The Perfect Teresa

CHAPTER 1

By The Way, You're An Ugly Crier

I caress your hair and think, Sweet Quetzalcoatl, you’re an ugly crier.

But it’s okay. It happens, right? Sometimes, you just have to let it all out. Hell, even we get our buzz crushed by the pathetic nature of the human race sometimes. With your puny lifespans, it’s no surprise it gets this overwhelming sometimes, huh?

It’ll be okay, I whisper to you.

You don’t believe me. You barely even believe I’m there. You close your eyes, squeezing more tears from them.

The primitive machine next to us beeps in rhythm. Beep. Beep. Beep. It says you’re doing better. You sure don’t look it. You’re pale and withered. You’re sprawled on the hospital bed, not even trying to be dignified about it. Your brown hair is drenched and sticking to your skin, which has a really unhealthy, icky sheen to it.

Girl, you are a hot mess. Anyone ever tell you you’re an ugly crier?

Your belly is flat now, too. What was it, eight months?

How can it be okay? you finally whimper.

It will be, I say. I know you won’t remember this. There’s no harm, I suppose. I promise I’ll keep an eye on you.

Did you let this happen?

Of course not, doofus, I said. It’s just the way of things.

You start to sob again. Crap. I actually feel sorry for you. I don’t know why at first. You’re just a case file. A sorry sap field case that’s just another part of the application process. But your tears make me feel something.

No, don’t get too excited. It’s not like I care.

You’re still a human, and therefore a dummy by default.

Was it my fault? you ask, your voice fading away. The machine next to you beeps slower.

Don’t be a dummy, I said, caressing your hair again. "You would have been a good mother, too. Sometimes, these things just happen. Like natural disasters, or onions going bad. Well, natural disasters are more your fault than not, but hey, I’m not pointing fingers."

My baby, you whimper. My baby…

Shhh, shhh…it’ll be okay. I promise.

I hear a voice outside. I figured she’d be here sooner than later. She’s that kind of a friend to you despite your many failings. I’m glad you got her, at least. Your favorite co-dummy.

I have to go, I say. But I’ll be around. When you’re ready, I’ll be there.

Ready? you say barely above a whisper.

Yeah, you’re not pathetic enough yet. Hard to believe, but you’ve got a ways to go before hitting bottom. Until then, hang in there.

Okay, you say with perfect receptiveness. I love it when you humans are drugged up like this.

And Teresa?

Yeah?

I look around, as if the big Q would somehow materialize behind me and catch me in the act. Well, it wasn’t like I was breaking a rule. Not that big a rule, anyway.

"There’s still time. You don’t need to hit bottom. You just need to wake up a little and smell the coffee. You like coffee, don’t you?"

Yes, you say.

Good. Then just wake up a bit. And try not to be such a selfish jerk all the time.

Okay, you say as if I’d asked you to turn off the lights before going to bed. But why are you leaving now?

I step back just as the door opens. It’s your co-dummy friend, Rebecca.

She’s already crying as she leans down and kisses your sweaty forehead. Eew…

How are you feeling, honey? she says.

The talking coyote just left, you say. He says I need to smell coffee.

Did it? she smiles and wipes away her tears. Is that who you were talking to?

Yeah, and he was wearing Hello Kitty scrubs.

You pass out.

I sigh and float away. Rebecca will take care of you as she always does. You’ll always remember it.

But you’ll forget me. Which works just fine.

You’re a long shot, girl. Sweet Quetzalcoatl, I’ve got better odds on the Cleveland Browns winning the Super Bowl this millennium. But, hey, if I can help you, I get into the Trickster Department. So it’s a win-win. Let’s do this, girl.

But, uh, hurry up on being pathetic, please. My unemployment benefits run out in two decades.

CHAPTER 2

Inflammatory cuddling

Eight years later

I’d lost track of time, lost in my sanctioned embrace. The slow, deliberate, and somewhat teasing whiffs of warm breath against my ear felt less sanctioned, but I didn’t mind.

It felt good to cuddle up against…uh…what’s his name?

Teresa, he whispered into my ear.

