Friday comes and I'm the first one to reach out. I have a meeting with an ad campaign I can squeeze into my schedule, but I'm not sure what time going to the movie theater would work for White. When I shoot him a text and ask what timeframe would be good for me, he simply responds with a thumbs up emoji.
I stare.
I stare harder.
I spin in my chair and resist the urge to strangle the man on the other end.
We can do 7:45 PM and go see Drive-By Mailman? It's about a postman turned gangster. If that works please update me and I'll reserve seating at SHRIMP CINEMA. It's two blocks away from PEARL LOUNGE, so I assume the trip isn't too far. We could drive or walk, I don't mind either. If you'd like to be driven please let me know and I'll clean my car before we go.
In response? Thumbs up emoji.
I glare.
I glare harder.
I spin in my chair and tug on my hair.
So you would like to be picked up? I text.
No answer.
A minute goes by.
Two, then three, then ten.
"Fucking bastard! Just respond normally!"
I call him up, my secret strategy for difficult people like this.
"Hey," he answers on the first ring.
I pause. If you've had your phone on you, why aren't you answering?! "About our plans…?" I start, my tone shaky from nerves now rather than anger.
"Yeah? What's up?"
"If we're walking or driving… I need to know so I can schedule my day accordingly." Why did I word it like that?!
"I'll pick you up at 7:40 and we'll drive, don't worry about it," he responds in an even manner.
"Uh–. Well, it's a 20 minute drive there–."
"Yeah and the first 15 minutes of a movie are always ads," he laughs.
"But, parking and buying the tickets… and it's a Friday night so it's going to be more busy," I counter, becoming increasingly agitated.
"Listen babe, it'll be fine. Meet me out front at 7:40. Ciao, mwah." Click.
I pull the phone away from me as if it was personally the source of my troubles. I stare at it, perplexed and disgusted. Then, I slam it against the fucking desk.
I don't even know what kind of car he drives! 7:40?! He's insane! We're going to miss part of the intro at best in this situation. Do I just skip out on waiting for him and meet him at the theater? That's it, that's what I'll do.
"Miss Vinny!"
I'm in the lobby, greeting one of Papa's private investors, when the head technician catches sight of me. I wince. There's never a conversation between us that isn't simply him confiding his workplace grievances to me.
"Dixon! So good to see you," I widen my already forced smile. "I was just giving a tour of our offices to the gracious Mrs. Foulweather here. Did you know she's a huge fan of the concert stages your department makes? Especially, what was it? The stage set on 38th Street?" I turn to look at the tired, haggardly granny beside me. She's an anglerfish that has certainly seen better days. If the two get along, I'll pawn her off on him so I can get other work done.
"Mrs. Foulweather! It's so nice to meet you," Dixon puts his best PR face forward, kissing the elderly woman's hand and causing her to audibly swoon.
"Oh, my! You're the man that makes all those fireworks happen?" the old woman gasps. "I've seen a lot of fireworks, you know. But I said, when I saw the New Years concert happening last year– I swear to you I said to my husband: Those are people who know how to put on a show!" She's loud and excitable, causing a few others in the lobby to glance at our group curiously.
"That's Dixon! And his team, of course," I laugh. "I've actually got to run an errand for Papa real quick, so maybe Dixon– Well, if you two would like, maybe Dixon could show you around? Show you where the magic happens?" I beam. I don't need to ask or beg here. Dixon, like every other competent employee here, is eager to please.
"Well, if a lady is requesting my aid, it wouldn't be very gentlemanly of me to refuse, would it?" He winks to Mrs. Foulweather.
She giggles and the two are off. Despite my prior complaints about Dixon, he truly is a good worker. He's kind, likeable, innocent. He's in tune with popular culture and able to make the most difficult of new employees feel safe under him. It helps that he's a shrimp, with cozy orange hair and antennas most girls find quite cute and men find unintimidating. He's truly a perfect puzzle piece, slotted in nicely to the technical department. Playing therapist every so often isn't a bad trade off in exchange.
Speaking of therapy, I'm off to the recording studio to deliver a stern talking to. What was once Papa's job has become my own in recent months: Telling people to get their act together. I'm up the elevator and in the music department, then weaving through the maze that is the heavily cushioned walls and mess of equipment I can't identify littering the halls. When I get to Studio Room 12, I peek into the window and attempt to spot today's victim.
There they are. The office lovebirds.
My face burns a fierce red as I witness something I shouldn't.