2. The Corner Office
The Corner Office
“And this…” Regina, my new assistant, opens the door with a flourish, “is your new office.”
“Wow.” I trail behind her, dazzled by the view. I’ve been in a corner office before, but this was by far the grandest. The Pacific Ocean stretched before me like a sparkling sapphire blanket. On a clear day, I can see Catalina Island.
I glance down at the sandy beach, watching a pair of rollerbladers zoom by on the bike path. A part of me longs to strip off my heels and dig my toes into the Santa Monica sand, wade into the waves and stay outside as long as I can. It’s my first day on the job and I already don’t want to be here.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m overwhelmed by my new company’s generosity. It’s only that I’ve been playing the game of career musical chairs and performing the role of a competent data analyst for so long that I’m already burnt out before I even begun.
Turning around, I plaster on a cherry smile. “This is too much. Are you sure this is all for me? I don’t mind taking the smaller office.”
“No, no. This is all for you.” Regina waves away my hesitation with a flick of her manicured fingers.
She’s a pretty girl in her mid-twenties, plump, with brownish-red curls gathered into a no-nonsense bun.
I can tell by the polished sheen of her sensible Chanel ballet pumps and the efficient clip to her tone that she’s Girl Friday material.
But if I ever refer to her as my ‘secretary’ instead of my executive assistant, she’ll steamroll right over me.
“And look…” Regina gestures to the glass wall separating my office from the maze of cubicles on the floor. “I’ve scheduled our sign guy to put a decal right here.” She frames the door. “Carina Wu, Director of Data Analytics, ASSET Division.”
“Wow.” I blink, chagrined by my title and new responsibilities.
Not for the first time since I got the ‘call back’ informing me that I’m hired, I’m experiencing another round of imposter syndrome.
Yes, even I get imposter syndrome from time to time.
I expected to get the job. It was a done deal after the interview when the panel not only shook my hand but drew me into a group hug.
“Give us a few days to commensurate,” Nisha had said, then lowered her voice. “It’s just a formality. Between you and me, it’s in the bag.”
Two weeks later, here I am.
Corner office.
A custom decal.
A bump in title to Director.
One hell of a salary bump and signing bonus.
I’ve fibbed and charmed my way up the corporate ladder before, both meeting and exceeding my responsibilities in the long run. Everything worked out in the end. No harm, no foul.
Just because I don’t know how to do the task I’ve claimed to have mastered doesn’t mean I can’t eventually learn later on.
You can’t be a great liar without being a fast learner.
There’s always a way out, and sometimes, the best solution to a problem is not directly solving the problem, but finding a workaround to the problem so it looks like you solved it.
Some problems aren’t even problems and don’t really need to be solved...
But don’t tell the board of directors that. Just hush up and pretend you solved it.
Naturally, I figured it would be the case with this job. I’ll muddle my way through somehow.
This time, however, I wonder if I’ve gone too far.
As Regina and I discuss the best spot for my door decal, I’m beginning to second-guess my ability to head the ASSET division.
What the hell was I thinking? Why did I go on and on about my expertise when I don’t know a damn thing about the program?
Now I have to lead this division and I need to figure out what this ASSET is and what it does, quickly, or I’m cooked.
“I’ve never worked in a glass office before,” I say, bidding for time. “What about privacy?“
“Not a problem. I expect you’ll need tons of confidential alone time, working with the ASSET and all, so we already have that covered.
” Regina, already two steps ahead of me, presses an orange button on my desk and the glass walls turn into an opaque blue screen.
“Voilà! Privacy mode activated. This one...” she presses the second button in the row, and a sunscreen descends with an efficient whoosh, shielding my ocean view from harmful UV rays.
“This button is for music.” Chopin fills the room.
“We have it set on the classical station, but you can change it to anything you want. The others won’t be able to hear. ”
“Good to know,” I say, totally intending to blast Taylor Swift all day, every day.
I wander toward my desk, run a finger across my Herman Miller chair.
A brand-new laptop awaits me, along with two state-of-the-art 4K monitors.
As per my preferences, obtained by Regina the second I got off the phone with HR, I have my favorite vertical mouse, a felt desk mat, a spider plant, and a holder filled with freshly sharpened No.
2 pencils. Though I haven’t had the need to use a pencil in years, they remind me of the first day of school, new beginnings and such.
My desk already feels homey and lived-in.
The company’s amenities rival those of a four-star hotel. I like it here already.
“I’ve taken the liberty of printing out your directives for the week,” Regina says, gesturing to my desk, upon which sat a print-out positioned exactly dead center.