Yeah? I said. His name, his name…what the hell was his name again?

This feels nice, he sighed, blowing more soft air into my ear.

It does, I said. Michael? No, that was last week’s cuddler.

I felt him wrap his arms tighter around me. Hmm, bold move. It felt good. Despite his wiry frame, curly blond hair, and the fact that he just wasn’t my type, it did feel good being in his arms.

You feel right, he whispered.

Cool, thanks, I said. Maybe Joseph? No…now I’m just making things up and…

Huh, there it went. That way-too-hard-(no pun intended)-not-to-notice lump of enhanced cuddling growing in his pants. Shit.

His hands began massaging my back. His incidental contact against the straps of my bra as he tightened his loving grip? I’m guessing that wasn’t so incidental. Neither did our hostess.

Terry? she said.

Terry! Yes, Terry! Thank you, hostess, whatever your name was. My next guess was going to be Steven.

Sorry, Terry said to the hostess. My bad.

All around us, the other eight cuddle couples stopped their less inflammatory cuddle sessions to gawk at us two troublemakers.

This is a safe space for cuddling, the hostess said. We can’t have any hanky panky or it would violate the sanctity of our safe space. Do you understand?

Sorry, Terry said again.

Yeah, sorry, I said. Not trying to ruin your zen of cuddling. Or is it the tao of cuddling? Wait, is it the ying-yang of cuddling? Whatever, we’re not trying to mess it up.

The cuddle party hostess was cuddling with a man who looked like he was either homeless, or loved shopping at Whole Foods and Urban Outfitters. She frowned at me.

This is also a judgement-free cuddle zone, she said. And I hear a lot of judgment and sarcasm in your comment.

Oh, no, no sarcasm at all, I said, intending to sound non-sarcastic but sounding more like I’d just turned 16 and discovered perfect fluency in it. I just couldn’t remember which quasi-Asian motif you’d used to describe the sanctimony of the cuddle.

The other couples had stopped cuddling. Everyone in the apartment was staring at us. The hostess ignored the homeless Whole Foods shopper as he caressed her cheek with his long, Civil War-era beard. She was staring straight at me, and her look was less than zen.

I looked at Terry. Hmmm, yeah, still not my type. But oh well…

Wanna bail and get sushi? I asked him.

•••

Two hours later, I was still in his arms. He was still breathing in my right ear, though now it was technically snoring. There was no hostess cuddling with a bedraggled hipster guy to chaperon us.

And there were no clothes. Well, there were. In my closets and drawers. And scattered on my floor. Just not on us, strictly speaking.

I untangled myself from under the guy’s limp arm. I reached for my phone on my dresser and looked at the time. Past three in the morning and I was wide awake.

Jerry didn’t wake up as I got up, put on my flannel PJs, and went out into my living room where the supposed central heating of my apartment tended to center the most. Even right next to the vent, it still felt like it was 75 degrees. Below zero.

Twenty minutes later, I was nodding along to the music on my ear buds. The Sparks were thanking god it wasn’t Christmas, and all things considered—the frosted car windshields outside, the naked guy in my bed, that whole trying hard to sin thing—it really was the perfect song. Don’t you be judgmental now, Mr. Mael.

Speaking of judgmental, there was a naked guy in my bedroom.

Well, I could get rid of him in the morning. That was the easy part.

But first thing’s first.

I pulled up my e-mail on my phone.

I began writing a message.

I’m sorry. It’s me, not you. I’m not ready. Please forgive me. I wish you all the best.

Love…no, not love. That would send the wrong message. Let’s go with…sincerely. That works. Sincerely, Teresa.

And just like that, I broke up with my boyfriend, two days shy of our eight-month anniversary.

•••

An hour later, I finally drifted off to sleep on my sofa, my phone’s music player on endless loop, playing Thank God It’s Not Christmas over and over again, helping me glide into that fuzzy pre-sleep stage where I often dreamed of random things like work, my old high school, and tasty cabbage recipes that seemed genius.

I dreamed I was onstage, playing the song’s mean guitar solo before verse three.

