Jessica
IDESERVED THE promotion. Not because I felt entitled based on my seniority or status with the company, but because I had the education, the work ethic, and dozens of satisfied clients singing my praises. Working as a digital media strategist for Emerald City Advertising for the past three years had filled out my resume nicely, providing me with a multitude of skills and even a few awards to boast about. Don Hinkle, the agency’s managing director, had all but assured me the job was mine.
But I didn’t get the promotion.
Instead, Don pulled me into his office to inform me he’d offered the job to Chad Alders. Chad Alders, my work nemesis, was an insolent bully, and the primary reason I lay awake at night fretting about my designs.
If I hadn’t already been sitting when Don delivered the news, my legs would have collapsed, and I would have face planted onto his desk. “Chad?” I asked, certain I’d misheard. “You’re making Chad the department manager?”
He gave me a sympathetic smile. “I know you and Chad don’t always see eye-to-eye, but he has some great ideas to move this agency forward.”
How could we see eye-to-eye when we weren’t even the same species? Chad was a festering fungus with a God complex. He didn’t have great ideas. His latest design for McCall Medical Group was the picture of ignorance and frivolity, from the tacky neon lettering to the inappropriate sexualized image. When I’d voiced my critiques, he countered with condescending allegations that my designs were “too safe” and encouraged me to “step out of my box.” He somehow managed to make me sound like the industry’s biggest wimp as he drew attention away from his crap-lousy ad. And this wasn’t the first time he’d put out garbage. His unorthodox methods usually resulted in rushed, haphazard designs, whereas my marketing utilized data from focus groups and qualitative research.
And now he was my manager. It felt like an enormous slap in the face to all my hard work and dedication.
“I know you’re disappointed,” Don said, leaning forward in his chair and clasping his hands in front of him.
Disappointed?This was the third time I’d been passed up for a promotion. The first two times, I lacked experience and the more qualified candidate won.
But this time… Chad?
There was no justification for losing to that ignorant, flashy poser. I wanted to rage and scream and demand an explanation, but that wasn’t my way. Instead, I sat there trying to catch my breath, gripping the chair’s armrests like they could magically shield me from this new reality. I didn’t want Chad to be my manager. Heck, it was bad enough I had to endure his misguided critiques as a coworker. The realization that he’d now have power over what I created tied my stomach in knots. Still, I held my tongue, just like I always did. Don had already given the position to my nemesis and nothing I could say would make a difference. Speaking up now would only make me appear petty or confrontational and possibly endanger my job.
“Why don’t you head to lunch,” Don suggested, standing to signify that our meeting was over. He ambled over to the door and opened it, waiting expectantly. “Take a couple of hours to process.”
Chad got the promotion, and I got an extended lunch to deal with my disappointment. He’d get a raise and more responsibility, while I’d be the recipient of pity-filled glances and whispers about how I needed extra time to deal with my girly emotions.
Awesome.
On wobbly legs, I stood and made my way out of Don’s office into a sea of grey cubicles. Chad’s desk was on the way to mine, and as I walked around the dividers, I prayed that he was either on a break, choking on his victory, or that I could gain temporary invisibility long enough to slip by him unnoticed.
No such luck. The jerk was sitting at his desk. Wearing a smug smile that complimented his douchy bright blue corduroy blazer and skintight beige slacks, he couldn’t draw more attention to himself if he tried. His outfits were almost as showy and tasteless as his marketing, making me question Don’s decision even further.
Is this really who we want representing our company?
I was no fashionista, but at least my outfits were suited for the office, not a Las Vegas show stage. My insulting thoughts made me feel petty and vindictive. That wasn’t who I wanted to be, so I tried to shake them off.
“Good morning, Jessica,” Chad said with a grin, no doubt eating up every ounce of my soul-crushing disappointment.
There was nothing good about this morning, but I forced a smile anyway. “Mornin’.” I made myself march past him and sat at my desk, silently dying a little inside. Holding my breath, I waited for him to follow and gloat. When he didn’t make an appearance, I thanked my lucky stars and opened my company-issued laptop. I had a ton of work to do, but couldn’t muster up the focus or desire to tackle any of it.
How could he give the job to Chad? What did I do wrong?
The question hammered my brain, forcing me to evaluate every interaction I’d had with Don. He’d never expressed dissatisfaction with my work. Yesterday he’d dropped so many hints I’d get the job that I updated my business cards in preparation.
“Are you okay?” my coworker, LaTisha, asked, interrupting my thoughts as she slipped inside my cubicle. “You keep thinking that hard, and you’re likely to blow a fuse.”
LaTisha was our top data analyst and one heck of a nice person. She always seemed to know when I was in a funk and needed a pick-me-up. However, I was still trying to process what had just happened in Don’s office, and I wasn’t ready for her soft eyes, encouraging smile, or concerned questions.
“I’m fine.” I opened my email and pretended to look for something, hoping she’d get the hint.
“Chad giving you a hard time again?” she asked, tenacious and observant as ever.
The sudden lump in my throat made speaking impossible. I wanted to cry or yell or hit something. I settled for a stiff nod.
“You’re too nice, Jess. These guys continue to wave their dicks around because they know you won’t rip their balls off.”
Too nice. Too safe. Why did all my qualities suddenly sound so negative? “This is a place of business,” I replied. “No physical mangling should be required.”