“Ah, very good,” I say, solemnly picking up the directive. It’s a hearty list that makes my eyes tired and my brain shut off. “This is good paper, this.”
Regina arches an eyebrow. “You mentioned in your orientation survey that you would like your directives printed. I took the liberty of acquiring your favorite cream paper from the stationery store. Please note your preference of Comic Sans.”
Okay. So I admit that I didn’t take her orientation email seriously.
How could I? There were literally two hundred questions about my preferences for the most mundane things.
How did I prefer my coffee? What kind of desk mat, if any, did I fancy?
What kind of chair do I want? Do I like south-facing windows?
What’s my favorite color? How do I take my briefings?
I was out grocery shopping when I got the email and tried to answer every question to the best of my abilities, but after the 50th question, I rattled off whatever nonsense popped into my head. I do not appreciate homework, Regina.
“Yes. I stare at screens all day,” I say. “And there’s a retro charm about paper, wouldn’t you agree?”
Regina agrees. Of course, she does. “Here.” She hands me a discreet envelope and a silver thumb drive.
“What’s this?”
“The key to the ASSET. Please memorize the password and destroy it.”
“Okay…” I take the objects from her.
She watches me, hovering for five awkward seconds before it dawns on me that she means NOW.
I open the envelope and unearth a card with the password. It does not bode well for a data mining firm’s competence when the password to unlock this great and mysterious ASSET is Password03. At least it’s not Password01.
“Did you memorize it?” Regina asks, shifty-eyed and sketchy.
I hand the card back to her. “I think I got it.”
She tucks the card discreetly into the breast pocket of her blazer. “I’ll shred this,” she says mysteriously.
I reply with a clandestine nod. “See that you do.”
“Let’s see, your direct reports are preparing a presentation for you in an hour,” she says, checking her phone, “and I’m sure you’ll want to crack on with the ASSET as soon as possible. I’m told you have a monumental task ahead of you and a tight deadline.”
I blink. “I do?”
“It’s in the directive,” Regina says, laughing as if I’ve told a hilarious joke.
“Nisha and Todd weren’t kidding when they said you’re cool under pressure.
If I were in your shoes, I’d be a ball of nerves.
But you don’t seem affected by the deadline at all.
Anyway, look at me, chatting away when you’ve got so much to do. I’ll leave you to it.”
“Yes,” I say, pursing my lips and floating in the general direction of my desk. “I’d like to get a lay of the land. Please leave the privacy screen on, Regina, and... thank you.”
She smiles at the sound of her name. “It’s nothing, Director. I’m right outside if you need me.”
Left alone, I raise the sunscreen and stare blankly at the ocean for a few minutes. Deadline? A ‘monumental’ task? I lift up my printout and peer at my goals for the coming week.
The list is long and coma-inducing. Now that I’m a director, I don’t just have job responsibilities…
I have vague goals. Beyond the corporate jargon, my schedule is packed with meetings.
I spotted the ASSET mentioned no less than twenty times.
On the last line, I learn that I’m to present my team’s progress with the ASSET two weeks from today.
I rub my brow, suddenly exhausted. I don’t say this often: this time, I may be in over my head.
I thought I would be able to wing it like I did before, except this task feels different.
This job feels serious. I’ll have to actually work at work instead of cruising on a wave of incompetence and falling ass-backward into a promotion.
A new surge of panic slams into me. The jig is up. This isn’t some Excel file I could muddle my way through. This is the ASSET (whatever the ASSET is), and my entire job is to finesse this program and give multiple presentations about Rylan’s profit margins and future growth projections.
Maybe I should start by teaching myself how to use the ASSET? How hard could it be?
I plop myself into my chair and flip open my laptop. An intimidating black screen greets me with the ASSET emblazoned in unassuming green letters. I press Enter. A window pops up, prompting me to enter the password and authenticate with the physical key.
Wiping my sweaty palms on the leg of my trousers, I pick up the silver thumb drive. “Here goes nothing...”
The screen immediately fizzles and blacks out.
Seconds later, it’s populated with a battalion of unassuming green numbers, each one replicating over and over again like an exploding minefield until my screen is consumed by the literal Matrix.
Panicking, I scoot my chair back from the data swarm multiplying on my screen. If you told me my laptop had been consumed by a virus, I’d believe you.
This is no virus. This is the ASSET, and it’s absolutely heinous, deranged...
They expect me to work with this?
I can’t work with this! I don’t even know what this is!
In fact, I’d like the name of the sicko who invented this mess so I can file a complaint. And because I felt like Neo, overwhelmed by a rather shitty revelation, I uttered the only response appropriate for the situation, “Whoa.”