1. Keep Your Little Job
Keep Your Little Job
Bianca
Every villain has an origin story, and today must be mine. I didn’t wake up with an appetite to choose violence, but this man has one more time to interrupt me before I send myself to HR.
The plot twist? I am human resources, and I’m not above writing myself up.
“Mr. Hamilton, I’d like us to refocus on the purpose of this meeting—“
“Is your report ready?”
Strike two.
My brows crease. “I have a few last-minute—“
“Send it to me ahead of tomorrow’s meeting.” Mr. Hamilton’s cufflink winks in the light at the flick of his hand.
Is he dismissing me in a meeting I called?
Find your peace and tell it to stay in the room. We have bills to pay.
“Not a problem.” My lips purse, but my hands remain steady over the lilac pantsuit I wore for the occasion.
Whoever said “dress to impress” was onto something. I always rise to the occasion and impress myself with my ability to keep calm and not drag the CEO across his lacquered desk. The thing costs more than the company’s allotted furniture budget and fits perfectly in the glass box he calls an office.
Pretentious.
Overpriced.
Grossly overcompensating.
Mr. Hamilton hasn’t looked my way once since I entered his office.
I’m nice, but this battle will need to be the Lord’s and not mine in a minute.
I’m not above getting ignorant if the mood strikes.
Right now, said mood smacks me in the back of the fishtail braided bun I spent an hour making look cute.
I’m on a mission and nothing will deter me.
I should be on somebody’s yacht right now, in a high-waisted bikini with a freshly waxed bootyhole aimed at the sky. Memorial Day was the perfect long weekend to treat myself. I had every intention of using the two extra days I’d taken off from the source of my ulcers.
Five days on Martha’s Vineyard with the few “friends” I’d gained from an app for thirty-something professionals too busy to meet new people.
I used the term “friends” loosely. They’re nice, but also vetted strangers who wouldn’t kidnap me and would make good company when I don’t want to eat dinner alone.
Every pastel, polo, and sundress in my closet was in my suitcase for me to look like a Ralph Lauren photoshoot in Oak Bluffs. I just knew my toes would be in warm sand and my back would get cracked. I’ve lost track counting how long it’s been since someone else made me orgasm.
All the more reason to enjoy my trip… Except I never made it onto the plane.
I spent my weekend on the bathroom floor after a trip to urgent care last Thursday.
Stress, indigestion, and diarrhea tore my ass up in the office bathroom.
I’ve been working around the clock at Hamilton Capital, only for me to waste yet another vacation talking to a doctor too fine for his profession who told me I had hemorrhoids. Hemorrhoids!
A quick procedure saved my butt—literally—but didn’t stop Mr. Hamilton from calling me about non-emergencies, as if I were his personal assistant and not the HR manager.
Days with aloe vera gel, ice packs, and coconut oil gave me plenty of time to rethink my life decisions.
Why was I putting up with incessant work emails and a boss who never cared to ask if I was okay after leaving work for emergency care?
I know the corporate game, but I’ve remained determined to shatter ceilings for the next women coming up, itchy ass and all.
So here I am, reaffirming my boundaries and fighting for what’s mine.
I shift in my seat and mentally recite the words of affirmation on my bathroom mirror.
I am chosen.
I am worthy.
I will not settle for less than I deserve.
“Mr. Hamilton. I—“
“Be sure to adjust your forecast to account for a ten percent staff reduction.”
“What?” Clearly, I misheard him.
“Is the sexual harassment training necessary?” His sausage fingers jab the keyboard.
Yes, when your inappropriate jokes about Agatha’s camel toe land you in my office.
“Mr. Hamilton!” I pinch the bridge of my nose as the last thread of my patience snaps. Between hemorrhoid recovery and monologues about city-mandated trainings, I’m at my limit.
The low hum of the air conditioner mixes with the parade of associates rushing to their next client meetings. For the low price of a fifty-hour workweek and chasing the stock market, you too can be an investment advisor married to burnout at Hamilton Capital.
It’s not easy battling corporate culture that prioritizes the bottom line, but as the HR manager, I do it with a smile on my face and Tums in my desk drawer. The least Mr. Hamilton could do is not glower at me like he hasn’t been playing in my face while hopscotching over my personal boundaries.
We have bills to pay.
A vein sprouts from his forehead to tap the roots of his gray hair, combed back with enough gel to withstand a hurricane. Parker Hamilton isn’t an ugly man, but karma is wrinkling him quickly, his skin souring like milk. His wife has to be the strongest soldier to deal with him.
He leans into his executive chair, the view of Battery Park glittering twenty-six floors below.
His hands steeple and a bushy brow shifts to the wrinkles lining his forehead.
“Interruption is unbecoming, Bianca,” he scolds, with no accountability for hijacking the meeting that took nine emails to get on his calendar.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard. “My…apologies.” The muscles in my face strain under the weight of the smile I hold to defuse situations. It’s complete bullshit, considering I’m the harmed party, but it’s a survival tactic I know well.
“I called this meeting to revisit discussions about my promotion.”
“A promotion?” His thin lips press into a firm line.
This motherfu—
“Correct,” I say.
For him to scowl like I didn’t single-handedly change the company environment from toxic to asshole adjacent is disrespect of the highest audacity.
Parker Hamilton might’ve inherited this business from his crusty daddy, but I shaped it into what it is.
Retention rates are the best in history because of me.
Those new hires he didn’t trust, who are surpassing veteran associates in assets under management? Me again.
I’ve played the game—grinned when I wanted to scream and gritted my way through every assumption about my abilities while performing miracles and dodging questions about my hairstyles.
Overworked.
Under-resourced.
Chronic compassion fatigue.
