Page 19 of My Boss

“Call it what you will. I understand that in college you were bored and needed a hobby, but you are an adult now. God gave you talent for a reason. With such abilities, you should have been in a managerial position long ago and paid off the loan for the apartment. Not to mention having a husband and children. You are thirty years old.”

“Twenty-eight. And I’m not going to waste the rest of my life on a job I don’t like.” I take a sip of bitter tea. I feel bad.

I made the same mistake again and visited my dear family’s nest, or rather the dragon’s den. Why do I always do this to myself and come to this toxic house? At least my mother is home alone today. In duo with my father, they would have created a symposium. The topic of the lecture: “How to Debilitate your Daughter and Deprive her of Self-Esteem—Advice from Loving Parents.”

“No one likes their job,” states my mother in an expert voice.

“You speak as if you know all the working people in the world.”

“I know life and I know people. You work, you earn a living, and after work there are household chores lined up waiting for you: cooking, laundry, ironing, children, husband… And if you are well-organized, there may be a little time left for pleasure.” Thus she dispenses her wisdom on me, which turns my brain into mush and it oozes out through my ears. I’ve heard it so many times that I could recite everything from memory awakened from sleep in the middle of the night. “Do you think I like to get up at five in the morning to make it to the warehouse in time for the seven o’clock delivery? Or that Father loves working shifts on the conveyor belt?” She takes the cutlery out of the basket and opens the drawer. “Wake up, Maria, and make some good use of yourself. Do you know how many people would give everything they’ve got for the gift you have? And look at you! You don’t even try. You want to destroy everything for some old junk, not even worth a penny.”

I wince because it hurts like hell to hear her judge my passion like that.

“But I love this junk, don’t you understand? Besides, I have already explained to you so many times. Algebra calculated the old-fashioned way is just about as useful today to people ascash to Croesus. There are computers and spreadsheets much faster than my brain. These days no one counts anything in their head. You put data into a table, and you have the result in a nanosecond.”

“Nonsense. You simply can’t sell yourself as you should.”

“I am not a sack of potatoes at the market to sell myself.”

“Don’t give me any lip.” She throws me a sharp look. “Talk to your brother, his consignment car business is thriving. Maybe he could teach you some techniques, give you some advice on how to present yourself.”

Here we go. Praising the firstborn.

“I’m neither a car nor Jarek. I’m your daughter and I will live my life my way, whether you like it or not.” I get up from the chair and before my mother has time to gasp for air, I take my bag from the backrest and announce, “I have to get back to work. Thanks for the tea.”

“Are you working on a Saturday? I thought you were going to stay for lunch.” Mother follows me as I head for the door. “Father will be here in half an hour.”

Sure. And my ulcer will flare up after such a lunch. Thank you, I’ve been through this before. To keep my internal organs healthy, I limit eating with my family to twice a year, on Christmas Eve and the first day of Easter. My body simply is unable to digest any more shared feasts.

“I have to finish the report,” I say—a bare-faced lie!—and leave.

When I get off the bus in my neighborhood (because the purchase of a working battery for my Pandziak car is still waiting for better days), my mood immediately improves. Birds are chirping in the green poplars, the sun is shining, it’s warm. Beautiful. I take a deep breath, taking in the serene aura, and decide that I’ll go home to get a blanket, a book, sandwiches, and read in the park by the pond in the shade of the weepingwillows. At six o’clock, on the other hand, I go bowling with Toska, Nina and Artur. I can’t wait because, lately, the four of us rarely manage to get together. It promises to be a wonderful continuation of the day.

I walk cheerfully toward the apartment building, catching the sun’s rays. It’s so warm that I roll up the sleeves of my blouse, wondering if I should wear a bikini top to the park, expose my slightly pale body to the sun and air it out after winter…

My musings are interrupted by the sound of the phone. I pull out my cell phone. The number is restricted.

Shit.

I can feel my good mood slowly starting to slip away. I remember perfectly well who called me from the restricted line last time, and I have absolutely no desire to talk to him now.

Oh no, Dear Jan. Hell will freeze over before I let you spoil my Saturday lazy time. I throw the phone in my bag and continue toward home. But the jerk calls again. Ring-a-ding. I’m about to get a stroke. What a pain in the ass.

Maria, take it easy. Don’t let it spoil your day.

Serenity, tranquility, relaxation. I deserve it after the past weeks of slogging at work. I ignore the ringing phone with all my might, which apparently my boss doesn’t give a shit about because it continues to ring and ring, holy fuck, ring incessantly and intrusively! Wacko.

Or maybe it wasn’t him after all? Maybe something happened? Maybe my mother had a stroke after I left the house? And I lied to her so brazenly and didn’t want to have dinner with them. Maybe if I had stayed, nothing would have happened to her.

And I got wound up, damn it. Now I have to pick it up.

“Hello.”

“I need you today for a customer meeting.” I hear Jan’s firm composed voice in the receiver.

No “Good morning,” no “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” no “Sorry to bother you on a Saturday…” Just straight from the get-go. Meeting. On a Saturday!

I think he’s nuts. I’m not going to do it.

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