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1580 Words
GrantEm Capital offered me more than double the signing bonus of other firms. That kind of money comes with a catch: stay for two years or give it back, prorated.
What nobody told me was that that basically gave Emmett Lasker carte blanche to turn my life into hell for his sadistic pleasure. Nearly every Excel model and memo I turn in has to be redone. Almost every evening and weekend plan changed or canceled. And sleep? Ha ha. It is to laugh.
But I grit my teeth and grind along because I refuse to give a single red cent back. Not after all the abuse I’ve suffered.
Eight more weeks. Then I’ll be free of Emmett Lasker and this indentured servitude.
–Me: I hope so.
I pray Emmett doesn’t ask me to stay late and tinker with the Excel model that’s due at two today. He has an uncanny talent for finding something for me to do when I’m getting ready to go home. Not only that, it seems like every task he assigns me that late always takes at least three hours.
Asshole.
The elevator pings; the doors slide apart.
–Me: Gotta go. Love you!
I add lots of kisses and hearts, then put my phone away as I walk into the waiting car. As it goes up, another text lands on my phone. I look down with a smile. Probably Dad thinking of one last thing to say.
My good mood vanishes.
–Emmett: Which is better? Diamonds or pearls?
He’s attached two images. The first is of diamond chandelier earrings that sparkle like stars on a navy velvet background. The second shows pearl drop earrings made with four pearls each. The ones on the very bottom look to be as big as my thumbnails. Holy cow.
Elegant and expensive. His current girlfriend of the month would like both. I’ve seen her photo, not because I was looking for it, but because Dad sent it to me a couple of weeks ago, texting, Is this your boss?
The picture showed Emmett smiling with a pretty redhead at some gala. Dad was impressed that Emmett was on the gossip sites because none of my bosses at Goldman Sachs ever made it to those sites. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Emmett Lasker is seen with different women on his arm all the time. No need to shatter Dad’s illusions.
I try to bring up a more specific image of the woman, but I’m too sleep-deprived. Besides, why does it matter? Diamonds and pearls are both classic.
–Me: Either should work great.
–Emmett: That’s not an answer. I asked which is better.
Yeah, and I told you neither because they’re both equally fine. But he’s not going to stop until I pick one. And if I pick the one he doesn’t like, he’s going to ask me to defend my selection.
Argh. Why doesn’t he bug his assistant instead? Marjorie is one of the best-dressed women in the office, and not utilizing her for something like this is a huge waste of talent. She wouldn’t be annoyed, either, because she loves shopping. According to her, humanity created civilization specifically for shopping.
When Emmett first started texting me for jewelry or fashion advice—within a month of my starting at GrantEm—I subtly asked Marjorie if he did the same with her. Maybe he was using me for a second opinion.
But nope. Marjorie has never been asked. Just me. Aren’t I special, hahaha.
When I requested that he quit asking me, he said he couldn’t. Apparently, I have excellent taste and he wants my input.
This is what happens when a man with terrible fashion judgment is the decider. I wear business casual I buy off clearance racks. My accessories are made with cubic zirconia or cheap semiprecious stones. The whole point of my wardrobe is to be functional and attractive on a budget.
So in the midst of working over a hundred hours a week, I also need to help Emmett pick out gifts.
The next two months can’t go fast enough.
–Me: What’s the occasion?
–Emmett: No occasion. Just something I’m thinking about.
I give my phone the side-eye. My boss isn’t the type to do things just because. He believes in efficiency and proficiency. He probably just doesn’t want to tell me what it’s about. For all I know, it could be an I’m-sorry-I-messed-up grovel gift.
Or maybe he’s doing this to annoy me enough to make me quit my job now, so he can claw back some of my signing bonus. Who knows what floats around in his diabolical mind?
–Me: Diamonds.
Three… Two… One…
–Emmett: Why?
Argh! The inevitable question! It’s like death and taxes. Like Thanos.
I should’ve picked the damned pearls. But I can’t take it back now. The one time I tried, he asked me so many questions I felt the need to create a PowerPoint presentation.
–Me: They look more expensive. They’ll mean more.
The redhead seemed like a diamond kind of woman.
–Emmett: Seems like a thoughtless reason.
Shallow, too, I add silently.
–Me: Cheap things are cheap for a reason.
–Emmett: Pretend you’re spending your own money.
Oh for God’s sake. I wouldn’t be spending my own hard-earned dollars on those things. I’d be making an extra payment on my student loan. Or saving it for a down payment on Dad’s future house in Florida.
But I can’t tell my boss I’d rather spend the money on unromantic practicality. Plus, his dates probably aren’t mired in debt.
–Me: The diamonds. They sparkle more.
–Emmett: So sparkly wins?
–Me: Yes.
Can I go now? I add silently.
–Emmett: Thanks. :)
Jesus, look at that smiley face. It’s more destructive than a hydrogen bomb.
Articles on bosses from hell always mention the ones who constantly berate you and never thank you. The authors of those articles clearly have never met Emmett Lasker. He flings his smiling “thanks” around like preemptive strike grenades. And it’s diabolical. There’s no way to complain about his behavior after a seemingly friendly “thanks.”
He is a bosshole for the twenty-first century. None of that classic pathological shouting stuff. There are too many people with cell phones recording your every move, eager to post your bad behavior on social media for public shaming. A modern bosshole can fake being a decent human while making your life miserable at the same time.
And it’s the worst. You can’t file a complaint with HR for abusive behavior or language. If he tells you at four thirty p.m. you have to redo all your work because he isn’t happy—never mind that his reason for dissatisfaction with your deliverable makes zero sense—then it’s you who must’ve failed to measure up, not him. If he calls you at eight thirty in the evening while you’re on a date, asking you to come in because he decided he doesn’t like some variable you used in your latest financial projections, that, too, is a sign of your failing.
I drop my phone into my purse. The elevator stops on my floor, and the doors open like the maw of a monster starved for innocent souls.
Taking a deep breath, I march forward to my desk. First one in the office today. As I boot up my laptop, my gaze falls on the standing desktop calendar. Five red circles around today’s date. With a big star above, a reminder of my all-important lunch meeting with Marion Blaire from the Blaire Group.
My heart does a funky little dance as excitement shivers through me. The Blaire Group is a well-regarded private equity firm in Arlington, Virginia. A month ago, I gave my résumé to a few headhunters I know, asking them to be discreet—which they promised to do, since they know it wouldn’t be good for me if my boss found out I was looking for a new position. Within a week, the Blaire Group contacted me for a Zoom interview. Afterward, they wanted to fly me out to Virginia for the in-person stuff.
I wish I could take the time off, but Emmett would never approve it, not on such short notice. I could always take a sick day, but last month a guy from another venture capital firm called in sick and got caught at the airport because somebody took a selfie and posted it on i********:, and a coworker from his firm recognized him. He was summarily fired and became the topic of tittering gossip.
So, one of the Blaire Group’s junior partners is going to interview me during his business trip to L.A. this week. He said he could swing a lunch interview after his final meeting.
I have high hopes. The hours are generally better in private equity, and I’m going to get a higher salary if I’m offered a position.
A step closer to paying off my student loan and buying Dad his dream home. Sweet!
Another text comes in. I check immediately; something from the Blaire Group about the interview? But it’s Rick, who’s up early this morning. Normally he sleeps in until nine.
–Rick: Hey, babe, you ready?
–Me: I just got to work. Ready for what?
–Rick: For our six-month anniversary trip!
- Writer
