She's the Boss

by Lisa Lim

  “Tell me!” His voice pitched higher.

  “Well,” I said, “you know how some women have camel toes?” I coughed lightly. “Well … um … you have moose knuckles.”

  “Hey, I don’t mind them.” Pamela smothered a giggle. “Let’s face it, once you’ve seen one set of turkey giblets, you’ve likely seen them all!”

  On the far side of the room, a shy voice piped in. It was Chester, an ex-Humanities professor who had left academia years ago because he hadn’t been granted tenure. “Actually,” he said slowly, “camel toes and moose knuckles are the only reason why I go to yoga class.”

  The table went deathly quiet. There was a moment of still silence as all heads swiveled toward Chester. Meanwhile, Seymour was still twitching about in his sad, sad unitard. “See!” Seymour was practically shouting. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with Lycra!”

  I blinked in amazement. This guy was clearly oblivious to the spectacle he represented.

  “What’s so wrong if some of my lumps and bumps are present?” Seymour remained intentionally obtuse. “So what if my ‘boys’ are on display? C’mon, is this the Victorian age or something?”

  “Well,” I said in a small voice, “can’t you wear cycling shorts that don’t actually make you look like Hulk Hogan at the Ice Capades?”

  “First of all,” Seymour harrumphed loudly, “I was planning on changing after I’d checked my emails. And secondly, this suit enhances my performance. Trust me; baggy shorts don’t even come close to the performance of Lycra!”

  “Are you in the Tour de France trying to shave tenths of a second off your personal best?” I fixed Seymour with a pointed look. “What? Was that a ‘No’? Then you don’t need Lycra.”

  Hillary chimed in, “If you don’t have billboard ads all over your bodysuit, then you obviously don’t need Lycra.”

  “Uh-huh.” Jewel did a zigzag finger snap. “Do you even bike fast enough for it to make a performance difference? And let’s be real, your ten mile commute is in no way equivalent to the rigors of a race. So really, there is no excuse for wearing Lycra!”

  “You women don’t get it, do you?” Seymour hissed loudly. “It’s not just about shaving off seconds! It’s so that I’m not walking around bowlegged like a Dungeness crab all day. And it prevents chafing.”

  “Chafing?”

  “Ball burn,” was Seymour’s illuminating reply.

  In a sudden moment of clarity, we collectively said, “Oh …”

  “Look,” said Carter, taking charge of the meeting that had clearly spiraled out of control, “if you want to wear Lycra on your bike, by all means do. But please Seymour, once you come into work, go straight to the men’s room and get changed.”

  “Yes, Seymour. Please do,” I added virtuously. “And none of this: Oh, I’m just checking my emails and the next thing you know is you’re at a meeting in a full blown unitard.”

  “It’s a body suit!” Seymour shouted.

  “All right guys, you’ve made your point. I think we’re all agreed then …” Carter glanced around the room. “No Lycra. I’ll be updating the Company Dress Code and moving forward, Lycra shorts and body suits will be considered unacceptable work attire. Now before I end this meeting …” He eyed me quickly. “Karsynn, Pamela and Jewel—after you’ve changed into some proper clothes, I expect you to report back to me.”

  “Yes, sir.” Pamela and Jewel bolted out of their seats and were out the door in the blink of an eye.

  “Wait!” I called out to their retreating backs and took off running at a fast clip. “Hey,” I said, catching up to them in the hallway. “How come you’re OK with what just happened in there? Aren’t you even the slightest bit ticked off?”

  “What for?” Pamela twirled a strand of hair around her finger, staring dreamily into the distance. “I think the new director is sex personified. And I love a man in charge.”

  “Um, you mean our new dictator?” I smirked. “If you ask me, Muammar Gaddafi has just been exhumed from the dead and is now Carter Lockwood.”

  “Oh don’t be silly, Kars.” Jewel waved a dismissive hand. “I’m sure Carter is a sweetheart. I even detected a trace of Southern accent in his voice. He has that cultivated, extra-special Southern charm that no woman can resist.”

  Pamela fluffed her strawberry-blond curls. “Carter’s as cute as a bug in a rug. And he sure put a quiver in my liver.”

  Jewel was just as smitten. “He’s muy, muy, muy caliente.”

