Page 21 of Loathing My Boss
I am the worst person in the history of the world. I basicallybrokea living human’s physical body because it gave me a rush to think of the man I hate sleeping on the floor while I was cozy in a bed feet from him. I sleptsowell while hesuffered, and I have learnednothingfrom the guilt of this cruelty.
For, quite adamantly, I remain cruel.
I fall into the ranks of dictators, serial killers, people who sneeze near the buffet line.
Normally, I’ve made my peace with my less-than-tolerable character traits by this time—nine-thirty—of day.Normally, I have the precious eyes of Potato to gaze lovingly into a moment prior to my morning affirmations, which succeed in desensitizing me to my demeaning inner narrative.
Yes, I’m the worst, most useless person alive. What of it? Ask me if I care. I’ve already been over this.
Except today I have notalready been over this, because the woman’s bathroom was filled to bursting with writers and authors chatting in excited tones about their books andhow much they were going to get done in these next two weeks. Unable to relate—since they’re probably all amazing at their craft, and I was trying to concentrate as I mentally monologuedbrown hair, brown eyes, the pale flesh of a Victorian child with dysenteryin the mirror—I could add nothing butoh, I’m just a personal assistantto the conversation when they asked me whatIwas working on.
The personal assistant thing was a lie, of course.
I’m working on what I’malwaysworking on.
Not. Losing. My. Mind.
“It’s adorable!” I lift the square, ultra plush, sloth face…dog bed.
Viktor’s weary eyes take in the tag on the pillow, squinting without his glasses on. “Is that…for a dog?” Brow furrowed, he lifts his attention to the store around us, taking in the shelves filled with unrelated menageries. “What is this place…? I know I have to permit this business to be here…but…what?”
An excellent question.This placeis the closesteverything storeto the ranch, dropped unceremoniously in the middle of a nowhere road leading back to the heart of town. It supplies the spattering of neighborhoods that scatter the countryside of Sunset with their random needs.
Like big, fluffy, pillow-shaped, sloth-decorated dog beds.
“It’s the most supportive pillow we’ve found in this place.” I hug it, to show that it’s a friend, and not let on how much I like the idea ofViktor Bachelorsleeping ona dog bed. “Everything else has been wimpy. Good for our purity fort. Not good for your neck.”
Viktor rubs his neck, looking down at me like a man who already regrets stealing me from the loving flippers of my fish for these two weeks. When I don’t show a singlesign of budging, he caves. “Can’t we just pick up some pillows from home? It’s not that far a drive. And you spent hours researching the pillow brand I have right now for the sake of my neck.”
“We have twenty minutes to get back to the ranch for a morning motivational speech before lunch, then the rest of the day is packed with writing. Even one night without good support won’t help your already broken back.”
Viktor’s eyes drift, and I read how little he needsmotivationto write in them before he opens his mouth. He, oddly, does not speak the obvious—skip themotivational speech, get the pillows from home—as he reaches for the dog bed. “Fair enough. Grab the fort. We need to get going.”
Grinning like an imp when he turns his back, I fill my arms withpurity wallpillows and trot after him.
?
“Today as we’re all spending our dedicated work time writing alone, just know that you arenotalone. Not while you’re here. Together—even if we are separated in our own rooms—we’re going to achieve our goals.” The woman at the head of the largest room in the ranch house, where we had our orientation and take our meals, smiles, clenching her fist like a trueachiever of dreams.
The room explodes with applause—I among them—because this is some of thebeststand up I have ever seen. I can’t believe I was worried these people would be authors with their own assistants and the experience to out my less-than-professional plots. I’ve been choking back the violent urge toguffawthroughout this entiremotivational speech.
Believe in yourself!
You’ve got this!
Gowrite that book!
It’s toddler advice. And a seven-figure author is sitting beside me, stone faced, while some of the saps in here who clearly have never had support for their “career” before sniffle and cry. To my left, a few tables up, some women are embracing. To my right, a few tables back, determination crosses a man’s face. He looks young. Preppy. I bet he saved all his piggy bank money for this event and he expects it to be where he gets hisbig breakin the author world.
Except, this isn’t reallyauthorworld, now is it? I don’t recognize anyone, and I’m about as deep as one can get into author stuff.
These. Are writers.
Writers who keep recognizing Viktor, gasping, and being too shy to approach him.
I do not blame them.
Viktor isbig. Formidable big.I bitebig. Add the sore neck I gave him, which is still bothering him, and he looks like he’s going to murder anyone who gets within a foot of him.
