Takeover (10 page)

If I wait in here too much longer, I’ll have to make my entrance to an already-full office. I’d rather not have to do that, so I get out of the car. I walk to the building, and people are already averting their eyes at my appearance. It could be worse, I guess, but it’s still a bit disheartening to be a pariah.

I make it to the elevator without too much of a scene, but as the floors tick by, I can’t help but wonder if I need anxiety medication. The elevator finally stops on floor fourteen. It’s actually floor thirteen, but whoever originally commissioned the building was superstitious enough to ensure that the floor numbers went straight from twelve to fourteen. It’s a lot more common a thing than you might think.

I know that it’s just my nerves and anticipation, but it almost feels like the elevator doors are never going to open; and that’d be just fine by me. I still showed up, it’s not my fault the elevator got stuck and—there they go.

The doors are open, and I’m stepping out, keeping an eye open for anyone else in the office, but I seem to be the first one in. That’s lucky enough, but my perfect morning’s silence isn’t going to last very long.

I make it to my desk and nothing’s changed. I don’t know how or why, but I expected things to be different somehow with McDaniel gone. I set down my purse and small piece of carry-on luggage that I like to use for any relevant notes, letters, and most importantly, my not-so-secret bag of peanut butter cups.

There’s something in the mixture of peanut butter and chocolate that’s always been able to calm my nerves. Some people use alcohol, some people use medication, I use chocolate. All things considered, it could be a lot worse.

I turn on the computer at my desk and wait for it to load while I try to imagine what it’ll be like to work for someone other than Mr. McDaniel. Yes, Mark had kind of sort of gotten me the interview, but I like to think I’m the one that got myself the job.

A big part of me wants to believe that Mr. Waite is going to be different, that he’s going to be respectful, understanding. I’d love to think that my new boss is going to keep his running commentary about my breasts, hips and other suggestive bodily areas to himself, but I’m not ready to allow myself the risk of being disappointed like that. In my head, the man on the other side of that door, assuming he’s in, will basically be Mr. McDaniel in someone else’s skin.

I press the buzzer to get it all over with. Mr. McDaniel hated getting buzzed almost as much as he hated getting calls. If this really is Rory the Sequel, I’d like to get the morning bloodbath out of the way sooner rather than later.

“Miss Pearson,” the voice comes back.

“Good morning, Mr. Waite,” I answer the cheerful voice. “I didn’t know if you were in.”

“I like to get here early,” he says.

“I just wanted to let you know that I’m here, and I’m ready to get started whenever you are.”

There’s no response. I can hear the sound of footsteps from inside the office, and I’m bracing myself for the fallout when the door opens. “Wonderful,” Mr. Waite says with a mouthful of incredibly white teeth that aren’t bared in a grimace, but a smile. It’s one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen in this building. There’s my boss, holding the door to his office open and he’s smiling. It’s not the I’m-probably-going-to-kill-you-before-the-day’s-out smile that Mr. McDaniel always had either. This man actually seems glad to see me. “Why don’t you come on in and I’ll get you up to speed.”

He walks back into his office, and I just sit in my chair for a minute. There’s not much else that I know how to do at the moment. Finally, the thought does occur to me that he’s waiting for me to get my butt moving, so I do.

I knock. I know it sounds like a strange thing to do as Mr. Waite has already invited me in, but Mr. McDaniel would chew my head off if I ever entered his office without knocking. I think it had something to do with the time that I walked in on him and the wife of one of the partners. No, I’m not referencing that time with Mrs. Fyurek. That time, he was actually in a pretty good mood; he only invited me to join in while I tried to contain the urge to vomit.

“Come in,” the voice comes from inside the office. I open the door, and Mr. Waite seems a little confused. “Is everything okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I answer, not about to explain to him the ins and outs of my former boss’s ins and outs. “Where should we start?”

“Well,” he begins, “I wanted to run over exactly what I’m going to need from you. I know that you’re used to working for Rory, but he and I have always done things a little differently. Come,” he says, motioning to one of the chairs in front of his desk, “have a seat.”