  Goodness. Carter was already wreaking havoc amongst the ladies.

  “Well isn’t that nice,” I said with a certain Southern belle charm.

  “Hulllooooo ladies!” came a familiar voice. Clutching a Marc Jacobs man purse, Truong glided down the hallway, owning it like a catwalk.

  I almost did a double take. Why was he dressed like the Chiquita Banana Lady?

  “Truong!” I gave him a cheery wave. “You’re back from Africa.”

  “Sure am.” He smiled brilliantly. “I’ve been biz-ay.”

  Truong’s boyfriend, Ayinde Akinnuoye-Agbaje, is a towering, seven-foot Kenyan with deep facial scars. He bears a striking resemblance to Seal (the singer, not the fish-eating aquatic mammal). Anyway, Ayinde had wanted Truong to meet his parents and Truong, always game for anything, dropped everything and jetted off to Africa.

  “Jambo everyone! Jambo!” Clasping his hands, Truong executed a gallant bow. “That’s ‘hello’ in Swahili.”

  I found myself bowing slightly in return. “Jambo!”

  Then he came over and gave me a rib-cracking hug. “Lovely to see you, Kars,” he said running an expert eye over me. “Nice farmer’s tan!”

  “Don’t you start already!” I laughed, hugging him back. “I’ve missed you!”

  “Truong!” Pamela thumped his rail thin back. “How was Africa?”

  “It was fabulous but I had to cut my trip short.”

  “How come?” I said in some surprise.

  “Oh the horror!” Truong gasped theatrically. “There was a sudden outbreak of elephantiasis all around Africa. And let me tell you girrrrrl, the minute my eyes clapped on this big African man, pushing a rusty wheelbarrow carrying his scrotum—this monstrous and gargantuous growth that must have weighed over a hundred pounds—I booked the first flight out of Kenya.”

  Pamela looked stricken. “You mean to tell me that elephantiasis made this poor man’s testicles a prisoner to a wheelbarrow?”

  “Yes.” Truong nodded gravely. “It was so scary.”

  I shook my head at the unimaginable horror. “Well aside from the elephantiasis, how was your trip with Ayinde?”

  “Oh Kars, it was so sexy seeing Ayinde in his element. You know, he is the Son of the Soil.”

  “So,” I ventured, “what did you do in Kenya?”

  “Oh we spent a lot of time at the Masai Mara National Reserve. We saw lions, cheetahs, leopards and rhinos roaming the Serengeti plains. We fed giraffes in Nairobi, we watched the sailing dhows in Mombasa, we climbed Mount Kenya, we went deep-sea fishing and ice-skating.” Truong sighed dreamily. “Africa was wild.”

  “Ice-skating? In Africa?” I enquired in some surprise.

  Truong adjusted his silk scarf. “Honey, enything is possible in Eeefrica.”

  “Truong.” I found myself smiling in spite of myself. “Why are you talking like a South African? You can’t just ‘catch’ an accent.”

  “Speaking of accents,” said Pamela, “I love our new director’s accent. And get this, he even speaks Italian.” She swooned, almost tripping over herself. “He is a total Renaissance man.”

  I raised my eyes to the ceiling. “Just because he used the word ‘capisce’ it does not make him an Italian linguist.”

  “Italian linguist?” Pamela pooh-poohed. “Nah! He’s more like an Italian mobster.”

  In return, I adopted a John Gotti tone and did the “mobster mumble.” In short, I talked as if I had a huge Cuban cigar dangling from the edge of my lips with smoke seep
ing out from both sides of my mouth. “You got a shylock with a beef ’cause you haven’t paid your vig? Now listen up wiseguy! Nobody messes with the most powerful Don in the city. NOBODY! You know why? ’Cause I ain’t got no problem breaking a few eggs to make an omelet. CAPISCE?”

  “Ohhhhh.” Truong’s interest was instantly piqued. “Tell me more about this Renaissance man.”

  “Renaissance man? More like Neanderthal man!” I smirked sardonically. “I mean, we all sprang from apes but clearly Carter Lockwood didn’t spring far enough!”

  “Excuse me?” came a quiet voice. A dangerously quiet voice.

  I twisted round and jumped in horror. It was Carter the Caveman. I had no idea how long he had been standing there, but from the look on his face, probably long enough. His glare was so blighting that I almost shriveled on the spot.

