Page 17 of Mechanic

She doesn’t wait for me to wave her in. As she approaches, her arms start moving as fast as her mouth.

“Roderick, I got no lettuce. The tomatoes are bruised. They delivered twice as many pounds of catfish than we ordered and forgot the tuna.”

Three more people walk in, every one of them complaining and bitching about something.

Closing my eyes for a minute, my patience snaps. Putting my fingers to my mouth, I blow a sharp, loud whistle that causes the entire room to fall silent.

Chuckling coming through the phone gives away the caller without me having to look at the caller ID.

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” I tell Aymond before addressing the people in my office. “All of you need to get in a line.”

They all start objecting at once.

“Hey!” I manage to yell over the multiple voices before they quiet down again. “As I was saying, form a line, starting in the order you arrived. I will get to you one at a time.”

Leaning my ass against the desk and crossing my arms over my chest, I wait them out until they finally start leaving my office. As the last person reaches the door, I call out.

“Close the door…please,” I tack on the last bit as an afterthought.

My shoulders sag as a loud voice snags my attention.

“Shit!” I exclaim, jumping and grabbing my phone.

“Have your hands full, do you?”

“Fuck, dude. How do you do this every day?” My question has Aymond laughing hard.

“You…you need a Sha-Shawna,” he says between laughs.

“What the fuck is a Shawna?” I bark out, completely annoyed by this conversation.

Tomorrow is the soft opening of the casino, and there is so much that I still need to check on. This conversation is becoming tedious quickly. Aymond’s voice brings my focus back to our conversation.

“Not a what, a who,” he says, confusing me for a moment. As if reading my mind from across the country, he elaborates. “Shawna is my assistant. This place doesn’t run without her. You need to find an assistant. Find your own Shawna,” he states.

“Yeah,” I respond with an undignified snort. “I’ll start interviewing in my spare time,” my snarky tone has Aymond laughing even harder.

Slumping into my chair, I lean forward, placing one elbow on the desk. Pinching the bridge of my nose, my exhaustion is catching up to me.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” Aymond asks, his tone serious.

“Fuck no! I have at least seven people standing outside my door right now because none of them can think for themselves,” I gripe.

“Sorry, brother. We have five major conferences in town right now. It’s all hands on deck here,” Aymond says guiltily.

“Forget about it. This was my idea, remember? I thought it would be fun,” I say in a sing-song voice.

“Yeah, yeah, poor little rich boy. Cry me a fucking river,” he says jokingly.

“Listen,” I start, ignoring his jab. “There are people waiting for me. If I don’t get back to this, I won’t get any sleep tonight before the doors open.”

“Alright. Good luck tomorrow. Call me if you need anything,” Aymond says before ending the call.

After setting the phone down, I push back from the desk but pause before getting to my feet. Resting my elbows on my knees, my head hangs.

Aymond’s joke, while holding no malice, hit me square in the chest. I was born rich, and when my parents died in a plane crash, I became even richer.

The pilot was on drugs, unbeknownst to his employer, and made a major error mid-flight. When the co-pilot tried to fix the issue, the pilot became combative. All of the investigators could determine from the audio was the co-pilot was rendered unconscious.

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