A crowd of mostly teenagers sat in silent awe at my skills as I joined Russell Mael in the next chorus, thanking my gods that it wasn’t Christmas. At least it wouldn’t be for another three weeks. More than enough time for Elliot to get over the unexpected breakup. And more than enough time for me to stop feeling bad about it.

The teenagers in that rickety, musty auditorium seemed to be really big Sparks fans, strangely enough. Though, seriously, why were they all wearing Iron Maiden t-shirts? And why were they all eating sauerkraut out of taco bowls? Oh well, it didn’t matter. I was killing it on guitar. And now Russell was serenading me before handing me the microphone and nudging me to finish the song.

I began to sing, catching glimpses of some of the audience. In the front row, a chubby African-American child in blue overalls and a red turtleneck was smiling and offering me a box of crayons. Next to her, a female face I couldn’t remember looked on blankly, a noose around her neck.

I smiled at them both. The chubby girl tossed her box of crayons to me.

I caught them in mid-solo, and when I looked back at her, she’d morphed into a giant teenager who looked decidedly less smiley.

In fact, she was running toward me, and her massive fists were raised and ready to pound the snot out of me.

•••

Three hours later, I awoke.

The first thing I saw was the snow outside my second-story window. Okay, now things looked like December proper. An inch of snow covered the streets of my neighborhood, camouflaging the many lumps of leftover dog poop that would now become little secret poop landmines.

The first thing I heard was a tune in my head, lingering from whatever crazy dream I’d had.

I jumped off my sofa and ran into my bedroom. I nearly startled when I saw the naked guy…what was his name again?…in my bed. Shit, shit, shit…

No time to worry about the unexpected nakedness! Time’s a wasting and my short-term memory wasn’t what it used to be. I quickly grabbed my guitar and ran back out into the living room, paying no mind to the sound of rustling bedsheets behind me.

I flipped open my laptop and quickly plugged in my guitar. I launched GarageBand and muttered to my computer to hurry up before the tune vanished from memory. I tried humming it, but now it sounded different than my dream. Damn it! Hurry up, you stupid little spinning ball of loading hell before I…

There! The new file loaded. I hit Record and began playing the few notes I remembered.

I kept playing it in a loop, trying to get the rest of the song to resurface. The most I got was what sounded like a chorus. After five minutes of playing the same five chords over and over again, I figured it was all I’d get.

Still, it was a start. I could work with it and maybe write another song. Listening to it on replay, it definitely had a Sparks vibe to it, mixed in with some Popguns and maybe a little Eternal Summers.

I unplugged my headphones, turned around, and nearly screamed.

There was a grinning, naked guy in my living room.

Shit! I said. "Sorry! I forgot you were here. Um…um…Jerry?"

Terry, he said. And holy shit, Teresa! You didn’t tell me you played guitar. Man, you look badass! What is that, a Fender? And what was that you were playing?

Um, nothing, I said, my fingers beginning to seep nervous, unhelpful sweat on my brand new strings.

He looked at my laptop and said, You’re a songwriter?

According to GarageBand, which thankfully numbered all my untitled projects because I was always too lazy to actually name them, said this was Untitled Project 44.

Not really, I said, looking down at my floors, then toward my kitchen, and then toward the front door.

That’s awesome! Hey, can I listen to some of it? I’ll make you some coffee and I can hear some of your stuff!

I took a deep breath.

Uh, Barry? Look, it’s not you, it’s me. But I kind of need you to leave now.

CHAPTER 3

TEE TIME

I think my ancestors said something about all things coming in fours. I guess they were right.

In a single morning, I’d already had four cups of coffee, ignored the same caller four times, deleted four e-mails from my freshly-minted ex-boyfriend, and told myself four times that I wasn’t being a selfish jerk.

At least Larry, Harry, or whatever his name was had finally stopped texting me two days after I kicked him out (only partially clothed) of my apartment. So there was that minor victory. Crappy one-night stand, no stalker to show for it. Yay!

All in all, I was in a great emotional space as I prepared to give the most important presentation of what we will laughingly refer to as my career.

You ready, Teresa?

