just got a message,” I tell her. “Can you give me a minute? I just want to make
sure it’s not something to do with the store.”

As
I get up from the table, my mom leans toward my dad and, loudly enough that
she’s sure I hear it, she says, “I bet it’s one of those gigolos from the
city.”

The
bright side about having such a backward, judgmental mother is that she’s often
the source of some really great comedy, though she apparently has no idea why
I’m laughing.

I
walk out the back and sit on the porch swing as I check the message.

It
reads, “Haven’t talked to you today. How’s it going?”

I
write back, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear from you. I’m here with my
mom, and it is just horrendous.”

Through
the kitchen window, I can hear my mom and dad talking. Dad’s on my side, for
now at least, but my mom just keeps on repeating, “It can’t be too long before
they chew her up and spit her out. She does the best with what god gave her,
but do you really think she’s ready to handle that kind of life?”

My
phone beeps and the discussion inside stops.

I
read the message. It says, “I’m sorry to hear that. What’s going on?”

I
write back, “Just the usual.” After sending the message, it occurs to me that
he has no way of knowing what “the usual” is, so I enter another message,
saying, “She has it in her head that I’m still four years old and couldn’t
possibly make it in the real world. Any advice?”

“She’s
just not built to stand on her own two feet,” I can hear my mom telling my dad.
“She needs someone to look after her and point her in the right direction.
Otherwise, who knows what’s going to happen?”