Worked up
Samantha
SAMANTHA
O f fucking course, I’d wake up an hour late on the one day I cannot afford to be late. My alarm is still blaring while I take a second to process how screwed I might be. 7:45 AM. Normally, I'd lay in bed for a few minutes to mentally prepare myself for another mundane day at work, but I won't get that luxury this morning. I silence the alarm, throw the covers off my body, and rush to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I squeeze the last of my toothpaste on my toothbrush and scrub while I grab an outfit from my closet. It's cluttered in here, but I like it that way. It takes me a moment to find something to wear, but I finally manage to fish out a black pencil skirt with a white blouse. Simple, professional, and easy to match with any shoes I have.
The meeting starts at 8 O’clock sharp. It’s 7:51. If I leave now, I might make it on time. I run back to the bathroom and spit out the toothpaste, running the water for a second until the foamy white bubbles drain down the sink. I dress in a hurry and run a brush through my hair twice on each side, checking myself in the mirror. Not too bad. At least I don't look like I just rolled out of bed. I slip into the closed-toed heels by my door,2 locking it when I finally make it outside. Thank God I left my purse sitting on the floor of the passenger seat this time. I have a bad habit of leaving my purse in the car, but I was so tired last night that I forgot to check if it was hanging on the hook by the front door.
I buckle my seat belt while I drive down the busy street.
The office is 5 minutes from my house without a red light, and I hit every single one on my way there. I take the opportunity to apply a little make-up at the last red light. My eyes look a bit more awake with eyeliner and mascara. At least now I won’t look like a complete zombie. A car honks behind me, and I close the overhead mirror. The light’s green. I feel tension in my shoulders as I roll on, my grip tightening on the steering wheel when I look at the time again. 7:57 AM. I still might make it on time if I’m lucky. I don’t think they’d mind if I was 3 minutes late, but any later for a meeting shows incompetence, and I’ve remained professional for the entire 6 months that I've been with the company. I'd call it an achievement, but my best friend Penny says it's just called being an adult. I prepared for this presentation for several weeks, and I cannot screw it up by not being there on time. My heart races when I turn onto Sunrise Avenue and into the parking lot of the accounting firm. It’s 7:59. Almost there. I drive toward my parking spot. Thank god! I'm going to make it!
"What the fuck?”
Before I'm able to park, I have to slam on the breaks because there’s a shiny red Maserati that is half parked in spot number ten and my spot, number 11. Smack dab in the middle of the white line separating our parking spaces. Its shiny red glare is like a middle finger. I let out a frustrated growl through clenched teeth and drive around the parking lot, looking for a space to park. I finally find one, far away from the building, and get out, grabbing my bag and digging out my favorite shade of red lipstick as I speed walk to the building. I glide it onto my lips and quickly slip it back into my purse. I'm half tempted to stop and take my key to the flashy car that’s made me late for my meeting, but it would only slow me down.
I’m still riddled with anxiety when I push the door open, and I'm met with the familiar smell of printer paper, ink, and dust. Our receptionist, Angela, smiles at me as I walk by her desk. Her smile is as pleasant and friendly as always. I don’t think she’s capable of making any other facial expressions, to be honest. When I first started here, I thought she was some kind of AI Robot, but apparently, it's against company policy to hire a robot to be a secretary.
“Good morning, Sam," she says in her usual robotically friendly tone. "Any plans this weekend?”
I don't slow down or look back at her when I shout, "I'm late, Angela!"
I make a beeline for the elevator, my feet moving as fast as they can without running through the lobby. I press the button to take me to floor number 2, shifting from foot to foot. I anxiously tap my hand on my skirt, rechecking the time. It’s already almost ten after. Shit. I wish the elevator could just transport me into the conference room. I continue my speed walk to the conference room and open the door.
My boss, Ken, sits at one end of the table, and the executives that I was supposed to meet at 8 AM this morning are sitting around the table, all in their best business attire. And then there’s Chandler, my worst fucking nightmare, sitting in an office chair next to the projector screen. He's leaned back, arms folded, with an arrogant smile on his face. Fucker. He looks like he’s having a good time with his buddies instead of being in a work meeting. Chandler and I are supposed to present to the executives about the company’s expansion. It’s a meeting about the growth of our business, risk assessments, and, of course, Chandler’s favorite, Cash flow. Everyone is quiet, all eyes in my direction.
Before I can apologize for being late, Chandler pipes up.
“I told you guys we should’ve told Sam the meeting started ten minutes later so she’d be here on time.”
Everyone erupts with laughter. My chest tightens, and I can feel the tingle on my cheeks as they turn red. How fucking embarrassing. I’ve been late once or twice, but never for an important meeting, and yet, Chandler has made it into a running joke. I rub my sweaty palms on my skirt, and I try not to show my humiliation, though I'm sure it's obvious. Chandler dares to throw me a cocky grin. The tension in my shoulders returns, and I have to bite down on my tongue to keep my mouth shut.
Being late for this meeting is bad enough. I can't imagine it would go over well if I returned with a snide remark at him for being an ass. I glare at him instead. He is the reason I'm late for this meeting, and he sits in his seat all smiles and playing comedian while I struggle to find a parking spot. I should've dented his stupid car. Maybe next time, I'll call a tow truck. The money would be worth it. The look on his face would be priceless. I'd take a picture of it and hang it on a dartboard. Try making a joke about that, Chandler.
“Are we ready to get started?” Ken asks, and I nod.
Ken is a sports enthusiast, and yet he’s way too excited about his job at Hal’s CPA. I guess I can’t blame him. Being a partner of the company must have some sweet perks, but he’s almost always in a good mood, and if he isn’t, he’s always optimistic about it. However, he and Chandler have a good working relationship, while Chandler and I don’t.
I shoot another glare at Chandler while I walk up to the projector screen. When the screen turns on and the first set of graphs appears, I open my mouth to begin the presentation, but nothing comes out. My chest tightens, and my throat closes. I feel hot and nauseous. Chandler quirks an eyebrow at me on the other side of the screen, his eyes darting from me to the projector screen, but it’s as if I lost my ability to speak. Ken looks at me expectantly, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, waiting.
“Go on.”
I practiced this for weeks so I’d be prepared, but I can’t remember anything I was supposed to say. My morning was a shit show, and Chandler’s joke definitely didn’t help. I look at Chandler, and he looks at me. His eyes shift toward the men at the conference table, all of them impatiently waiting for someone to say something, but I can’t. Chandler raises his eyebrows and clears his throat, then turns to address the room.
"I'll take it from here," he says and gives me a smug look that’s so subtle I'm sure it went unnoticed by everyone else in the room. He knows I’ve choked, and I’m sure he’s enjoying it. Because Chandler is a fucking asshole.