Trying to Throw my Arms Around the World

On the line

On the line

After the staff meeting Lucy summoned me to her office. She’d been uncharacteristically short with everyone, as if she’d had the most catastrophic weekend of her life. Whatever it was this time, I thought, she could hardly blame me.

“You’re going to want to close the door for this one, Lee.” I racked and racked my brain to be at least a tiny bit prepared for the storm I saw building in the creases of her face, but I had no idea. “As I said in the meeting, your articles about Joan Harris have become the most popular on the website this week.” Was I in for the surprise of my life? Was Lucy about to personally praise me? But what about the turmoil in her eyes? “We managed to couple them with a few lucrative advertising deals.” She slammed her notepad on her desk, causing some papers to ruffle with the force of the puff. “So much so, in fact, that I considered negotiating with Joan’s PR people to extend the arrangement.” Was that what this was all about? Prolonging my boot camp torture? I wasn’t sure I was up for that. Also, Lucy wasn’t exactly trying to butter me up towards agreeing − not that I would have a choice in the matter. “Until, first thing this morning, I got a call from Joan herself, demanding to cut the whole thing because it’s not working out anymore.” The look she shot me made me shuffle and squirm in my seat. “What does that mean, Lee? What’s not working out anymore? And why did you say everything was going well in the staff meeting?” Oh fuck, another woman scorned. “And please, for the love of God, do not tell me that you slept with her. I swear to you, I will fire you on the spot.” I swallowed slowly, trying to buy some time, but apparently that was enough for Lucy. “Oh, Lee. You’ve finally done it. You’ve literally screwed yourself out of a job.”

“OK, I can fix this. I’ll go see her and I’ll make it right.”

“What are you going to do? Work some of that Lee Harlem Robinson charm? It only goes so far, trust me, I have first-hand experience.”

“Please, give me a chance. I can turn this around.” I had to say something. My job was on the line.

“You’d better. If we lose this deal, you’re out. It’s as simple as that.”

At one PM, our scheduled time of meeting, I reluctantly knocked on the door of Joan’s gym but I failed to get a reply. I just heard loud bass-lines thudding through the walls. I opened the door and found Joan beating the crap out of punch bag − a lot of rage balled up in those fists. 

“Hey,” I shouted. Startled, she turned around, sweat running from her hair down her face, muscles bulging, eyes popping. “Can we talk?” She gave the leather bag a few more punches, for intimidation purposes only, then grabbed a towel and dried her face.

“I told your boss that our deal is off.”

“I’m sorry for being insensitive, but I’m about to lose my job over this.”

“I also told your boss that it wasn’t your fault. I explicitly asked her not to blame you.”

“Yeah well, she does.”

“Is she really going to sack you?”

“My behaviour has been rather unprofessional.”

“I didn’t mean for that to happen. What can I do?”

“Take me back to the slaughterhouse.” She sighed and bit her bottom lip, the way she always did before inflicting a particularly torturous exercise on me.

“All right. Suit up. We’ll talk terms once you’re on the treadmill.”

To be continued…