The extra caffeine in my system made me jump in my cubicle when my co-worker Jaime asked me that for the…yep, fourth time this morning.

He was worried. It was easy to tell even without the incessant questioning about my own mental state. Mr. King of the Office Fantasy Football League and star third-string quarterback of the office’s flag football team was usually the walking stereotype of the sports dude who spoke short, gruff, and dumb. At least until he had football statistics to share. Then he was the office chatterbox. TD passes this. INTs that. YAC this. Pick-6 that. And he wondered why I tuned him out the moment he dropped an acronym.

But when his voice softened like it was now, it was a surefire sign he was worried. Usually I’d hear it on Monday mornings when he’d anguish over the fact that he had one player left but was down 31 points. I usually assumed that was bad and let him be.

For the fourth time that morning, I said, Yes, Jaime. I’m fine. Stop worrying.

I’m not worrying, he lied, his voice becoming almost feminine in its gentle lotion softness. "But we’re meeting in less than 10 minutes, and you’re still making changes to the powerpoint."

It was only partially true. I’d finished the presentation deck a week ago. Since then, I’d edited it about 402 more times. When I opened it that morning to print out, I saw some bullet points that were bothersome to me and decided to deal with them. Huh, I guess it’s probably why he was soiling himself in his cubicle.

This comma here, I asked, knowing it would send him over the edge, should it be a semi-colon?

What does it matter, Teresa? Let’s go!

Go on ahead, I said. I need to print some copies out.

You were supposed to do that an hour ago!

Now his voice was getting a little shrieky. Wow, he really was worried.

I got it, Jaime, I said. Just get Victor warmed up. Make sure he’s gotten his fantasy football lineup set at least. It’ll distract him.

Are you kidding me? he said. If he sits Brady, there’s still a chance I can pull off the win this week! It’s the last thing I want him to bring up!

And again, I will pretend like I know what that means.

Just hurry up! he said. I’m not in the mood for another lecture on starting these meetings on time.

And with good reason. The last time we were 10 minutes late, Victor lectured for 15 minutes about why punctuality was important to keep meetings on schedule. This notwithstanding the several meetings that started late on account of his fantasy footballing in his office.

Jaime scampered off, and I was glad. I had enough on my mind without him throwing a hissy fit about printouts.

I bit my lip as I added extra spaces to my bullet points.

Two days removed from dumping Elliot, and I was still feeling numb. I hadn’t even worked up the courage to tell anyone. Not Jaime. Not even…

My phone rang. Fifth time.

It was Rebecca again. Damn it. I had to pick up. The last time I’d ignored five of her calls straight, she’d called 911.

Hey, Whorebag, I picked up, what’s up?

Bitchface, she said, are you dying or are you avoiding me?

Which would put you more at ease?

The dying.

Then my vision is starting to get blurry, I said. And this ditch I’m in is cold and dark and full of hungry rats that are already gnawing at me, and I’m starting to see some kind of light at the end of this tunnel thing. Huh, I think my life is going to start flashing before my eyes in a few seconds. This should be interesting.

You’re such an ass, Teresa, she said. But, seriously, are you avoiding me?

No! But I’ve got a presentation in, like, five minutes, and I still need to get things to print.

Oh right! she said. "I know you have your brown belt test later, but I forgot about your big presentation. The one you’re betting your entire promotion on, right?"

"Your sarcasm completely ignores the fact that saving this company $1.2 million has got to be worth that promotion Victor’s been promising me for three years."

"Magic word: Victor. Second magic word: promising. Usually those two don’t go well together, Bitchface."

True, true, I said. But a girl can be hopeful. Especially after she single-handedly saves the company 1.2 million bucks.

She sighed. Teresa, as much as I’d love to temper your expectations, I have to ask you something.

She didn’t need to. I already knew. I started to feel like a jerk again. For the fifth time that morning. Well, at least I’m being symmetrical.

The Assembly Line Music Festival is this weekend, she said. And they’re still looking for bands to fill in some time slots.

I thought it was full.

It was, she said. But that festival in Michigan broke the record last week. Just over 400 hours straight. So now the Assembly Line’s trying to book new acts to get up to 420.

