Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 85177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
“Would you like to elaborate on what’s got you pissed off today?” I don’t look up from my computer as she begins to pace.
“This is utterly ridiculous, Bastian. Why do we have to cater to these old assholes anyway?”
“They’re called shareholders,” I say blandly and keep typing.
“Whatever. It’s a bunch of wrinkly men in power that make all the decisions for this company, and I’m supposed to just sit back and smile like a pretty little woman.”
I stop typing and lean back in my seat. “Can you tell me a time when you actually sat back and smiled?”
“Well, no.” She blinks and then shakes her head. “But that’s beside the point.”
“What is your point? I’m busy.” I pause as she lets out a growl of frustration and blows her dark curls out of her face.
Our hair is so similar that I wonder if I ever grew it out, would it be identical to hers? As it is, I keep mine shorter so the curls don’t fall in my eyes.
“This.” She slams the papers on my desk in front of me, and I glance down.
“This is the invoice for the annual board member event.” I look up at her for the problem and she points at it again like I’m blind. “The numbers look right.”
“It’s not the numbers, Bastian, it's what they’ve booked.” She points to one of the line items and I read what it says.
“Cocktail waitresses? We always have catering provide wait staff, so you’re going to have to be more specific.”
“The theme is Gentlemen’s Club! They’ve got the waitresses dressing in bunny costumes like Playmates. It might as well be a pimps and hoes party.”
“Selma—”
“Don’t Selma me. I’m not crazy, Bastian. This is unprofessional. We can’t have women walking around half naked with these old men leering at them. It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, not because I don’t agree, but because I don’t want to argue. “I don’t have time for this.”
“That’s all you’ve got to say?” She straightens and crosses her arms over her chest. I love my sister, but there won’t be an easy way to answer this.
“The board decides every year what kind of party we have. The planning committee’s job is to hire companies that are willing to give them what they want. Your job in accounting is to pay the invoices. That’s it.”
“So you don’t have an opinion on this misogynist crap being done under your nose?”
“My opinion is to stay on the board's good side until after the shareholders meeting.” She’s not satisfied by my answer. “I would never want any woman to do what she isn't comfortable with.”
“So how do you condone this?”
“I’m not saying I do, but if it will make you feel better I’ll speak to HR.”
“That’s all I’m asking.” I raise an eyebrow at her, and she shrugs. “Well, maybe not all I’m asking, but it’s a good start.”
“You’re not attending the party,” I say, and it’s not a question. “I need these old assholes happy when it’s time to vote on me taking over.”
“I will never understand your ambition here.” She takes her papers off my desk and goes to the door. Before she opens it, she turns back to me, and there’s a sad look in her eyes. “This was supposed to be just a paycheck. When did it become your life?”
Without another word she walks out, and I’m left with her bomb of judgment and the mess it makes.
When our mom passed away last year, I think a piece of Selma died with her. She has always had a little anarchist’s heart with a feminist attitude, but she’s leaned into her anger more than ever since then. I try not to feed into her frustration because it only sends her down a dark spiral where she lashes out. And guess who her favorite target is.
Being raised by a single mom shaped me in ways I didn’t realize until I became a man. Our dad took off when I was around three, right after Selma was born. We found out later he had another family, and we weren’t even the first.
If our mom cared, she never let it show and only used him leaving as a reason to work twice as hard for us. She busted her ass working as a housekeeper for rich people in Atlanta, and even cleaned offices on nights and weekends.
She did it to take care of us and make sure we didn't go without. As soon as I could I started helping her clean and eventually saved enough to go to college. I got a degree in business, and Selma followed behind, getting hers in accounting.
Every day I’m thankful my mother got to see us become something and that we were able to take care of her in the end. But my heart aches that she won’t be here to see the life I build in the future, even though I know she’s looking down on me.