11. Chad
Chad
The ride back to the office was very stiff and quiet, with only Zach in a good mood whistling Take Me Home, Country Roads in the background.
Well, I’d fucked my chances good and proper, but the more I thought about it, the angrier I got.
After all, damn, he had praised everything traditional. Not Bitsy’s fault he wasn’t clear.
I was going to go tender my resignation, because I didn’t want to work for that old ghoul any longer.
After all, he’d always said shit like ‘come over to my house anytime and see how a MAN is supposed to manage his household.’
Well, shit, that’s an open invitation if you asked me.
It was a nice, mild night when I rolled up and all the doors and windows of their Craftsman were wide open.
But the first thing I heard had me staggered.
“Sweetheart, I hope this hot chocolate is to your liking,” I heard a mild voice say. A voice so sweet, so kind, so helpful, so positively begging for approval, that at first I could not believe it was my boss’.
But as I stared incredulously in the open window, I had to accept it.
Is this what he’d wanted to demonstrate to all his employees?
Mr. Van Buren hard at work in the kitchen, sweating absolute bullets, as he sprinkled seasoning into some soup like a madman.
“Not too much pepper, my dear,” a loud, carrying voice said, and I craned my neck to see a formidable old lady knitting in front of the TV, quite powerful-looking, with iron gray hair pulled back into a massive bun.
Well, surely now he was going to bust out with all that he-man Neanderthal shit he preached every damn day at work, right?
But no, to my astonishment my boss carefully plated the soup, swirling a chutney in a complicated pattern around the bowl, then bringing it to his wife’s TV tray like an offering to a goddess.
Now what the hell?
She barely looked at him, taking a delicate sip of the soup as he waited in anticipation, Mr. Van Buren’s feet fairly dancing up and down to see what she thought of it.
“This is acceptable,” she said politely as his face fell.
“Acceptable, but—”
“Quite enjoyable,” she assured him. “I do not regret putting it in my mouth. Now run along and don’t forget to do the dishes.”
“Of course, of course my dear,” Mr. Van Buren said hastily, hopping over to the kitchen, and I was so gobsmacked by this turn of events that I forgot to duck and he saw me.
Fuck.
Too late to run as he hurried around the side door and walked crablike over to me.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Mr. Van Buren demanded.
“I’m just here to give Bitsy a little lesson in how to be a wife,” I said. “Just like you offered.”
“Get the hell outta here!” he shout-whispered.
“I thought you said a man was king of his house,” I retorted as he made wild shushing motions with his hands. “Doesn’t look like you’re the king of anything.”
He glared at me, a vein throbbing so hard in his head it looked like a pulsating worm.
“You’re nothing but a big ass hypocrite!” I continued, poking a finger right in his chest. “You don’t run your house like a battleship at all, dude. You’re a simp.”
“What do you want to pretend you never saw this?”
“Hmm,” I said. “First admit you’re a massive hypocrite.”
“Just go—” he cried in agony, and I was going to take pity on him, when the door was suddenly pulled opened wider and Mrs. Van Buren stood there.
“Er—hello,” I said.
“Now who is this,” Mrs. Van Buren boomed. “Not one of your little friends, eh? Not you going off to whack about with golf clubs?”
“I’m definitely not his friend—“ I began, when Mr. Van Buren interrupted.
“He’s my new VP, Chadley Parker-Bowles. Of course I’m not planning to go off and whack about with my golf clubs. Certainly not, my dear, I’d much rather be here with you.”
“Hmph,” she said, and toddled back off to her dinner.
“Never tell anyone about this,” Mr. Van Buren hissed.
“Or what?” I said.
But he only glared at me.
“Kiss any chances of working in sports management in this town goodbye,” he said in agony, and then looked as if he wanted to slam the door in my face. But instead he shut it extremely quietly.