You realize that a week later, someone in Nevada will play for 430 hours. What’s the point in getting all the shittiest bands you can find just to put together a concert that never ends?

My band’s not shitty! she gasped. She lowered her voice. At least, not if it got a little bit of help.

I closed my eyes and held my breath. Please don’t ask. Please don’t ask. Please don’t ask…

Can we play some of your songs? she asked.

Oh…that?

What’s wrong with your John and Mary covers? I asked. You’re more folk pop than my songs, anyway.

"We’re doing some John and Mary, a little 10,000 Maniacs. But Meredith and I really love your Egg demo."

My Egg demo. It wasn’t even a demo. Just a set of randomly titled songs with the first word to come to mind—an egg—slapped on as the folder title and sent her way via Dropbox.

I appreciate you saying that, but they’re not even ready yet, I said. I mean, ‘Cucumber’ doesn’t even have a chorus yet.

But ‘Celery’ and ‘Cilantro’ are fun to play.

They were fun to play. And in my mind, the imaginary crowds in my old high school auditorium always went wild when I played Cilantro. I bet they’d also go wild for Basil.

I don’t know, Rebecca, I said. I mean, what time slot are you getting, anyway?

Four in the morning on Saturday. That’s not too bad.

"It’s not bad, it’s terrible! And I bet the rest of the bands at that hour are going to be terrible. Gods, are they just taking any band at this point?"

It’s not the point, she sounded a little defensive. It’s just a chance to do something fun. It’s not like I’ve got other plans that day. What about you and Elliot? Maybe you guys can come out and support us?

Um, yeah, I hesitated. Hey look, I’m running late here, Whorebag. Can I call you later?

Hey look, just one more thing!

"I really have to send these things to print."

I really want you to be onstage with us.

I sat silent for I don’t know how long. Probably long enough for Jaime to have an aneurism in the conference room, or at very least literally start shitting himself.

Teresa? Rebecca said.

Yeah, geeeeeeez…you know, I think Elliot and I have plans that night.

You’re lying, she said. "You only say geeeeeeeeez when you’re lying your ass off. The longer the geeeeez, the more whopper of a lie."

"Look, I think we have plans."

"Still lying. You emphasize think like that when you’re trying to convince me you’re not lying."

Damn it, Becca! You know how I feel about this!

I know, honey, she softened her voice. "But Bitchface…you play with us all the time. You know our set list. You’re so talented. And your voice…"

You are infinitely more talented than me, I said. You and Meredith can do this.

We’re not the White Stripes, girl. I need you on guitar so I can go on bass.

My inbox calendar said I was already three minutes late. Becca, I have to run.

You’re blowing me off! she said. Teresa, don’t leave me hanging!

I’ll think about it, I lied.

That’s a lie, too! I know!

I’m late! I’m gunning for a promotion here, Whorebag!

Then you’re buying me something expensive, Bitchface! And good luck on your test! Don’t kill anyone!

I hung up. And for the sixth time that morning, I felt like a total jerk.

•••

I’m sorry I’m late, I panted as I ran into the conference room where Jaime was already giving me the stink eye. He usually reserved it for opponents who, he said, somehow got five touchdowns from a no-name waiver wire pickup while his guys Rodgers, Peterson, and Brown all laid eggs. Again, I assumed this was all bad.

Next to him was Alicia, who on her best days is something of an office chum and on her worst days the worst of frenemies. Two months ago, I heard her in the kitchen talking crap about my new Mary Jane heels. One month after that, she was crying to Jaime about what a great person I was and how impeccable my tastes were. Go figure.

Next to her was Mike from IT, who had more personality than your average socially awkward IT guy, though that’s not saying much because he also thinks modem cables are an appropriate conversation topic for office parties. Three months ago, we heard he had a crush on someone in Accounting. We all figured it was Vanessa, who always showed off just enough cleavage to tease the guys in our office, but not nearly enough to incite the wrath of HR. Then we found out Mike’s crush was on me. We discovered this when he kept coming to my desk, reminding me that we can’t listen to Pandora on the company’s bandwidth, and that, hey, those are some really cute shoes you’re wearing today, they match your eyes.