And yet, still I rise.
Navigating Corporate America is already a tightrope of microaggressions and weaponized tears. Black women medal in surviving the fuckery every time, and I have neither the caffeine in my system nor any olive branches left to extend.
“I’ve demonstrated the necessary skills as the HR manager through my leadership, decision-making, and strategic partnerships that enable Hamilton Capital to thrive,” I say, calm and measured. “I outlined my achievements in an email I sent and would like to discuss next steps.”
I’ve given everything to this job. The cost of climbing the ladder came with long workdays and the remnants of a social life. It’s a price I’ve paid for years. I’m owed the HR director role.
A slow smile creeps over Mr. Hamilton’s frown lines. Laughter explodes into a cackle with stadium speakers, ruffling his three-piece suit. Tears streak his pink cheeks like I’m Katt Williams and not the glue holding up this company.
“Bianca,” he snorts, wiping his face with a pocket square. “I appreciate the laugh, but that’s not happening.”
Excuse me?
He waves a hand. “You want to know why I haven’t promoted you? You’re too focused on the wrong priorities.”
I go cold.
“I’m not in the business of feelings and resilience,” he scoffs. “I pay people to make money. You promote weakness, a—“
Strike fucking three.
The keyboard I grip like a baseball bat connects with his nose in a loud crunch. Blood and teeth spray across his desk with ropes of saliva. He falls back in his chair, but not before an electronic uppercut checks his chin.
“How’s that for weak?” I hurl the stapler; he dodges. It collides with the window lining the back of the office. What a shame if it makes a hole big enough for Parker to roll out of in his fancy-ass chair. His ego wouldn’t survive the fall, but maybe those hips would.
I fake left to chase him around his desk and smile at the trail of blood staining the oak-colored carpet.
Three years of broken promises about the HR director position played out in a smirk I wiped off his clean-shaven mouth.
The late nights.
Weekends.
Holidays.
It never mattered how hard I worked or how well I exceeded expectations. He never intended for me to break through the ceiling he’d welded shut.
“I don’t ask for much. Just respect and time off without being bothered or dealing with work-induced hemorrhoids!
Recognition for all that I do would be nice, but maybe that’s impossible, huh?
” My heel connects with his butt. He’s got a really long back, but I find the crease.
The coward crawls away. “Seventeen years, three months, and eight days!”
Smack.
The keyboard connects with a fresh patch of hair plugs.
“Mmf.”
“Don’t cry now! We’re having fun!”
Smack.
I kick him in the back and flip him over. The color drains from his face at my grip on his silver tie, crushing his windpipe. His body stiffens under my thighs as I use them to squeeze him in place.
Punk-ass Parker whimpers at my grin. “This is what happens when you push good people to the edge.” I fist his tie and whisper, “We learn to fly.”
I wanted to have a civil conversation. Get aligned on my promotion and go about my day drama-free. Now, I’m wearing my boss’s blood while staring at the possibility of life in a state-issued jumpsuit.
It shouldn’t surprise me how meaningless I am to this company, but it still stings. I never miss an opportunity to celebrate the staff. There’s a mindfulness corner in my office for quiet time and snacks—with gluten-free options!
Fun lunches.
Consultants to help with a better work-life balance.
Quarterly off-campus events.
Would it hurt to say, Thank you, Bianca. I appreciate it, for once?
“Bianca,” Mr. Hamilton slurs through a discolored jaw.
Smack.
“Shut up! Shut. Up!” I roar, inches from his battered face. “I’m a good person and damn good at my job! You don’t deserve my magic. None of you do!”
Smack.
“Bianca.”
“Watch your tone, Bianca,” I mock. “You don’t want to come off too aggressive.”
Smack.
“Smile more. You’re too pretty to frown.”
Smack.
“Why do you bring up race? You’re good enough to work here.”
Smack.
“The only Black woman in management.”
Smack.
Smack.
I tried to be the change I wanted to see. What did I get in return? Zero gratitude and hemorrhoids!
“I hate you! I hate you all!”
“Bianca!”
I blink at Mr. Hamilton seated at his desk. He’s not on the floor covered in blood.
“Whatever has gotten into you, fix it,” he snaps, his face free of keyboard dents.
What the hell?
My pulse races in my throat. I check my hands once more for blood. This job is going to kill me or force me to catch a body.
“Take the rest of the day off. We’ll discuss your little outburst tomorrow.”
Outburst?
Little?
He’s lucky Viola Harris, Mama Vee, raised me. God rest her soul. Otherwise, I’d be reaching back into my hallucinations like Freddy to pull out the Bianca who will air this bitch out.
Be humble but nobody’s doormat, Mama Vee instilled in me. “If they won’t appreciate your presence, bless them with your absence.”
I draw a deep breath and exhale. “I’m resigning from my position, effective immediately. This position, this company, no longer aligns with my values.”
Reality squared up to pop me in the face.
If I’m daydreaming about using my boss for batting practice, it’s time to go.
The professional in me is yelling at me for quitting without another job.
The other part of me—the one so damn tired of being sick and tired—knows deep down there’s something better.
Bending to fit into a place that doesn’t value or respect me is what I’ve always done, because it’s what I thought I had to do.
“You’re emotional. Take the day.” Mr. Hamilton dismisses me for his computer. “Before you go, order a few of those crepe cakes from that place. Lex’s birthday is tomorrow. You should do something.”
All I do is stare. He wants me to get a cake for his mistress?
Peace and professionalism have left the room. We’ll figure out the bills.
“You know what? You and everyone else here can kiss my entire ass,” I say on my way to the door. “Not the corner. Not the crack. The whole thing, open wide.”
Fuck this place and that damn cake!