“Mm-hmm,” she says. “Is that right?”
“Oh yes. It’s a struggle, but I know it’s a problem, and I’m working on it as part of my five-year personal-growth plan.”
“Are you working on the perfectionism, or the caring too much?” She’s taking the piss now, and I don’t blame her. She has my number, and she’s decided to have a little fun at my expense before kicking me to the curb.
“I’m working on both,” I say, “but I’m focusing more on the perfectionism because I think the caring too much may be rooted in that.”
“Ah, good plan. Two birds, one stone.” She runs her fingers through her hair, arranging her bangs just so. The name tag on her chest glints as she does it.
The other members of staff I’ve encountered during my interview process wear simple name badges. Rectangular gold bars with their names in black block letters. This one is bedazzled with tiny multicolored crystals and gemstones. The colors on the name badge match her elaborate nail art so closely that it’s unlikely to be a coincidence.
She jots my answer down and looks up. “Now, do you have any questions for me?” she asks, clearly reading from the script in front of her.
I’d kind of like to ask how she types with such long nails, but I’m not sure she’d appreciate the question, so I shake my head and ready myself to be seen out.
I feel a distinct wave of relief that my latest act of insanity has been thwarted. Thank God for women like Beverly Washington, who have fully functional bullshit barometers.
“Great,” she says brightly. “Then I’ll fill all this out”—she stacks the pages in front of her into a folder and snaps it shut—“and I’ll see you on Monday.”Wait. What?“And don’t you worry, young man. Give us a few weeks, and we’ll cure you of your perfectionismandyour caring too much. We’llcrushthatfive-year personal-growth plan. You’ll see. Student housing isrealgood like that.”
It takes me several long seconds to work out what’s happened. I’ve played a player and lost. I’ve wasted this woman’s time and insulted her intelligence, and as revenge, she’s sentenced me to a terrible, terrible job.
I should open my mouth and speak right now. I should tell her I don’t want it and that I can’t take it.
I should tell her I’m in trouble.
I should tell her I need to be stopped.
Instead, I say, “Gee, thanks for the opportunity, Beverly. I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Hey, kid,” she says in a quiet, personable way that almost makes me think she’s about to show mercy and release me from the latest in a series of gargantuan errors in judgment. “You can call me Bev… And if you’re gonna be late, make sure it’s because you stopped en route to get me coffee. Double shot. Cream. Two sugars.”
4
Lennon
AsIsuspected,workingin student housing is the worst job imaginable. It’s boring and repetitive, and there is an endless stream of complaints and issues to deal with. We receive hundreds of emails and calls per day, most of them from students who are entitled and irate about the—usually—minor inconveniences that have befallen them. No matter how many issues we resolve, the same number, if not more, pop up the next day.
Bev is our team leader, and while I’ve quickly developed a healthy respect for her, I’ve yet to work out exactly what motivates her. I know I’m here as a punishment, that’s abundantly clear, but I can’t work out why she’s here. She’s been working here for years and is well-liked and well-feared. She could easily be running the entire student services department if she wanted. Why she’s still in this corner of housing, dealing with this low-level shit, I don’t know.
She’s allocated me to the desk next to hers, no doubt to keep an eye on me. Like I said, her bullshit barometer works just fine.
Anna sits to my right. She’s pretty and blonde, one of those people who considers being employed to be a privilege. She takes pleasure in brightening the days of those around her. There’s every chance that when Bev asked about her greatest weaknesses during her interview, she said perfectionism and caring too much, and meant it.
Blake sits one place down on Anna’s right. He has the typing speed of a fiend and is habitually rude to students. There’s a disturbing lifelessness behind his eyes that leads me to believe he’s a sadist. That, or a sociopath.
I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think I prefer him to Anna.
I log a request for a plumber to investigate a blocked toilet, and glance up at the clock on the top right of my screen.
Ten eighteen.
A faraway itch I was dimly aware of rises to the surface and makes itself known in earnest. It slithers under my skin, causing sweat to bead on my palms. I scratch the back of my neck and chase the itch into my hair.
It’s Tuesday. The object of my ill-advised focus has twelve minutes left of art history. It’s his last class of the morning. After this, he’s free until museum studies this afternoon.
Not every week, but most weeks, he swings by Crema and picks up a couple of frappuccinos after art history class. One for him and one for the redhead.
Crema is an on-campus coffee shop that serves drinks and light meals. The drinks are decent, but the meals are overpriced for what they are, if you ask me. Still, it’s an institution on campus and popular with students and staff alike.