Jaime, Alicia, Mike, and I were a team. More or less. More less, probably, because we hardly socialized outside of work. But today, it was us against the world.

The world, at least for now, consisted of only one person: our boss, Victor Theodore Morris.

The world sucked, by the way. In fact, I think it was fair to say that the four of us hated the world. If there was one world we could wipe out with plague or Bravo TV marathons, it would be this world.

Victor was starting things off on the right foot: he was glued to his iPhone, apparently tinkering with his fantasy football lineup.

You’re going down, Jaime, he said. Tom Brady’s lighting it up tonight.

I keep telling you, Jaime said, he’s gimpy and probably won’t last the game. Better plug in that rookie 7th rounder instead.

Yeah right, he snickered. Son, unless the Patriots go to the ground game tonight, you’re royally fucked.

With Victor, banter always sounded a little more ominous than standard banter. His hyper-competitive nature was almost as soul-crushing as his micromanaging. Seriously, the guy stormed out of the office when IT Mike beat his score on an Angry Birds level.

All right, Victor said to his phone. He put it down and clapped his hands. So you guys called this meeting. What’ve you got?

Teresa here, IT Mike said with a little too much pep and admiration in his voice, "put together some great ideas about the auditing process. She’s been awesome, Vic."

Okay, Victor said. What is it?

I cleared my throat. As you know, we’ve been auditing our accounts payables for the past three years.

Four, Jaime held up that many fingers. Four years.

Right. Four years. And in four years, we’ve been doing the same thing over and over again. We pore over client accounts, cross-reference our invoicing system, go through each line item one at a time, and summarize our findings. Usually, it takes us, what, three months, Alicia?

Four, she also held up that many fingers.

Right. So, I said, passing out copies of my unstapled, freshly-printed deck, we got together and did a little brainstorming.

When Victor got his copy, he lazily started flipping through it.

In a nutshell, I said, we found a way to streamline the audit process by engaging IT and creating a separate dashboard item that monitors account overages the moment they happen.

Okay? Victor still didn’t seem interested. He kept thumbing through the presentation like it was an animation flip book.

Right, I said. So that money we saved when I found that billing discrepancy in the Onus account?

Uh-huh?

What if I told you that it wasn’t an anomaly, but something systemic? That there are more accounts like that? More missing money?

Yeah? he kept flipping through my presentation. I guess there was a dancing squirrel on it that I’d missed.

Yeah, I hesitated, looking to Jaime for support. When he didn’t immediately get it, I mouthed the words, Say something, asshole!

What Teresa’s saying, he cleared his throat, is that she’s discovered a flaw in our invoicing system. It turns out that the double-billing we thought we were doing for some of our major accounts? The invoicing system was actually zeroing them out. So when we went in to fix it, we were actually putting ourselves in the red.

We’re robbing Peter to pay Paul, Alicia said. Teresa found the flaw in May. By July, we started correcting the issue. So far, we’ve saved $1.2 million.

Uh-huh, Victor stopped on one slide and studied it. At last.

She came to us, too, Mike said, throwing me a smile that just seemed to try too hard. Asked us to look more closely at the invoicing software. Which, I gotta tell you, Victor, to be using a system that’s still stuck in the 90s? I’m surprised worse things haven’t happened to us.

Uh-huh, Victor said.

Teresa here, he pointed at me, suggested we change the dashboards to flag billing discrepancies like these before they’re processed by Billing. Part of it was also creating an app to cross-reference invoicing, billing, and outgoing payables and generate instant reports. It took us two months, but we’re in the beta stages now and it’s looking good so far.

Using that application, I said, we’re able to cut the audit process to, what, four weeks, Jaime?

Two, he held up two fingers and grinned.

Two weeks. A process that normally took us four months will now be done in two weeks. That’s a lot of staff time saved, Victor. And that’s not even counting the money we’ve saved by fixing the original invoicing glitch.

Well that, and we’d be preserving our sanity. Each year’s audits were usually clusterfucks that drove most of us into therapy.

