24. Hi! Hello. Hey… #2
He sounds terrified, as he should be. ‘More agitated than usual’ is a nice way of putting it.
I’m usually so relaxed I might as well carry a beach umbrella and a pina colada around me at all times.
‘Permanent vacation’ is my operating mode.
Never have I ever known agitation until I accepted this job.
“I’m fine, Ramin. If I’m agitated,” I roll down my windows and raise my voice at the driver behind the blacked-out windows, “it’s because this asshole can’t drive!”
Gulping, Paulina glances over her shoulder, and I sense, without turning around, that my direct reports are having a silent meeting about me.
After a tense moment of team deliberation, Luke speaks up. “If you’re not happy about the slide decks for the meeting, we’ll be happy to redo—”
“The decks are fine,” I say, swerving toward the exit lane. “I made them myself. Everything is squared away.”
“Are you sure?” Paulina asks. “Because we can polish it up.”
“I’m sure.”
“No, really,” she presses, “we can take a look.”
“Alright, knock yourself out.” I chew on my bottom lip, debating whether I should ask. Curiosity won out. “Er, guys?”
“Yeah?” they ask in unison.
“What do you think about the ASSET? I mean, really think about it?”
“What do you mean, Director?” Ramin asks.
My direct reports descend into a bout of silence.
I suppose they suspect this is a trick question, which, to be fair, it is.
And I know they’re just as clueless about the ASSET’s true nature as I am (or was).
But a secret part of me hoped that I’m not the only one who figured out Rylan’s nefarious uses for the ASSET…
That somewhere, somehow, a micro-dose of knowledge must’ve sunk in.
Out of four smart, talented new hires, two of whom were Stanford graduates, I need to believe that one of them figured out what the ASSET is independently of my corporate influence. Question is, which one?
After a second round of conferring behind my back, Paulina clears her throat. “We think the ASSET is a profitable, innovative tool in the field of data analytics, and we approve of it for its ease of use and synergetic possibilities.”
I blink several times, trying to make sense of her answer. She just said a lot without saying anything meaningful. It sounds like some bullshit I’d rattle off to make myself sound like I know what I’m talking about.
I’m suddenly sad, truly sad that I’ve been entrusted with these bright young minds and instead of shaping them into brilliant thinkers and future movers and shakers, I’ve fattened them up with pay raises so they’ll always put money before their principles and tightened their golden handcuffs so they’ll always be loyal to Rylan.
I’ve squandered their potential with pointless team-building exercises and filled their heads with corporate slop.
‘Synergetic possibilities’? Paulina sounds like me.
There was a time, not long ago, when hearing her parrot my effortless jargon would’ve made me proud.
Today, I’m not proud.
I’m ashamed.
“Don’t you think the ASSET is a touch…” I lick my dry lips. How to phrase it so as not to freak them out? “Evil?”
My question meets a collective silence.
“I’m sorry, Director,” Paulina shakes her head. “I didn’t hear you correctly. Did you say… evil?”
There’s rumbling in the back seat.
“You didn’t really say ‘evil’…” Ramin’s voice turns into a squeak. “Did you?”
“The ASSET can’t be evil,” Luke counters. “You wouldn’t be the director of an evil asset.”
“You wouldn’t allow it to be evil,” says Lily. “Will you?”
Oh my god. I was testing the waters, gauging how much of the corporate Kool-Aid they drank under my tutelage.
The answer is: a lot of fucking Kool-Aid.
Holy shit. Just like everyone else at Rylan, my direct reports worship the ASSET, despite still being clueless about what the program does.
I suppose that’s part of the ASSET’s allure; the more mysterious it is, the more everyone imbues it with a holy mystique.
As the Director of the ASSET, I have become an accidental prophet.
I joked about being a cult leader when I got this job.
Sadly, I don’t think it’s a joke anymore.
At this point, if I sat my frazzled direct reports down and laid out the tentacle reaches of Rylan into every sector of the economy, I don’t know what they’ll do.
