“That’s the spirit.” I half expect her to add,May the odds be ever in your favor, in Effie Trinket’s voice, before signing off with a chirpy, tone-deaf, “Have a great day, Sophie.”
“Great,” I sigh, before disconnecting the call.
The wheels are turning. Mark put me on the fire list. He knew when he called me this morning that Omar was trying to email me, I assume to set up an interview. He told me to ignore it and that it was a mistake. And he told Seth that half our team is being retained. There are only four people on our team! Which means I’m interviewing against the new guy who’s been with the company for two months, when I’ve been on this team the longest, am the most experienced, the most knowledgeable, the only woman, and suspiciously the only one Mark seems to have it out for.
My cell rings, interrupting my thoughts. It’s an unknown number with a 614-area code. It’s coming from the home officein Columbus. “Hello, this is Sophie,” I answer professionally, but on the verge of screaming in frustration.
“Good morning, Sophie. This is Nate Garcia. I’m Omar Walker’s assistant.”
“Morning, Nate.” I can’t bring myself to say good.
“How’re you holding up? I imagine you’ve had a bit of a shock this morning; I’m so sorry.” He sounds genuine.Why doesn’t this guy work for HR?
“Not gonna lie, I’ve been better. I’m feeling a bit blindsided at the moment.”
“Mark.” It’s said with disdain.
“Sonofabitch,” I say under my breath.
He barks out a laugh, and it sounds like agreement. “I like you, Sophie. No wonder Omar fought for you. Let’s get this interview scheduled so you can show him what you’re made of.” I hear him typing on a keyboard. “Omar was trying to be efficient when he emailed you this morning, but bless him, the man is a menace when it comes to managing his calendar. Tuesday is a travel day, and he has back-to-back meetings all afternoon in the Atlanta office. Any chance you’re available to move the interview to Monday?”
“It would appear my calendar is wide open, so yes, Monday would be fine.”
“I see you’re not in the Columbus office, but the org chart only states that you WFH.”
“WFH?” I question.
“Work from home. Where do you live? I like to be mindful of time zones. Don’t want to schedule you for an eight AM eastern time interview and ask you to get up in the middle of the night if you live in California.”
“I live in Arvada.” Realizing he’ll have no clue where that is, I add, “It’s a suburb of Denver.”
“Ah, lovely. You must be a skier?” he asks, making small talk.
People think that because Denver is in close proximity to the mountains, by default, everyone who lives here skis or snowboards. False. I relay my one and only attempt with a dry laugh because it was a debacle. “I tried it once. Careening down the side of a mountain on a wing and a prayer isn’t sport; it’s a death wish. I spent the rest of the day in the lodge drinking hot chocolate and reading a book, thankful I’d narrowly dodged my demise.”
He laughs lightly, but sincerely. “I tried street luge once. A friend sold it asthe rush of a lifetime.” And then he adds flatly, “It was not.”
“Did you sit out the rest of the day roadside with a drink and a book, contemplating mortality too?” I ask, enjoying the light banter because it’s distracting me from the rest of the disaster.
“I spent the rest of the afternoon in the ER—fractured arm, bruised ribs, and a nasty case of road rash.”
I cringe. “Ouch.”
“Yeah, well and truly learned my lesson. Daredevil, I am not. So, I get that skiing wasn’t for you, you sane woman.” I hear him return to typing as he jumps back into planning mode. “Let me just open up Omar’s Monday calendar.”
I wait.
“Okie-dokey, it looks like he’s available from nine to ten, which is too early for you, noon to one, or five to six.”
“I can make any of those times work. Early is better for me; I’m a morning person.” I don’t know exactly what’s coming with this interview, but the fact that Mark is obviously being sketchy about this makes me want to crush it out of spite for the slippery little fucker. Speaking of fuckers, I glance toward the front window and remember that the Nespresso is still awaiting a cleanup in aisle ten and jot a reminder on a sticky note, so I don’t forget about it.
He begins humming. Is that “Run the World” by Beyonce? I feel like he’s trying to tell me something. “Let’s slot you in at nine, seven o’clock your time then.” Less than three seconds later my in-box pings with a Zoom meeting invite, because I haven’t logged out yet. “Any questions or anything else I can help you with, my friend?”
I’m emerging from the fog of confusion, and reality is setting in. Knowing I won’t get any answers from Mark and figuring I don’t have anything to lose, I ask, “I don’t know anyone from the management team on this invite, except Mark. Any advice or insight for the outsider? Are they all like him? I’d like to know if I’m walking into an ambush.” After all, if anyone is in the know, it’s always the assistant.
A low chuckle comes through the phone like I’ve touched a nerve. “Oh Sophie, this company needs more of you and less of them, if you know what I mean. You didn’t hear it from me, but Omar talked to agents, quality and training, and claims to get some background on you. They all showered you with praise. I would warn you against Mark, but you already know him; I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him—which isn’t far. I’m known for my wit, not my brawn. Steven Cassman is fake-nice and clueless. Travis Cotton is super analytical, very smart but emotionless, so he’s hard to read. Don’t let them intimidate you. And Omar, well, Omar got where he is because he’s intelligent and charismatic. He's looking forward to shaking things up. You’ll love Omar; everyone does.”
Well, that was more than I bargained for. “Thanks for your help. I really appreciate it.”