Victor pointed to something in the presentation. Without looking at me, he said, This comma. Should it be a semi-colon?

Jaime clenched the pen in his hand really, really hard. Alicia, loyal frenemy that she was, gave me the WTF look and crossed her arms. Mike just sighed and gave me a tight, grandfatherly, keep-your-chin-up smile.

For my part, I chose to just stare at Victor, hoping to sear laser beams out of my eyes and melt his head into a big, globby mess gooing all over his spinal cord. Not that I considered myself a violent person. At least not with anyone else except Victor. Then, I was arguably violent because I often envisioned scenarios involving his head being severed in different, exciting ways.

This is great stuff, guys, he said, still looking down at the presentation and making zero eye contact with any of us. And I appreciate your energy around this. Tee, great job!

I already felt my heart sinking into my stomach. I knew Victor too well after years of hearing him talk about energy.

I think it’s great you’re thinking proactively, he continued. I want you to first draw up a timeline for implementation. Then I want you to set up a meeting with the heads of every department to run your ideas by them and gain feedback.

It was Victor’s tried-and-true approach to squashing initiative: asking us to halt everything and set up meetings with everyone in the company so that people without a single clue about accounting could weigh in on accounting matters. I mean, I love the mail department, but the last time they joined one of our meetings, we spent 45 minutes explaining accounting. Not the department, but the practice itself.

I cleared my throat. Um, Victor? We’ve been running the numbers for months. They’re pretty solid. What do you think we have to gain from getting other departments’ insights?

We can’t roll something like this out without first getting everyone’s buy-in, he said.

Marketing doesn’t ask us to weigh in on their stuff, Alicia muttered. HR doesn’t ask us to chime in on employee recognition.

Delaying these changes, Jaime added, is just going to mean we keep losing money. We’re ready to go, Victor. Mike’s team is almost done, and we can have the new auditing software installed by the start of January.

Guys, Victor chuckled, I appreciate your passion and energy about this. But you need to slow down and make sure to leverage this opportunity to gain maximum insights from other departments so that we roll out a product that’s top-notch.

It’s already top-notch thanks to Teresa, Mike said.

And I appreciate your proactivity, Victor said. But I need you guys to stay focused on getting the process started for next year’s audit.

We have, I said. "This was our new process."

And it’s great, Tee! I just need you to set up those meetings with other department leaders so that you can socialize this in time for full deployment the following year.

"Following year? As in, not this coming year, but the following year?"

Yes!

I didn’t say anything. No one else did either.

Great, Victor clapped his hands again. Jaime, as part of the auditing process, I want you to head up the invoicing analysis process beginning by major accounts and working your way down.

Jaime, having played the same exact role for the past four years, muttered, Yeah.

Alicia, I want you to work with Billing to make sure their databases are up to date.

Sure, she said, crossing her arms again.

The rest of you, I want you to go through last year’s audits to begin the process of compiling your benchmarks.

Every year it was the same process. Every year, we played the same role. For his part, Victor played the role of the micromanaging manager who merely barked out instructions but offered no new insights into anything other than his fantasy football prowess.

I want to review everything, he said, so make sure to CC me on all audit e-mails.

Hey Victor, Jaime raised his hand. Can I say something?

Sure thing, Jay! What’s up?

We’ve been doing the audits for the past…I don’t know…three years?

Four, I held up that many fingers.

"Yeah. And each year, we keep finding new problems with the process. Why again don’t you want to implement the fix we’re proposing?"

Victor smiled and held up a hand. Guys, I appreciate you offering up these great ideas. But for now, let’s stick to the original plan.

But the old plan is costing the company money, Alicia said, You were the one who said we needed to find ways of trimming the budget.

I did, he said, but it’s important that we move deliberately and let other people weigh in before jumping in.

We’ve spent the past six months working on this proposal, I said. It’s not something we’re just jumping into.

Guys, I appreciate your energy around this. But right now, let’s take this as a learning opportunity on how we can work together as a team.

We all rolled our eyes. Here it came.