  I wanted to bolt for cover under my desk.

  “Um …” I trailed off, my head jerking backward and forward like a petrified turkey. “And I’m sure he’s the most intelligent primate, such as one of those simians. They’re chimpanzees!” I went on, snatching straws out of thin air, “Gorillas! You know …” I swallowed hard and spoke almost inaudibly, “since they’ve got opposable thumbs. And um, opposable toes …”

  Meanwhile, Pamela and Jewel were gazing at Carter with open mouths, putting on a full display of unbridled lust, no doubt having their own ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ moment.

  How shameless! What happened to subtlety? What happened to feminine wiles? And where was their pride? Honestly! Have a bit of dignity.

  Carter barely registered their open-mouthed reactions. He was probably used to women being reduced to imbeciles in his presence. Not to mention, he was far too busy glaring at me severely. Assessing. Judging. Challenging.

  He barked, “Humans are primates.”

  “I knew that!” I said in an unnaturally high voice. Slightly unsettled, I looked away from the Geico Man and took an inordinate amount of interest in the wilting Ficus plant next to the water cooler.

  “If I recall,” said Carter in arctic tones, “I’d sent the three of you home to change into some proper clothes.”

  “I know you did,” I said in a very small voice (barely audible, in fact), “but I thought you didn’t mean it.”

  “I meant every word of it!” he said shortly.

  Huh? How on earth did he hear me? I was practically whispering like a dolphin. I stared at Carter in astonishment. He must have supersonic hearing.

  “And,” he went on, “I would appreciate it if you’d comply with my request. Right now, all you’re doing is wasting company time and company money.”

  I shifted my gaze back to the Ficus plant and stared at it as if my life depended on it. Then I heard a high pitched squeal, followed by, “Be still my beating balls. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  My head whipped around and snapped to attention. I shot Truong a warning look but he was far too busy preening. “It’s a good thing I’m spoken for.” He smiled benignly. “Otherwise you’d be in trouble, big boy!”

  I winced slightly to myself. A permanent scowl was etched on Carter’s face but as his steely eyes slid over Truong, his entire face contorted and went through several alarming transformations.

  Today of all days, Truong was decked out in his man heels with rainbow pride. Muscular limbs and thick calves bulging out of Steve Maddens, hairy tarantula legs atop six-inch spiked stiletto heels.

  When Carter finally found his voice, he said, “Is that the trend now? Men in heels?”

  “Well I wouldn’t call it a trend,” Truong remarked lightly. “If you look back in history, it’s far from unprecedented. Men in heels were de rigueur in pre-Napoleonic France.”

  Carter reached into his manila folder, extracted a printout and thrust it at Truong. “I suggest you read this. It’s the Company Dress Code. And in my opinion, that dress you’re wearing would be considered evening wear.”

  “This?” Truong glanced down at his mauve and indigo muumuu. “This is not a dress,” he said with offended dignity. “This is a Senegalese style Dashiki. It’s traditional African garb for men.”

  Carter was looking as if he was having a lot of difficulty taking all this in. “In any case,” he said tersely, “it’s not … um, what was that word you used again?”

  “De rigueur?” Truong offered.

  “Thank you.” Carter gave a crisp nod. “Well, your choice of footwear and attire is not de rigueur and it is certainly not appropriate for the work place.”

  “Says who?” Truong flashed a fashion model pout.

  I smiled in spite of myself. Truong’s fragile looks belied his boldness.

  At this point, Pamela and Jewel had quietly slipped away.

  Carter drew to his full height. His dark eyes flashed. “Says the new director of this call center.”

  Truong’s vivacity seemed to leak out of him like a punctured bicycle tire. He stood there, speechless, staring at Carter as if he had just sprouted horns.

  Carter turned his hot gaze on me. “And you!”

  My stomach plunged. “What?”

  “Why are you still standing here, Miss Higginbotham? I suggest you go home and change, then report back to me.”

  “Miss Higginbotham?” I suppressed a snort. “Please, just call me Karsynn. And someday if you’re nice enough, you may even call me Kars.” And with that, I brushed past him before he could say another word. “And Truong, I’ll catch up with you later.” I threw him a saccharine smile before promptly removing myself.

