Chapter 6
6
brAIN CAPACITY OF A FRUIT FLY
F or the next two weeks, I spend all of my free time at work or at home perfecting the pitch and presentation that I will showcase to my manager. Once I’m satisfied with my visuals after adding the final touches, I print my presentation and pack my bag this morning with the determination of meeting with Charles as soon as I get in the office. I will demand I am the best suited to lead this project.
I arrive at work and am surprised to see that I’m not the first one in today. My coworker, a man named Greg Slater, a few years older than me and barely does the amount of work to be considered part time hours at best, is currently walking out of Charles’ office with a satisfied grin across his face.
I want to smack that smug look off of him because in the pit of my stomach I know he just got the project I’ve been trying to land and he doesn’t even deserve a footnote mentioning in a presentation of that magnitude with how little work I know he’ll do for it. I walk into my manager's office to confirm what I already suspected .
“Hey Charles, do you have a minute?” I say after knocking on his open door.
He gestures to the seat in front of his desk. “Sure Amelia, come in,”
I sit down and decide to just be straight forward. “Have you assigned anyone to the Atlas Redesign Project yet?” I pull out the documentation from my bag, hoping to salvage any attempt to still be given the project, “because I’ve done some research and I’ve compiled all the data to ensure a successful relaunch.”
I shouldn’t even be shocked at the sheer ignorance of this man. He doesn’t even look up to make eye contact with me as he speaks. “Yeah, matter of fact, I just let Greg know he would be the lead on this.” He points towards his door with the butt of the pen he was just writing with like Greg is still standing there. “I’m sure he would love some help if you have the capacity,” he offers, finally looking up from whatever he was staring at to make eye contact with me.
I can’t believe what I am hearing. Is this man, who is in a position of authority, so much of a dunce that he doesn’t realize that he just handed a promotion to a man with the brain capacity of a fruit fly or that he just offered my hard work for Greg to take like I’m some low-level research secretary instead of the most capable employee in this whole building? I’m so angry I just nod in acceptance and begin to get up from my chair. Charles is back to being so engrossed in whatever he was doing before I came in he doesn’t even realize the coincidence of his rejection of my assignment request and my need for a sick day.
“I actually am not feeling well today, I think it’s better if I take the rest of the day off. Wouldn’t want to get anyone else sick.”
He looks back up at me with worrying eyes. “Yes, yes of course. Go home and get some rest.” Pursing my lips in disbelief, I nod once again and depart his office.
I don’t really care to carry the weight of my research for the rest of the day, metaphorically and physically. So instead of taking it with me, I place all my work in the metal cabinet below my desk and lock it before I leave the office for my sick day .
The elevator ride down to the first floor is a blur, as is the walk through the glass lobby of the building. I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until I step through the rotating doors and take in a gulp of fresh air.
I don’t have a destination in mind, just the thought that I need to get the hell away from here before I start crying from anger. So, I just start walking towards home. Realizing halfway there that I don’t particularly feel like I want to be caged in by cement walls with my own raging emotions, I pivot my feet, change course, and head to the only place that makes me feel like I can breathe… Or scream.
I am so unbelievably pissed. I worked so damn hard and put in more hours than anyone else on that floor, including Charles. I’m pretty sure he spends more company hours solving sudoku puzzles than he does his actual job.
And Greg? I swear he only comes to the office to join in on happy hour afterwards. He’s a shit employee and an even shittier person. Cocky and entitled with no issues whatsoever making sure everyone, especially me, knows he’s the boss’ favorite. A fact I can’t wrap my head around unless they’re buddies outside of work because there is no way you’re that bad at your job and still pushed up the corporate ladder with praise.
For once, I wish when Thatcher Inc. acquired Atlas that they did their usu al overhaul. It was protocol to run a performance review on all employees from top to bottom and weed out any of the short-comers. Greg would’ve been the first to go then. The thought of him getting handed my project with nothing more to offer than the cheers of a beer bottle and a boys club I’d never be invited into causes my blood to boil.
I reach the wall of greenery and feel a familiar comfort in the vines at my fingertips. I glide my hands along the wall until I find the latch, opening the door and hurrying inside. Turning around to lean my forehead against it as I latch it closed.
I finally feel like I’m in a safe enough place to finally let the anger and frustrations free. My hands that grip the iron pickets loosen as I slide down until my knees hit the pavers in defeat. I want nothing more than to not let them win by being emotionless, but sadly, I will forever be the girl that cries when she’s angry. And I have a right to be angry. I threw away everything I had ever worked my whole life for because I wanted this opportunity to prove I could do it on my own outside of my father’s influence.
Yet, here I am hiding behind a wall of green shrubbery, fighting back the tears threatening to break my resolve. I am so damn weak. Maybe I didn’t make a mistake leaving Thatcher Inc. after all. If I can’t even make it at some mediocre start up on the rise, how the hell was I ever going to cut it as C.E.O.. Joke was on me the whole time.
Then I hear it. The voice that’s haunted my dreams for the last two weeks.
“Amelia,” it hesitates, “are you… alright?”
I turn my head slowly towards the bench tucked in one of the four corners of the garden. There it is, the face that I’ve unsuccessfully attempted to erase from memory. The one that is now ca using my heart to thud so loudly in my chest that it causes a symphony of drum beats in my ear.
At a time I thought I wanted to be alone, I realize I couldn’t be more grateful that he is here.
Riley is here .