“Okay,” I say, timid. I walk over and keep my eyes firmly on his as I sit down. I’m still waiting for that other shoe to drop. I finally sit and he’s still not yelling at me. It’s probably a sad commentary on my former boss, but I’m not used to be treated this way; you know, with respect.

“Now, I know what kind of guy Rory was. He was,” he takes a moment to figure out just the right wording, “well, he was an ass. I know it’s not kind to speak ill of the dead, but it’s the truth. There are a few things that I expect from you, and a few things that you can expect from me. Would you like something to drink? Water? Coffee, perhaps?”

“Water,” I say without even thinking. If this guy is half as nice as he seems to be, I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself. I don’t think I’ve ever worked for someone that I wasn’t absolutely terrified of. It’s going to be a bit of an adjustment.

“Water it is,” he says, smiling again. He gets up and takes the pitcher from the shelf behind his desk. He fills a glass with water and hands it to me. “What I’m going to need from you is simple. I’m going to need your input and your help on various day-to-day tasks around here, and I’m going to need you to be punctual. I’ve looked over your file, so I don’t think that we’re going to have any problems there, but I do want you to know that while I’ll most likely be in here before your shift starts, if
you’re
not here within a few minutes of your scheduled start time, we’ll have to have a bit of a talk.”

“Not a problem,” I say.

“Don’t look so scared,” he says. “I’m not going to fire you if you’re a few minutes late. I just want to impress upon you how important punctuality is.”

“I’m not scared,” I say. “I don’t think I’ve ever been late.”

“You haven’t,” he says. “That’s one of the reasons why I feel so comfortable keeping you on at a higher salary. I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

“Okay,” I respond, still every bit as nervous now as I was before he told me not to look so scared.

“The other thing that I really want to impress upon you, and I’m sure that you had a similar discussion with Mr. McDaniel—”

Here it comes.

“—is that I’m going to need you to sign a non-disclosure statement. It’s nothing too overreaching, it’s just that we deal with privileged information here, and the guys down in legal like to make sure that we’re covered.”

“Oh,” I chuckle.

“What were you expecting?” he asks with a confused smile.

“It’s just that Mr. McDaniel was—” I stop myself. It’s one thing for the man’s replacement to call my old boss an ass, but it would be highly inappropriate for me to jump on the bandwagon. “He wasn’t so—” Just finish the sentence, Rose. “I’m glad to be working for you, Mr. Waite,” I say. There. That’s enough.

He’s still smiling. “What you can expect from me is respect. I will always treat you with respect. Sometimes things need to be done very quickly around here, but I’m sure you’re used to that. I’ve found that running around like that bulbous jackass, screaming at everyone and sexually harassing our female employees is about the worst leadership style in the world. I like to employ mutual respect. If I don’t show you respect, how can I possibly expect you to respect me or this company?”

“I don’t know,” I say, my responses little more than placeholders at this point.

“Exactly,” he says, leaning forward. “I want not only you, but everyone else here at Opulence to feel valued as respected members of our team. Do you know why, Miss Pearson?”

“No?”

“Man, he must have done a number on you,” he says. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make fun of you. I’m making fun of him. I want the employees here to feel valued because they
are
valued. From the CFO to the guy who scrubs the toilets after we all leave for the day, everyone in this building serves a purpose, and without any one of our valued employees, this company wouldn’t be what it is today.”

He looks longingly out the window for a moment, and I’m really blown away by this guy. He actually seems to mean what he’s saying.

“I look out that window, and I see dozens of buildings, just like this one. The thing that makes our firm the most successful doesn’t have anything to do with how much advertising we do or how many celebrities we get to hock products. The thing that makes us different—the thing that
should
make us different is that this is a company that respects the people who work for it. You don’t get that very much these days,” he says. “It’s a real shame.”

He stands up and walks to the window.

