I HATE MY BOSS!
Because Jan… fucking Jan, who apparently suffers from some kind of number-crunching neurosis, is now bombarding me with so many calculations, statistics, reports and analyses that I wonder if he even has anything left to delegate to other employees.
Not only that, but he has started taking me to customer meetings, which has resulted in going on field trips with him during normal business hours and tons of paperwork I have to catch up on after hours.
Because of him, I practically don’t see my friends at all, I don’t have time to finish my wing chair, not to mention watching some random series on Netflix in the evening over wine with Karol.
My poor Karol. Now, like never before, I should be spending more time with him because the good softie has been sitting alone at home nonstop for a month, using up his unused vacation.
And that’s because the day after we met for an ill-fated blowjob, he got fired.
And it was because of me. It turned out that someone saw us enter the storeroom, tipped off security, who then checked the monitoring and authorizations, and forwarded the case to the head of the marketing and sales department.
The next day, Karol was fired. And it’s a good thing that they terminated his employment contract by mutual agreement because no matter how you look at it, he broke the rules and our company’s board is very strict about compliance.
People are pigs, after all. Who was bothered by the fact that we went into the damn storeroom?
After all, I’m an employee of the company, not some Joe Shmoe off the street.
Nothing was lost, we were only there for fifteen minutes…
Lucky for me, no one got on my case. I didn’t even get a warning.
I guess they figured that if a person who was authorized got canned, it would be enough of a warning to the rest of the employees.
I glance out the window of the office building.
The setting sun reflects off the windows of the neighboring building.
I eagerly pack my cell phone and sandwich container into my bag.
How wonderful that it’s still light outside, and after leaving work at eight, I don’t feel like it’s the middle of the night.
And today I leave at six! Engler let me leave early, so I decide to devote Friday evening to finishing the restoration of the armchair, which I’ll then take photos of and upload to my website: ‘Maria Gabara—Furniture Restoration’.
I have had it for about ten years. Every year I pay to maintain the domain because I’m still holding out hope that someday the day will come when I’ll be able to do only creative work.
Not go to the office, not look at numbers, tables, reports, statements, and analyses, but own my studio and give a new and better life to dilapidated, abandoned junk. Such is my dream.
And dreams are there to come true. I believe that one day I’ll do it.
But first, I need to put aside a lot more money to rent and equip the studio, promote it and bear the cost of buying and transporting used furniture.
I have calculated everything down to the last penny.
There is only one problem. Big cash equals working in a corporation.
Corporate work equals lack of time. Lack of time equals putting renovation on the back burner.
A vicious circle—a hellish merry-go-round.
True, the discretionary bonus from Engler got me a little closer to my goal, but it’s still a small percentage of the budget I need.
I have a plan—I want to move to the R&D Department.
I’ll have less work. The salary will be a bit lower, but I’ll finally take up renovations and start selling furniture again, as I did when I was still working at my previous job (it’s a pity they paid next to nothing, but at least I had more time).
As for R&D, I’ve heard rumors that one of the ladies will be retiring in two months.
I have already spoken (informally) to the head of the department.
I caught her at the reception desk of our building as she was leaving at 4:30 p.m.!
I already like her. She was interested in my candidacy and promised not to mention my desire to change positions to Jan until I talked to him myself.
For now, I have to grin and bear it, do my job, patiently endure the bossobot’s demands and put cash aside in a savings account.
I’ll be fine, I’ll manage. And I don’t give a crap that my parents think I’m a loser because I feed on the hope that I’ll be able to make a living from refinishing furniture.
Which my mother gives me further proof of on Saturday.
“Maria, I am at a loss for words for you, child.” She takes a plate out of the dishwasher and puts it back in the cabinet. “I thought that after so many years, you would have managed to get this wood whittling out of your head.”
“I don’t whittle, I just carry out restorations.”
