Page 5 of Wrong Car, Wright Guy
I mutter in reply a small, “Yes, sir,” scampering after him like a frightened little puppy. No one around here dares to call Gerald Brooks anything except ‘sir’. He yells when he’s happy, he yells when he’s annoyed. And when he’s angry, he positively booms. I swear I pee a little every time he says my name.
Rushing to keep up with him, I make it through his office door a second behind him, then promptly sit in the seat he points to.Am I fired now?
Being the station boss, you’d imagine Gerald’s office would be large with a big window overlooking a park or something. But Gerald Brooks’s office is nothing more than a hole in the wall, crammed with filing cabinets and a desk that you can barely see the surface of due to all the files and coffee cups that cover it. The only window in here leads out to the bullpen, through which he can often be seen standing and glaring out at his employees.
In a way, it suits him. He’s a man who doesn’t give a fuck. He does things his way and has no desire to change. That’s why he still conducts business like computers haven’t been invented yet—paper only. Hence, the filing cabinets and files overwhelming the space.
Gerald moves his bulky body around to the other side of his desk, plucking a folder from somewhere inside the stack and slapping it on the desk in front of me. “Read it. Sign it. Then get your ass in the meeting room.”
“Ah. OK.” I open the folder as he takes a seat on his creaky chair.
“It’s your new employment contract and non-disclosure,” he clarifies with a grunt, you know, just in case I can’t read the bold print in front of me that says as much.
“I’ll just read it first,” I say, flashing him a quick smile. He harrumphs.
You know that actor Tom Selleck? Well, Gerald Brooks looks like a salt and pepper haired, slightly more weathered version of him. He’s probably the only man I’ve ever met who can successfully pull off a mustache and not look like a porn star from the seventies.
“Don’t have all day here, Casey,” he grumps.
“Do you have a pen?” I ask. A blue biro flicks across the desk and rolls to a stop on the open folder. “Thanks.”
Picking it up, I start initialing each page as I scan the terms. From what I can see, it’s exactly like my previous contract, except the show I’m working on has changed along with the hours I’m working. As I get to the final page, I hold the pen over the signature line, almost ready to sign when I spot one glaring error.
“Uh…”
“Is there a problem, Casey,” Gerald barks, his eyes pinning me to the spot.
I squirm in my seat. I hate being yelled at. “It’s just that the job title is wrong. It says I’m a personal assistant, not a board operator.”
“And?”
I gulp. “And I’m…I’m a board operator.” My voice squeaks uncontrollably.
“Not anymore,” he states, his voice still gruff as he reaches over and flips the page.
“But…” I prepare myself for an argument. He might be intimidating, but I’m not the type to sit back and be trampled all over when I perceive things to be unfair.
Still, he doesn’t give me the chance. “And before you start complaining that this is some kind of demotion, you can stop. You got a raise.” He taps his finger against the remuneration section and I just about balk.
“That…that’s almost double what I was earning before,” I whisper.What the hell?
Mr.Brooks mirrors the sentiment. “I don’t know what the hell he wants with you, kid. But he insisted it had to be you.”
“He actually asked for me byname?” I ask. “Why? I don’t even know him.”
He shrugs. “Who fucking knows, Casey. But whatever he wants, I expect you to keep that man fucking happy.”
“Um, I’m pretty sure that’s sexual harassment, sir.” I don’t care who this Tanner Wright is, there’s no way I’m going to fuck him just to keep him happy. I haven’t read the contract properly, but I’m fairly certain prostitution is still illegal and isn’t in my job description.
“I said keep himfuckinghappy. Notfuck himhappy.” He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Everyone is so fucking sensitive these days. But to put this shit in perspective for you kid, we’re in trouble—this station, everyone here. If this show doesn’t do well and bring in some big advertising dollars, then we’re all screwed. I’m definitely not asking you to sleep with the man, I wouldneverdo that. But I am counting on you to do your job, keep him happy and keep himhere. We need this.”
I suck in a breath. This is far more responsibility than I was prepared for when I woke up this morning. Far more than I can probably handle. I can barely manage to save myself from my own stupidity on any given day. How the hell am I supposed to save the station from closing down? But the money… I canreallyuse that money. Ramen noodles take your hunger away, but when they’ve been your primary source of sustenance since freshman year in college, they get a little tired. I’ll be able to afford regular, tasty groceries.AndI might even be able to afford new clothes when those tasty groceries grow my waistline. This is sounding more like winning the longer I think about it.
“Can I count on you or not, Casey?” Mr. Brooks barks.
“You can,” I say, my voice steadier than it’s been the entire time as I sign the contract in a flourish and hand it back to him. I’m not sure I even knowhowto be a personal assistant, but I guess I’m about to find out.Here goes nothing.
Three
