I’m back at work, staring out the window out at the smears of cloud that hangs over the Bay.
They say it’s going to snow tonight, but I don’t believe it. It hardly ever snows in Evergreen City. It’s funny, people that have never been to the Northwest think it gets cold or snows in western Washington during the winter, but it just kind of drizzles for four months straight. Anyway, I don’t believe it.
I don’t have a lot to do today, and since my meeting on Friday with the supervillains who run this joint demonstrated that they’re not willing to fire me I don’t really feel motivated to get busy.
Where should I go for lunch? I should pick up my tux in Midtown. I could get some shoes at Parvo’s on the way back...
My bitch Chad walks by my door.
He stops, reverses into the doorway.
“Hey,” he says. I'm not feeling the "happy to see me" vibe.
“Did we get those proofs back from the developer?”
“No, not yet,” Chad says.
“Oh, okay. Hey, you wanna do me a favor? You mind doing a Starbucks run for me?”
Chad takes a deep breath. He’s a non-confrontational, huggy postmodern beatnik type. “Yeah, I don’t think so,” he says.
Chad clears his throat. “Yeah, um, I’ve been thinking, and I don’t really think that, you know, that I should really have to do stuff like that.”
What’s this? Is my bitch acting up? “You don’t?” I ask.
“No. I was hired as an artist and designer. And I mean, I report to you, but I feel like you’ve been, you know, treating me as like a secretary. You know, making me get stuff and run errands.”
“And you don’t like that?”
“No,” Chad says.
“That’s not fun for you?”
“No,” Chad says.
I sit back in my chair. Well, at least he stuck up for himself, I gotta give him that. “Okay, Chad,” I say. “I respect people that are willing to set boundaries, and I understand how you feel.”
“Thank you,” he says. He looks relieved.
“I mean, if I was hired as an artist, I wouldn’t want to get people’s dry cleaning or pick up their car from the detailer either.”
“Okay,” he says, smiling. “Okay, thank you.”
“Chad, you’re fired.”
His face drains of color.
“Kidding!” I shout, laughing. “I’m fucking with you, Chad! Kidding! Get in here, dude.”
Chad looks confused and cautiously relieved. He slumps into the black leather Le Corbusier loveseat in my office, smiling warily. I pour him a drink of water and hand it to him. He must think I am absolutely psychotic.
“Chad, I’m really sorry,” I say, sitting down. “I’ve been a dick, and you’ve been very gracious about it. It’s been a stressful time for me, and I am a dick – so there you go.”
He laughs a little.
We talk a little bit and I apologize and kiss Chad’s ass some more and then I go on a Starbucks run and get drinks for us, to demonstrate how earnest I was. I do feel bad about the whole power trip thing. What can I say? I thought bossing Chad around was funny – and that’s wrong.
It’s not okay to make people your bitch. I see that now.