“So many buildings,” he says. “So many buildings, and each one of them is filled to the brim with employees who hate their bosses, bosses who hate their employees and every last one of those buildings is rotting from the inside out because of it. We are
not
concrete and metal, Miss Pearson.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he says, “according to The Supreme Court, we are a person. This company is a person with rights just like anyone else. What everyone sitting in every position of power in all of those buildings out there forgets—what Rory forgot—is that with right comes responsibility. We are living in a very strange time,” Mr. Waite continues. “We live when so many people are being pushed down and faceless entities of corporate America are the ones applying the pressure. CEOs act like they’re the gods of the country and, unfortunately, they kind of are.”

“It’s not like we can really change that though,” I start, but before I move on to any examples, Mr. Waite responds.

“But we
can
,” he says. “We have to. Nobody trusts companies anymore. Well, I’m not sure that they ever did, but never before have so many been so blatant in their borderline enslavement of what’s supposed to be a free country. What I want you to know, Miss Pearson, is that as long as I am in this office, as long as that chair is mine to sit in, we are going to make some changes to the way that the world sees corporations.”

I can hardly believe that I’m actually welling up with inspiration from my boss rather than fear.

“Yes, this is a business, and it’s going to be run like a business, but what nobody else seems to understand is that running a business like a business doesn’t mean that we have to trample on anyone and everyone who’s not in the same position of power. Competition is good, but it’s not the only thing that inspires greatness. We need to start lifting each other up. Otherwise, those of us who are sitting pretty in our big offices are going to sink just as quickly as the people on the street.” He turns to look at me with what I can only describe as unbridled passion. “That’s why we have to make a difference, and we have to make it now.”

“How can I help, sir?” I ask, ready to do whatever Mr. Waite asks. Seriously, if the guy were to ask me to behead a chicken for the good of the company right now, I’d probably do it.

“First off,” he says, “I need you to take a look at this schedule I’ve devised.” The request isn’t exactly what I had in mind, but I guess he’s not going to have me lobbying for worker’s rights outside the state capitol. He turns his monitor so I can see. “Everything that I have scheduled is an absolute necessity, but I feel like I’m already spreading myself too thin. Can you take a look at it when you get some time and see if there’s any rearranging that can be done to make the thing—”

“If you were to move your meeting with Carnell & Associates next Thursday to an hour earlier, switching it with this lunch with Denecorp, you wouldn’t have to go back and forth so much. With the kind of traffic in that area, it would save you at least half an hour just in travel time. That is,” I say, pensively, “if you’d be willing to go from Carnell & Associates to the lunch without coming back here first. I don’t know,” I say, “that’s probably not quite what you had in mind.” I can’t believe I interrupted him.

“That,” he says, shaking his head and clapping his hands together, “
that
is exactly what I had in mind. I have to meet with these companies, but that doesn’t mean that I have to run myself ragged doing it, right? Do you think that you could rearrange other things in this schedule with that same thought in mind?” He takes out a pen and starts writing down what I had just told him. He looks up at me with hope in his eyes.

“Absolutely,” I say. I don’t tell him that I’d offered a similar thing to Mr. McDaniel once, only to have him call me a—what was that oh, so flattering term?—a presumptuous bitch. I might actually get to make a difference around here.

“You know something, Pearson?” he asks.

“What, sir?”

“I think the two of us are going to make some waves. What do you think?”

“I think so, sir,” I answer and stand up, invigorated for the very first time to be at work. I extend my hand. “I can’t tell you what an honor it is to be working for you, Mr. Waite.”

He smiles and his hand clasps mine. “Please,” he says, “call me Sam.”

“Thank you Sam,” I say, still shaking his hand. Damn it, I’m inspired. I give Mr. Waite—Sam’s hand a final squeeze, simply in preparation to indicate that I’m going to stop shaking his hand, but he winces. “Oh my god,” I say. “Are you all right? I am so sorry, Mr. Waite.” I quickly make my way around his desk so I can take a closer look. I don’t know why, I’m not a doctor or anything. Maybe my proximity and a good show of concern will somehow make it okay that I just injured my new boss, someone who they should put on money instead of presidents, within the first fifteen minutes working for him.