  Chapter Two

  With a deep sense of foreboding, I took a swift left toward Gaddafi’s office and knocked on the door.

  “Enter,” bellowed the tyrant.

  An obnoxiously large poster immediately caught my eye the second I stepped into the room. It was hard to miss, practically taking up an entire wall. I stopped to give it the attention it demanded. It was one of those kitschy ‘inspirational/ motivational’ posters. But instead of skydivers holding hands mid-air, this one featured colorful hot air balloons dotting an azure blue sky. A requisite Confucius-like saying completed the ‘inspirational’ effect:

  The superior man is slow in his words and earnest in his conduct.

  Humph. Thus far, Carter had been quick with his words and frivolous with his conduct, which in my assessment just proved that he was an inferior man.

  Holding on to that thought, I said, “You wanted to see me?”

  A mask of polite detachment was fixed on my face. Naturally, I did not appreciate having to schlep all the way back to my apartment to change into something that Carter would deem ‘decent.’ To make a bold statement, I’d thrown on the most modest dress I could rummage out of my closet. I practically looked like a singing nun.

  He spoke without bothering to glance up, “Take a seat.”

  Clearly, he was not in a receptive mood.

  Unnerved, I edged farther into the room and slumped down on the leather swivel chair opposite his desk. For want of anything better to do, I studied his profile. He was in his late thirties, I judged, from the lines around his eyes. And those dark eyes were heavily fringed with long lashes. Not only were they long, they were also incredibly thick and bushy … eyelashes like a freakin’ camel.

  Eventually, I broke the silence with deliberate brusqueness. “Carter?”

  “Karsynn,” he said in a politely bored voice that seemed to intimate ‘please don’t bother me at the moment.’

  “To what do I owe the displeasure?” I said with more anger that I’d intended to reveal.

  His jaw went rigid. His steely eyes flickered toward me for a brief moment, then he resumed working on his computer in silence as if I weren’t even there.

  Just as well. I took the opportunity to survey the dictator’s new office. Aside from the cheesy poster, the room was threadbare. Not a plant in sight, no photo frames of wife and kids, mom and dad, or even a pet dog. Just stacks and stacks of folders arranged with scary precision atop the mahogany des
k. With the absence of anything interesting to look at, I studied my cuticles. When I glanced up, Carter was watching me.

  I stared at him in tense silence.

  He returned my gaze, unflinching, his dark eyes examining me with considerable attention. From the look on his face, I gathered my outfit had passed the test.

  Good.

  Then he sat back in his chair, made a pyramid of his hands and continued staring at me in silence.

  Unblinking, I stared back at him.

  He stared back. Extra hard.

  I hardened my resolve and stared back, extra, extra hard.

  He stared back even harder and held my eye firmly until I gave way and blinked. “What’s this?” I smiled disconcertedly. “A staring contest?”

  He’s going to fire me, I thought. Bracing myself for the worst, I held my breath. If there had been plants in the room, I’m fairly certain they would’ve been unable to photosynthesize for lack of CO2.

  Eventually, Carter began, “Your team’s stats are unacceptable.”

  “Oh.” I had to clear my throat twice before I could answer, “I’m working on it.”

  He leaned back in his chair and regarded me impassively. “According to this report, your team had the highest Auxiliary Time (in common call center parlance, Auxiliary Time, also known as AUX time refers to time the agents are unavailable to take calls) and the lowest Quality scores last month. And the prior month. In case it’s slipped your mind, you’re a supervisor and you need to be supervising your team. In other words,” he added tersely, “supervising is not a passive verb. It’s an active one.”

  I debated the proper approach and opted for the most straightforward. “I don’t believe in micromanaging. My agents are adults and I treat them like they’re adults. Besides, micromanaging takes away their sense of independence and when they think they’re being manipulated or controlled, then they won’t be. You of all people should know that the most effective managers impress in unobtrusive ways. And,” I added for good measure, “it is far better to be loved than feared.”

  “Feared or loved as what? As a parent? As a law enforcer? As a professional boxer? As a teacher? See?” he remarked with a complacent air. “With each role, you’d get a different answer. And as a supervisor, your agents must fear you. You must empower them to do their jobs. And if they don’t listen to you, then you treat them like kids.”