They’re already high-strung and anxiety-ridden as is.
Just wait until I tell them that they’re indirectly killing baby sea turtles and displacing low-income families from their homes.
If I, with my devil-may-care outlook on life, can’t sleep at night, I fear my direct reports may jump off a bridge.
I don’t think this is a conversation these tender souls are ready to have. And it’s not a revelation that should be dropped on you all at once; it’s an unsettling story that should be parsed out, one horror at a time when you’re sufficiently sauced and loaded on Valium.
“You don’t sound quite like yourself, Boss,” Ramin notes.
I spare a glance at their panicked faces in my rearview mirror. Paulina’s frown haunts my peripheral vision. She’s picking at her seatbelt and bound to have a panic attack the moment I pull back the curtains.
“I’ve never been better… Never mind what I said.
I was talking just to talk.” I force a tight smile and do what I do best: lie through my teeth.
I don’t need to trouble these kids with the truth.
Let them hang onto their idealism just a little longer.
As the Director of the ASSET, I walk a lonely road. I will shoulder the burden alone.
“You guys can learn to relax a little and stop second-guessing me about these slide decks,” I assure them.
“I have everything under control. I have the ASSET Phase 2 where I want it so please, as your director, I command you to chill out and stop freaking out over every little — Shit!” I slam on the brakes as the car in front of me unexpectedly stops short. “You’ve gotta be kidding me!”
I keep my hand on the horn. Honk. Honk. Honk.
I’m five cars away from my exit ramp, trapped in bumper to bumper traffic.
Venice Blvd. is so close yet so unbearably far away.
At this rate, it’ll probably be faster if we ditch the car and walk back to the office.
I grit my teeth against the blinding sun and the uncomfortable beads of sweat trickling down the back of my neck.
After letting fly a string of explosive expletives, I take a deep breath, manifesting myself cruising the surface streets, hitting green lights all the way to my designated parking spot.
I don’t have to turn around to guess that I’ve frightened the kids with my road rage. They’re trembling like puppies. Beside me, Paulina clutches the ‘oh shit’ handles in case I decide to floor the car across the shoulder and into traffic.
I’ve never had road rage and I’m never in a hurry to get back to the office, treating an annoying traffic jam as a journey to be enjoyed.
Today, I’m acting out of character. I don’t enjoy parking on the 405 anymore, yet I don’t want to get back to the office.
I don’t know where the fuck I’m going or where I want to be.
“Okay,” I exhale, “you’ve got me. I’ve been a little stressed. I’ve been going through a lot of personal stuff right now and this goddamn traffic. I can’t fucking stand it.”
Ramin clears his throat, places a placating hand on my shoulder. “Do you want to lay it on us?”
Pulling my car one inch forward, I debated telling them about being burglarized, sexually harassed by our CEO, and losing a friend whom I didn’t even know was my friend until I lost him.
All in a weekend.
And I’ve yet to text that ‘Hi’ to Rhys, nor has he bothered to ask how I’m doing; being the first to say ‘Hi’ will decimate my cool. Ultimately, I don’t care. Except it would be nice… if he could spare one second to say, ‘Hey.’
There’s more mess and drama for their undeveloped prefrontal cortexes to handle.
When I was a fresh college grad, my life was a chaotic mess, but I harbored the hope that I’ll get it together in my thirties.
I’m a role model to these kids, a career woman in an aspirational corner office.
From the outside, I look like I have it all together.
I can’t crush their dreams with another uncomfortable truth: that in my thirties, I still don’t know what I’m doing…
that life is still as messy if not messier than in your twenties, only you’re older and more exhausted and your laughter lines will deepen despite a ten-step night routine that cost a small fortune.
And guys will still ghost you.
“No,” I say with a note of finality. “I’ll figure it out. I always do.“
The five-car pile-up gives way to four. My exit is clear. I gun the engine and make a right turn, finally breaking free before catching up to the gridlock on Venice Blvd.
Stuck again.