Chapter Twenty-One
Twenty-One
“Can I see you in my office, Chevy?” Ms.Fitch, or Ms.Bitch as I like to call her, said as she walked past my desk.
I’d just walked through the door. Okay, yeah, I was a little late. But shit, it was Friday, and so what? Do they realize how much money I generate for them?
“Okay, let me just—”
“Now,” she said as she twitched her narrow, stuck-up behind into her office.
I followed.
“Close the door,” she said as she peered at me over her wire-rimmed glasses.
She was, what, twenty-six years old? I had her by a good nine years and I had more experience in this business in my pinky finger than she did in her entire lily white body.
I mean, what the fuck, just because she graduated from Johnson and Wales, that made her an instant expert in this business? Not!
How much time did she do in the trenches before they promoted her? Six months, maybe?
Now she was my boss. I tell you, white people are magical!
“Yes?” I said as I sat down, folded my hands, and gave her my best uninterested look.
She blinked her green eyes at me, tugged at the hem of her pin-striped suit jacket, leaned back into her leather chair, and considered me for a moment.
“Yes?” I said again, using my annoyed tone and rolling my eyes for effect.
Ms.Bitch picked up some papers and looked over the black numbers that filled the columns. “It says here, Chevy, that you were ‘away’ more than twelve hours this week.”
“What?” I’d been late a few times that week, but nothing that would add up to twelve hours. Okay, I took an extra half an hour on Thursday to get a manicure and pedicure, but that was it. What was this bitch talking about?
“Your telephone,” she said and tapped the paper with her index finger.
“All of the phones are computerized. I can see how many calls you take, how long it takes you to service your client, how many calls you make, and how long you put your phone on ‘away’ during business hours.” Her eyes bored into me and her face did something.
I leaned in a bit closer. Was she sneering at me?
She never liked me. I was a better dresser than she was. Plus, I was better-looking.
“Well, Ms.Fitch,” I said brightly, “as you know, a great majority of my job involves paperwork. And so for me to do it accurately and to Thomas Cook Travel Group specifications, I need to be able to focus my attention on the job at hand, and so, yes, I put my phone on ‘away’ so that I can do what needs be to done as efficiently as possible.”
“Aha,” Miss Fitch said and then chuckled a bit. “Well, Chevy, your coworkers have the same responsibilities you do. And none of them needs twelve or more hours a week to look over a PNR, pop it into an envelope, and drop it in the mail basket. So why do you?”
She had me there.
I just shrugged my shoulders.
“On top of that, your lateness has become a real problem.”
I yawned.
“If this behavior continues, I’ll be forced to write you up, and you already have two warnings in your file. One more and you’re gone,” she said, a little too happily.
Gone?
I sat straight up. I needed this job, no matter how crappy it was.
“I’ll do my best,” I said as humbly as I could.
“I hope so, Chevy. All of these things aside, you’re a damn good travel agent.”
“Thank you.” I grinned and then asked, “Is that all?”
“Yes, Chevy,” she said without looking at me as she reached for her phone and began dialing a number.
“Have a good day, Ms.Bitch,” I muttered under my breath.
“Thank you, Chevy. You too.”