This boss of mine was pretty crazy. Mercurial (huge temper), pompous (high-falutin ideas), rich (RICH). And he was a mean ol' nasty grinchy scrooge if he felt like it. Actually, when I have the misfortune of watching Trump speak, I am totally reminded of this boss. He was like a bad combination of both Donald Trump and Nicholas Cage.
So he stood there shoving the phone in my hand every time it somehow made it's way out of my hand, telling me to google GOOGLE and call them, QUICK.
Let me just clear the air: most of the time he was actually pretty sharp and intuitive in business matters (that is, after all, how he got so rich, and also how our company was numero uno in the niche), but in this case, between you and me, I honestly don't know.
My coworkers, not having a grande huge floor of an office suite like mine, worked one floor down, so they obviously did not believe me and thought I made this up. But no.
It was sadly true.
I called up a few numbers while he stood there. I hedged around, not even sure what I was supposed to say, what excuse to give, what to ask. I mean, I was a freaking writer, not a telephone customer service rep. So he started wagging his head furiously, getting more mad each time I mumbled through a phone call. I started giving him the side-eye even as he was frothing like he had rabies. Maybe I should call 911, I thought.
For me or him, I don't know.
This is part 3 of a series of "Real Talk" pieces wherein I finally talk about my real life and share some (not so) scandalous short (and sweet!) stories. To follow from the start click on the label below for all posts in this series.
