The Position (4 page)

“They’re no place for you, either, old man,” I insist. “Have you considered getting in touch with your son? He might help you.”
 

Captain shrugs, focusing his attention on picking the chicken bone clean. “Ain’t no son of mine. Just leave it be.” He falls silent for a moment, lost in thought. Then he looks over at me. “I want you to listen to me, Mickey. The world don’t owe you nuthin’. It don’t owe anybody nuthin’. The world plain out don’t care. If you let them break you, ain’t nobody steppin’ in for nuthin’ but to take your place. You be the tough girl I know. You fight for your place. And don’t never let the bastards get you down.”
 

“I won’t, bub,” I smile tenderly. I know about how his own son turned his back when Captain had some mental troubles and went into financial ruin. He knows how much darker the darkness feels when it’s close to home. Our pasts and our pains are different, but they’re both brutal. And no one understands me better than Captain.
 

“And so I ask you this one favor,” he says, holding a dirt-encrusted finger in the air. “I ain’t asked you for nuthin’ before so I hope you don’t mind.”
 

I fish a napkin from my backpack and reach over to wipe the grease from his beard. “Whatever you want, Captain.”
 

He nods and gives me an earnest look. “All I ask, darlin’, is that you go out there and knock their goddamned socks off.”

Chapter Six

I arrive at the office at exactly nine. My stomach is full of butterflies and I feel short of breath from nervousness. I tried to cobble together the most professional outfits I could from what I’ve been carrying around since high school, but it wasn’t easy. This morning I settled on a pair of black cords, a loose, flowered blouse, and my brown Hush Puppies shoes. It would be the world’s greatest understatement to say that I’m hardly a glamour queen.
 

The receptionist is already behind the desk fielding calls and primly sipping a cappuccino. When I walk through the door he looks up at me and frowns. I don’t know what to do or where to go, so I just linger in the waiting area until he’s off the phone. He speaks into his Madonna headset in a low voice and watches me walk around the room like an idiot, pretending to admire the innovative design and the ultramodern chairs.
 

“Can I help you?” he says at last, looking right at me.
 

“Yes,” I say, “It’s my first…”
 

But he shakes his head and shoos his hand at me. *Not you, stupid. I’m not talking to you.* It feels like forever before he finally clears his throat to get my attention.
 

“What do you need?” He raises his eyebrows and looks at me, but I don’t want to fall for it again. His lips are tightly pursed as he waits for a response.
 

“Are you talking to me this time?” I ask.
 

He rolls his eyes. “Well, of course I’m talking to you. What do you need?”
 

The voice in my head shouts: *You see! I told you! A homeless loser like you doesn’t belong in an uptown, globally renowned place like this! Miss Thing here confirms it.* But I ignore it. I’ve heard that stupid voice ever since moving to Boulder for college, where everyone drives a nice car and has a big dog for their big yards. It’s the home of rich people and super-rich people.
 

Unfortunately, wrangling with that inner voice tends to bring out the ornery smart aleck in me.
 

“Do you realize,” I say, stepping up to the sleek reception desk, “that it’s impossible to tell when you’re on the phone or when you’re talking to me?”
 

He stares at me and says nothing.
 

“Because I think you do realize it,” I hate myself, but I can’t stop. “In fact, I think you do it on purpose. Just to make people feel stupid. I also think you know perfectly well who I am and why I’m here.”

“Are you finished?” he says with an exasperated sigh.
 

I shrug.
 

He pushes himself to his feet as if it were a great effort, and glides around the desk with a practiced, formal flair. “I’ll show you to your office,” he says as he whisks right past me. When I turn and follow him, the toe of my foot catches on the heel of the other, something I often do when I’m nervous. I stumble but, amazingly, I don’t fall. The receptionist half turns his head.
 

“If you need some assistance getting there, please let me know,” he says drily. “We’re totally ADA compliant.”
 

Asshole.
 

He leads me into Lazarus’s office, which is empty. We cross the expansive space with its spectacular view and I follow Mr. Snippy into the adjoining small office. The walls are bare and there are no windows. There’s only a desk with a computer and a phone. I feel a vague wave of claustrophobia.
 

