just
as much as I need you, so let's try to keep those powwows to a
minimum, okay?" He flashed me the most patronizing smile imaginable,
revealing thirty-seven years' worth of splotchy, stained
teeth, and I thought I'd vomit if he didn't stop immediately. Ever
since watching Girls Just Want to Have Fun for the first time when
I was twelve, I've never been able to get Lynne Stone's rumination
out of my mind. She's escorting Janey home after Janey skips choir
practice to rehearse with Jeff (and of course gets caught by the
evil, rotating-closet-owning bitch, Natalie), and she says, "Whenever
I'm in a room with a guy, no matter who it is—a date, my
dentist, anybody—I think, 'If we were the last two people on earth,
would I puke if he kissed me?'" Well, thanks to Lynne, I can't help
wondering it, either; the unfortunate outcome, though, is that I envisioned
myself kissing Aaron and felt ill.
"Okay? How does that sound?" He shifted nervously from foot to
foot and I wondered how this anxious, socially inept man had managed
to climb at least three levels above me in the corporate hierarchy.
I'd watched clients physically recoil when he went to shake
their hands, and yet he glided up the ladder like it was lubricated in
the very oil he used to slick back his few remaining strands of hair.
All I wanted was for him to disappear, but I made a crucial
miscalculation. Rather than just agreeing and going back to my
lunch, I said, "Are you unhappy with my performance, Aaron? I try
really hard, but you always seem displeased."
"I wouldn't say I'm unhappy with your performance, Bette. I
think you're doing, well, um, just fine around here. But we all seek
to self-improve now, don't we? As Winston Churchill once said—"
"Just fine? That's like describing someone as 'interesting' or saying
a date was 'nice.' I work eighty-hour weeks, Aaron. I give my
entire life to UBS." It was useless to try to highlight my dedication
in an hours-worked formula since Aaron beat me by at least fifteen
hours every single week, but it was true: I worked damn hard
when I wasn't shopping online, talking to Will on the phone, or
sneaking out to meet Penelope for lunch.
"Bette, don't be so sensitive. With a little more willingness to
learn and perhaps a bit more attention paid to your clients, I think
you've got the potential to get promoted. Just keep the powwows
to a minimum and really throw your heart into your work and the
results will be immeasurable."
I watched the spittle form on his thin lips as he mouthed his favorite
phrase, and something inside me snapped. There was no
angel on one shoulder or devil on the other, no mental list of pros
and cons or quick scans of potential consequences, ramifications,
or backup plans. No solid thoughts of any sort whatsoever—just an
all-pervasive sense of calm and determination, coupled with a
deep understanding that I simply could not tolerate one additional
second of the present situation.
"All right, Aaron. No more powwows for me—ever. I quit."
He looked confused for a minute before he realized I was completely
serious. "You what?"
"Please consider this my two weeks' notice," I said with a confidence
that was beginning to waver slightly.
Appearing to consider this for a minute, he wiped his sweaty
brow and furrowed it a few times. "That won't be necessary," he
said quietly.
It was my turn to be confused. "I appreciate it, Aaron, but I
really do have to leave."
"I meant that the two weeks won't be necessary. We shouldn't
have much trouble finding someone, Bette. There are loads of
qualified people out there who actually want to work here, if you
can imagine that. Please discuss the details of your departure with
HR and have your things packed by the end of the day. And good
luck with whatever you'll be doing next." He forced a tight smile
and walked away, seeming self-assured for the first time in the five
years I'd worked for him.
Thoughts
Learning to Kill: Stories