Dear Jaime

Dear Jaime: Annoyed

"There are people, who the more you do for them, the less they do for themselves." - Jane Austen, Emma

***

            Sleepily, I sat at Leanne’s desk the next morning and stared into the dregs of my coffee. Today was the first morning in five days that I’d woken up without a drop of alcohol, and it wasn’t the greatest feeling in the world. It was 8:37am, which meant that I’d been sitting in a chair, staring at my cup, for thirty-seven minutes. I hadn’t even had the courage to check what today’s complaint of the day was – I was mustering up the good cheer. It wasn’t going so well.

          Groaning, I swivelled around in the enormous chair to stare out Leanne’s forty-third story window. It was a beautiful view of the downtown core of the city, and the beautiful day outside did not match my dark mood. Glumly, I sat there until I was interrupted by someone barraging into my office.

          The door slammed open and someone rushed in, babbling at the speed of panic.      “Leanne, you won’t believe what happened, this is awful, the things it will do to the reputation we’ve worked so hard to build for Jaime, all destroyed by some prank, I really don’t know how this happened, but we’ll get to the bottom of this, I’ve already scheduled a recovery meeting, and I’ve been calling you but you haven’t been answering your phone, we’re going to need something extra touching for tomorrow’s issue to cover this up somehow, and—”

          The man was still talking without any indication that he intended to take a breath anytime soon, so I decided it was time to face the music. Literally.

          Slowly, I turned the chair around to look at the man in front of me. The moment he saw my face, his supply of oxygen abruptly cut off, finishing with an embarrassing, strangled squeak.

          “You’re not Leanne,” he said in a small voice.

          I stretched my lips into a polite smile. “No, I’m not.”

          “THEN WHO THE HELL ARE YOU, AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HER OFFICE?” he suddenly bellowed, flecks of spit flying away from him. Thankfully, I was out of range.

          I frowned at him, still calmly seated behind the desk which I suddenly considered mine.

          “I could ask you the exact same thing,” I told him, though I had a pretty good idea who he was.

          He eyed me in disbelief. “Who am I?” he said, as though he couldn’t believe there was someone on the planet who could ask such a question. “I am only the Head Editor of The Beacon, the most widely-read national paper in this country. I am only the man who has worked tirelessly to build this paper to soaring heights, making names such as Phil Foster, Kenneth Owens, Shawna Ferrell, and Dear Jaime become household names! I am only in charge of ensuring that every piece of news delivered to the public through our paper is accurate, insightful, informative and inspirational!”

          I yawned, and glanced down into my cup of coffee.

          He looked enraged at that, but I didn’t do well with people who stormed into my space, raised their voice at me, and proceeded to try to intimidate me while glorifying themselves.

          I raised an eyebrow at him. “Sorry, were you finished, or were you only getting started?”

          He looked ready to throw me from the window, forty-third story and all. “Where. Is. Leanne?” he finally growled.