“This is yours,” he says. “If you want to bring in and display personal items, you have to run it by Mr. Lazarus first. He despises clutter.”

“There’s no door to the hall?” I ask quietly. “I have to walk through his office whenever I want to go to the bathroom or something?”
 

“Mr. Lazarus likes to keep track of you,” he says without looking at me. “He doesn’t like his assistant disappearing.”
 

That’s a little draconian, I think. I gaze around my sad little space. It seems strange to have this pathetic little hovel in such a beautiful, modern office. Get over it. It’s a job. A job that a lot of people would jump to get. If you want a big office, you’ll have to work your ass off for it like everybody else.
 

The receptionist turns to go without a word. I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to be doing. “When does Mr. Lazarus arrive?” I ask his backside.
 

He barely turns his head. “Why don’t you ask his assistant?” he calls over his shoulder. “She’s the one who keeps track of his calendar.”
 

Prick. “Do you have a name?” I call back, feeling all my muscles tightening and the heat rising to my head. “Or should I just call you Jerkoff?”
 

The young man freezes. For a moment he stands completely still, as if composing himself. But when he turns around his face is beet red and there’s fire in his eyes. He storms back to the little office and stands so close to me I can feel his breath on my face.
 

“You want an interesting factoid, smart ass?” he hisses. “About why you were chosen for this job even though I could do it with my eyes closed and still be better than all of his past assistants combined?”
 

I feel my guts clench but still I hold his gaze, unblinking.
 

“Mr. Lazarus is only happy working with female assistants, that’s why. But in the past, all of them have been attractive, nubile young things, which Mr. Lazarus has a hard time resisting. And why shouldn’t he? He’s Jude fucking Lazarus. He’s brilliant and worth millions. He can do what he wants. But it was agreed by all, including the firm’s board, who are less than thrilled with our mounting lawsuits, that the next assistant would be rather…unlovely, if you get my drift. Even Mr. Lazarus seems relieved that he finds absolutely nothing attractive about you. I heard him say it with my own ears.”
 

I stand swaying by the desk, stunned; blinking at him. I know I’m not Miss America or anything, but to get a job specifically because you’re a total ugmo? That’s depressing. The receptionist turns and swishes smugly away, triumphant. He’s halfway through the spacious office when he calls over his shoulder again.
 

“The name is Christian, by the way.”

Chapter Seven

It takes me twenty minutes in the bathroom to pull myself back together. I know it was my own fault for being such a bitch to the guy; and right out of the gates. Me and my big mouth. *Of course* the guy was a jerk to me when I arrived. He was hoping for my job and he probably deserved it, too.
 

I stand in front of the mirror for a long time, staring at my reflection. At that moment I look uglier than I’ve ever been. My ninth-grade glasses have never looked more horrendous—oversized and embarrassingly out of fashion. My hair, which hasn’t been cut since I was a kid, hangs in a long, straggly black ponytail that almost reaches my waist. My clothes look like something a middle-aged lady would wear to church.
 

The truth is, I just don’t pay attention to those things. It’s like this Chinese dude I met at a shelter once said, “To desire is to suffer.” He said that’s why Buddhists don’t get attached to things. It’s been my mantra ever since. But it wasn’t until now that I truly understood it, because suddenly I desire so much that I can’t have. I desire a normal life with a roof over my head. I desire a kind, supportive mom and dad who check in with me and worry all the time. And though I hate myself for admitting it, I desire—oh, how I desire—to be beautiful.
 

“Don’t let the bastards get you down,” I say to my reflection. “Don’t. Let. Them. Break. You.”
 

When I get back to my empty desk, there’s a croissant in a bag sitting on top, and it’s still warm. I open the bag and take a long whiff.
 

“I was hoping you’d like it.”
 

The voice startles me and I quickly put the bag down, embarrassed. I look up to find Jude Lazarus leaning against the doorframe, smiling at me. His hair looks runway ready and he’s clean-shaven again. He’s dressed in a black tee shirt under a dark sports coat with casual trousers. He’s even more gorgeous than I remember.
 