“Call it what you will. I understand that in college you were bored and needed a hobby, but you are an adult now. God gave you talent for a reason. With such abilities, you should have been in a managerial position long ago and paid off the loan for the apartment. Not to mention having a husband and children. You are thirty years old.”
“Twenty-eight. And I’m not going to waste the rest of my life on a job I don’t like.” I take a sip of bitter tea. I feel bad.
I made the same mistake again and visited my dear family’s nest, or rather the dragon’s den.
Why do I always do this to myself and come to this toxic house?
At least my mother is home alone today. In duo with my father, they would have created a symposium.
The topic of the lecture: “How to Debilitate your Daughter and Deprive her of Self-Esteem—Advice from Loving Parents.”
“No one likes their job,” states my mother in an expert voice.
“You speak as if you know all the working people in the world.”
“I know life and I know people. You work, you earn a living, and after work there are household chores lined up waiting for you: cooking, laundry, ironing, children, husband… And if you are well-organized, there may be a little time left for pleasure.” Thus she dispenses her wisdom on me, which turns my brain into mush and it oozes out through my ears.
I’ve heard it so many times that I could recite everything from memory awakened from sleep in the middle of the night.
“Do you think I like to get up at five in the morning to make it to the warehouse in time for the seven o’clock delivery?
Or that Father loves working shifts on the conveyor belt?
” She takes the cutlery out of the basket and opens the drawer.
“Wake up, Maria, and make some good use of yourself. Do you know how many people would give everything they’ve got for the gift you have?
And look at you! You don’t even try. You want to destroy everything for some old junk, not even worth a penny. ”
I wince because it hurts like hell to hear her judge my passion like that.
“But I love this junk, don’t you understand?
Besides, I have already explained to you so many times.
Algebra calculated the old-fashioned way is just about as useful today to people as cash to Croesus.
There are computers and spreadsheets much faster than my brain.
These days no one counts anything in their head.
You put data into a table, and you have the result in a nanosecond. ”
“Nonsense. You simply can’t sell yourself as you should.”
“I am not a sack of potatoes at the market to sell myself.”
“Don’t give me any lip.” She throws me a sharp look. “Talk to your brother, his consignment car business is thriving. Maybe he could teach you some techniques, give you some advice on how to present yourself.”
Here we go. Praising the firstborn.
“I’m neither a car nor Jarek. I’m your daughter and I will live my life my way, whether you like it or not.” I get up from the chair and before my mother has time to gasp for air, I take my bag from the backrest and announce, “I have to get back to work. Thanks for the tea.”
“Are you working on a Saturday? I thought you were going to stay for lunch.” Mother follows me as I head for the door. “Father will be here in half an hour.”
Sure. And my ulcer will flare up after such a lunch. Thank you, I’ve been through this before. To keep my internal organs healthy, I limit eating with my family to twice a year, on Christmas Eve and the first day of Easter. My body simply is unable to digest any more shared feasts.
“I have to finish the report,” I say—a bare-faced lie!—and leave.
When I get off the bus in my neighborhood (because the purchase of a working battery for my Pandziak car is still waiting for better days), my mood immediately improves.
Birds are chirping in the green poplars, the sun is shining, it’s warm.
Beautiful. I take a deep breath, taking in the serene aura, and decide that I’ll go home to get a blanket, a book, sandwiches, and read in the park by the pond in the shade of the weeping willows.
At six o’clock, on the other hand, I go bowling with Toska, Nina and Artur.
I can’t wait because, lately, the four of us rarely manage to get together.
It promises to be a wonderful continuation of the day.
I walk cheerfully toward the apartment building, catching the sun’s rays. It’s so warm that I roll up the sleeves of my blouse, wondering if I should wear a bikini top to the park, expose my slightly pale body to the sun and air it out after winter…
My musings are interrupted by the sound of the phone. I pull out my cell phone. The number is restricted.
Shit.
I can feel my good mood slowly starting to slip away. I remember perfectly well who called me from the restricted line last time, and I have absolutely no desire to talk to him now.