The Apple of My Eye

The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face

September 2008.

It was customary for me to leave my office at certain hours and just go sit at the reception every now and again, say once or twice a month. I'd make myself comfortable there, behind the counter, right next to the receptionist. For a good ten, sometimes twenty minutes, I greeted clients who, because of the sheer size of the place, would probably never get acquainted with me unless they had some problem whose solution needed my involvement, in which case they'd go looking for me in my office upstairs. But if they never needed my help, I wanted them at least to know who I was. Just in case. Peazer called it building connections. And I kind of liked doing it, too.

Today there was a new girl behind the counter at the reception. I was sure I had never seen her before. I remember thinking she didn't strike me as particularly attractive. To be fair, I found her rather homely. She had these dark circles under her eyes, like she had been either crying or failing to get a good night's sleep or both. Her hair looked unkempt, and she wasn't wearing any makeup at all, which struck me as odd. And that uniform, Jesus Christ, how could they make those girls wear such an atrocious thing? It looked like a black body bag with a hole for the head to be sticking out of.

Still, since I was going to be sitting there with her for the next few minutes anyway, and no one had had the decency to introduce me to the new girl, I had to introduce myself, naturally, so I told her who I was and what I did there.

"Hi, I'm Stanley. I'm the coordinator around these parts."

She looked at me like she didn't give a fuck who I was. Rather than indifferent, though, she seemed truly bothered by my presence, as if my being there were profoundly wrong for some reason. Or maybe it was she who did not want to be there. I couldn't quite establish which, but something was off. Only after I had asked her what her name was in so many words did she have the courtesy to inform me, "Star."

She wouldn't have said anything otherwise. And what the hell kind of name was Star anyway? Who names their kid Star? Who are these people? And what was it with her aversion toward politeness? No "nice to meet you," no smile, not a nod, nothing. For a receptionist, she sure was acting a lot less receptionisty than one would expect.

I shrugged it off. Honestly, I couldn't give two shits about it, but, since I was going to be sitting there next to her, it had occurred to me that we might engage in some friendly, meaningless repartee, you know? Pretty standard behavior if you ask me. Now I didn't want to anymore. You want to sit there and look miserable? Go ahead, knock yourself out, see what I care.

A few people come in, I greet them warmly, make some small talk, as you do, and the next thing I know, this girl looks at me and blurts out, "I'm sorry, but you're not supposed to be here."

I fall silent for a moment, thinking about how I am going to respond to that.

"I'm not supposed to be what? Where?" I retort.

"You're not supposed to be sitting behind the reception counter. Only receptionists allowed here," she explains like the effort is exhausting her.

"Okay. You're new here, so let me explain this to you. I'm the branch coordinator. Okay? It's totally all right for me to be here. I'm greeting clients old and new, see? Building connections. It's part of what I do. So they know who to look for if they ever need to talk to me."

"Well, you're not supposed to be here, is all I know," she says like she's not even listening to me.

"Didn't you just hear what I said? What is going on here?"

"All I know is you're not supposed to be here. And now I'm gonna have to ask you to leave, sir."

Yes. She called me "sir." Like I hadn't introduced myself just minutes earlier. Like she had completely forgotten what my name was. Like I didn't even work there. Or maybe she hadn't been paying attention all along, more like it. How could she have forgotten my perfectly standard name when I remembered hers? She had been named after a luminous sphere of plasma flying across the sky, and I still remembered her name!

I had had enough of this broad. It was clear it wouldn't do me any good to start squabbling with her at the reception, so I just got up and left. Went back to my office upstairs. But I wouldn't just forget it. I couldn't. She was standing in the way of me doing my job, and that I could not tolerate.

I sent corporate an email inquiring whether the rules and practices had changed. Maybe I really wasn't supposed to sit at the reception anymore, who knew? You see, Peazer had been the one to tell me to do that occasionally, for mixing-and-mingling purposes. So what now?

Peazer must have read the email and made some calls, because not thirty minutes had gone by when the head of accounts receivable called me up on Skype and asked if he could have a word with me in my office.

"Sure. Come on up," I said.

So he did. This guy was a middle-aged gay man who had just been made head of the department. We hadn't had much of a chance to talk until now, but I thought he looked at me funny. Not funny in the way you look at someone you want to fool around with, though. Funny in the way you look at someone whose head you want on a stick, more like it. But I digress. He came into my office, shook my hand with a loose grip, and sat down awkwardly, rigidly upright, like he really didn't want to be there. Then he apologized for the girl's behavior and explained to me that she had meant well. She really had been instructed not to let anyone behind the reception counter who wasn't a receptionist. Whoever had told her that, however, had forgotten that, on occasion, I'd be sitting there meeting and greeting clients and associates.

Then he proceeded to explain that Star wasn't even a receptionist to begin with. She was only lending a hand. She had just been transferred from our other branch specifically to work in accounts receivable, but because the real receptionist had called in sick that day, well, there's your explanation.

This guy was talking to me in such a diffident tone that now I was feeling bad for having the nerve to make such a big deal out of it.

But there was more. He explained to me the girl had been made to transfer to our branch against her will. That she had only accepted it because she was from out of town and couldn't afford to be out of a job. And that the original plan had been for someone else to be transferred, not her, but something, he didn't know what, had happened to prevent it from happening. Star was a good girl, he assured me. She was just a little upset. And would I let it slide just this once?

His manner was insufferable, like he thought I was some kind of monster out to destroy everyone who dared to cross me so he had to tread carefully. Was that really how people saw me? I felt horrible.

"Of course, man. By all means. You didn't even have to ask me that. Come on," I said, trying to sound offhand.

"Oh, so this is the girl," I laughed to myself as I finally put two and two together.

I was sure I'd heard Peazer describe her as a young girl, though, and she didn't look all that young to me. Anyway, I understood now what she must have been going through, and I felt really uncomfortable. I wasn't guilty of anything, I knew that then and I know that now. But I was feeling selfishly sorry for having made myself look like a jerk in this girl's eyes, of all people. It felt as if I had used the do-you-know-who-you're-talking-to routine on her, and, when that didn't work, I bawled like a baby to the point where, in thirty minutes, even her superior knew what had happened and had to apologize to me on her behalf.

I was embarrassed. I was. But, hey, I really hadn't done anything wrong, had I?

The next day, there was an email from Star in my inbox. In it she apologized—yes, another apology—for the misunderstanding the day before. She was straight to the point, too. Didn't make a big deal out of it, didn't try to explain, didn't try to justify. Just a quick "I am sorry about the misunderstanding at the reception yesterday," and that was that.

Well, case closed, I thought. Show's over, nothing to see here, and all that. Let's move on with our lives now, shall we? I mean, let's face it, the whole brouhaha generated by the insignificant incident didn't make any sense at all.

I couldn't help but feel just a little intrigued, too. I mean, man, what was it with this girl? Did I really need this aggravation? Almost made me wish I had taken Peazer's suggestion and hired the boyfriend as my assistant. Would have spared me all this shit. Almost made me wish that. But not quite. I had hired me a nice aide who took excellent care of all her tasks and then some. No foul play there either, by the way. She was simply a very good assistant. Someone who was never late, never missed a day of work, and did every job I assigned her without complaint. What else can a busy man ask for?

A little peace of mind, that's what.