It’s important that we all learn to play in the sandbox…

Every time he said that, I envisioned all of us as five-year-olds making sand castles in some sorry little sandbox…and Victor, the only adult, coming over and kicking them apart.

…and figure out how to leverage the energy in this room…

I often wondered if he talked like this to his girlfriend.

…to maximize the opportunity for greatest impact.

And now I envisioned a meteor smashing through the atmosphere and splattering us so thoroughly, there’d be no need for an autopsy.

They were all smushed by a giant, improbably localized meteor, so we can’t tell if those brain aneurisms they all had at the same time were pre- or post-impact. The manager survived, though, and he’s asked us to set up a meeting with the heads of other departments to discuss the causes of death and leverage this moment for maximum visibility.

Death by smushing. Totally would have been more fun.

•••

I was never one to rock the boat. I did my job, saw all the inefficiencies and mismanagements, and shut up about it because I learned in year one of my employment that no one really cared.

This time, though, I wanted to rock the boat. At least enough to give my boss a little sea sickness since I couldn’t just make him fall off the boat altogether and drown. Because I’m not violent.

Victor’s fishbowl office offered the perfect glimpse into how my boss spent most of his day. Surely, it was professional correspondence he was managing on his smartphone. Surely the fantasy football pages open on his browser were screen savers.

I knocked on the door. It took him several seconds to respond with a curt wave of his hand. I walked in.

I waited for him to make eye contact. Ugh, this guy made it so easy to dislike him. I mean, he wasn’t a bad looking guy. Take away the job title and his utter disregard for employee morale, and he might actually be attractive. But no. His short, neatly trimmed black hair with the spiked front, his narrow, youngish, entitled face, and the white shirts and 50 shades of red ties he wore gave him a douchebag vibe. He even lived in Doucheville proper (Chicagoans call it Lincoln Park). Despite being a Chicagoan, he spoke with a weird Brooklyn accent, which made no sense. I mean, if you’re going to fake an accent, why not go for something other than Brooklyn?

Ten seconds after waiting for him to look up from his smartphone, I gave up.

Victor, I wanted to ask you about something.

Yeah, what is it? he said, his brow furrowing as he tapped madly on his smartphone. Shit, who to start?

What?

Tonight’s game is huge, Tee. I lose, and I’m out of the playoffs. That bastard Jaime’s right. Brady’s hurt and they might go to the running game. And their starting RB is on Jaime’s team. All he needs is two touchdowns and he can win this thing. Buuuuut, he saw something that made him grin. Guy’s still on Jaime’s bench.

Okay? I said, wishing people would stop talking to me about fantasy football like I understood or cared about it.

I can pick up the backup RB, slot him in, hoping he steals a touchdown. Maybe two. It’s all run-by-committee anyway. But what if he’s thinking the same thing? Damn, he’s got a couple of players he could easily drop. Shit, Tee, what to do?

Uh…I’m not entirely sure. I don’t know fantasy football. Or football. Or fantasy, for that matter. More of a sci-fi fan myself.

"I need Jaime to keep his guy on the bench, or at least not pick up the backup. He picked up the phone. Hey Jaime? I want to talk to you about the audit timeline. Think you and I can run by it now? Yes…I know it’s almost six, but I want us to get ahead of it. And…yes, maybe we work a little late, but you can come in late tomorrow. It’s important that we start this off right. So come into my office in about 10 minutes? Thanks!"

He hung up and looked up at me for the first time. You’re friends with Jaime, right?

Kind of.

He grinned. Keep my secret and I’ll give you a cut of the winnings if I win the championship.

So you’re keeping him late on purpose?

Gotta make sure he can’t make changes to his lineup before kickoff.

What about his phone?

He grinned. I plan on having a long meeting to stall him for 30 minutes so the rosters are locked.

Isn’t that kind of…dirty?

All’s fair in love and fantasy football, he smiled. He almost looked like he was smiling, but with him, you just could never tell. Promise not to say anything to him?

This would only be my latest in a pile of dirt I already had on my boss. If I ever wanted to blackmail him…

He clapped once. So, what can I do for you?

I cleared my throat, figuring there was no sense in asking him not to call me Tee for the