So I walked into the office, “Hey, how we doing?” I was sporting one of my better shirts, trying to close that gap, or add fuel to the fire.
Big boss is there, looks at me over our shared pair of reading glasses. New employee is next to “mi patron,” and they’re both looking at a computer screen, more instruction on the in and out details of the business.
Boss’s cell rings, he takes a call from our accountant person, who has obviously just misplaced a hundred dollars. Just catching snippets of the conversation, we’re not worried because he has bemused look on his face.
He hangs up.
“Somebody needs to go over there and slap her around,” mi patron says to the office.
I had my cell in my hand, having just spent some time working out a deal with a Gemini for a post Mercury RX reading. I just walked in the door.
Without missing a second, the pair of folks looking over at me. Mi Patron with his serious eyes, over the glasses, the new girl, looking really long-faced.
“I just got here. Not me. I’m not going over there and slap her around. No, it’s not in the job description. Not me.”
“Kramer, I’ll drive you over there right now.”
I’m not sure if I whimpered or blubbered, first.
That’s the problem with being the bottom rung in the company’s [rather short> ladder.
Hawaiian Shirt Gap
One day last week, I wandered on into my second job to find another person there, a new employee. I guess that brings the company up to four employees. It’s just another friend of the boss, picking up a little part time work.
She’s Taurus, she works mornings, I work afternoons, it’s all good.
Or maybe not.
She’s taken to emulating my style. Shorts, sandals, T-Shirt, and then, one day, a Hawaiian shirt.
This is bad. This is very bad.
It’s my tasteless sense of style. It’s my idiom. It’s my icon.
I’ve been out shirted. That one shirt she had on? Brighter, louder, more heinous than anything I’ve got.
This is not good: I’m in trouble, as I’m facing a Hawaiian shirt gap.