“Thank you. This is really nice.”
 

“Just wanted you to feel welcome on your first day.”
 

He gives the doorjamb a little pat, then turns and walks back to his desk. I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to follow him or stay where I am. I linger in the doorway and wait. When Lazarus reaches his desk he turns around.
 

“Michaela?” he says, arching his eyebrows in an *are you coming or not?* kind of way.
 

“Sorry,” I mutter and rush across the office to where he’s standing.
 

He picks up a thick folder packed with laminated pages and hands it to me. “Here is the assistant’s manual. It holds everything you need to know. I have no time to train you and no one else around here has a clue what I need. So please read the manual. Memorize it.”

He walks around his desk and sits down. “Turn on the computer in your office and you’ll find my calendar. And answer the phone.” He gives me a smile that’s half friendly, half officious. “That doesn’t sound like much to ask, does it?”

It doesn’t, actually, and yet I feel overwhelmed. Sweat trickles beneath my loose blouse and I can feel the hot blood flushing my face. *Please don’t fuck this up.* I give him my best poker face. “Not at all.”
 

“Good. I don’t expect you to know this stuff today, but I will expect it tomorrow. I only have the time for fast learners.” He nods and lowers his head to read through a cluster of papers on his desk. I feel like an idiot again, not sure if that’s my cue to go or if he’s about to tell me something else. But he doesn’t look up at me again. Finally, I turn around and head back to my office.
 

It’s a relief to be alone again. I let out a long, quiet exhalation and turn on the computer. Immediately, a calendar pops up chock-full of events and meetings. I stare at it, understanding nothing. *Marquez Blot. Historical Society. Frank Laney. Galla H, blk tie.* How the hell am I supposed to know what this means? Panic surges inside me until I remember the manual.
 

With shaky hands, I open the folder and begin to flip through the pages. I’m relieved to find it all there; every detail of what is expected, what Lazarus prefers, what he hates, and what behavior he will not abide. He expects a rundown of the events on his calendar for the day, where he’s expected to eat lunch and with whom, what the weather will be. He hates school presentations of any kind, whether high school, college, or grad school, and therefore does not consider them. He expects me to be prompt and on top of it. He hates personal phone calls or bringing outside drama into work. And he expects me to be available to him every hour of every day, if for some reason, he needs it.
 

I stare at the gleaming laminated page in disbelief. He’s got to be kidding. Available to him all the time? I wonder if this is what has caused him all the legal trouble. After all, how could a guy like Lazarus piss off so many assistants? It doesn’t make sense.
 

As if to confirm the intensity of this expectation, a chat window pops up on my computer screen. It’s from J. Lazarus and it reads: *Your cell number, please*. I look up and watch him at his desk, amused that he’d send a chat message from across the room. He doesn’t even glance my way. I dutifully reply, tapping out the digits of the precious cell phone that is my only constant connection with the civilized world—and is always on the verge of bankrupting me.
 

For the rest of the day I hit the ground running. Most calls are fielded by the receptionist; few make it all the way through to Lazarus’s office. Mercifully, the phone doesn’t ring until after I’ve read that section of the manual, so I know to take a message and compile it in a memo, which I will give him at the end of the day. The only calls I’m to put through immediately are those of his brother, someone named Mr. Marimoto, and a woman named Celestina Marquez. I read the last name with an irrational flash of jealousy. But I tell myself to get a grip. It would be against the laws of physics for this guy not to have some hot woman in his life.
 

By five o’clock I’m exhausted but almost entirely caught up to speed. Whoever put the manual together was so thorough and precise, they must’ve known Lazarus like the palm of their hand. It must’ve been hard to lose such a perfect assistant.
 

I’m just gathering my things when the phone rings. I consider letting it go through the voicemail, but I don’t want to be seen as lazy on my first day. The woman’s voice on the other end of the line is husky and confident, with an accent that sounds Spanish. She says only one word: “Lazarus.”