for me with a look of irritation on his face.
Great. Back on the shit list.
Flushed and out of breath, I explained, "I stopped to help Thomas with something, sorry."
Abruptly, he turned away and went into his dressing room. I hesitated for a moment but followed him, unsure of my next step. I wasn't sure why he was irritated with me, it had only taken a second to speak with Thomas and it wasn’t like he knew we were talking about non-work-related activities.
I entered the dressing room and he pointed to the box on the floor. I could tell from his stiffness that the slight progress we had made downstairs was gone. Evaporated like water on a hot day.
"This package is filled with clothing and accessories. Please place them in the appropriate areas of the closet. Then take the camera, the one in the bottom drawer over there," I followed the direction of his finger as he pointed to of a row of drawers against the wall. "Photograph each outfit. In the box you will find an envelope with an itemized list that will provide information about what article of clothing goes in which section of the closet and binder." When he finished he turned without another word and walked through a side door I’d been instructed not to enter.
Wow. Okay, maybe he wasn’t so much a recluse but just a total weirdo.
Admittedly, he hadn't been overly friendly downstairs but he did, at least, appear sincere. Now he treated me like a child who had been caught with their hand in the cookie jar by a mother with eyes in the back of her head. What had I done? I ran through the possible offenses. Other than speaking to Thomas, and leaving him waiting for a moment, I hadn’t done anything wrong.
Whatever , I thought. Genevieve hadn’t told me about this side of Mr. Palmer. Quirky? Yes. A little strange? Sure. Standoffish? Definitely. But hostile and jerkish? No. Not at all. Actually, I felt like Genevieve really liked Mr. Palmer. She seemed genuinely fond of him. That meant whatever was going on between us was, well, between us.
I found a pair of scissors and opened the package. Inside were tightly packed stacks of dress and causal shirts, four or five pairs of nice pants and two pairs of jeans. There were also shoes, belts, and other accessories. I took a quick peek at the labels and rolled my eyes at the designer names. Ralph Lauren, Dior, Prada. I was sure the shirt I was holding cost more than my entire summer wardrobe. The items in this box alone would be enough to dress a normal man for a year, not just one summer. Honestly, he was going to run out of room soon to store it all.
It took me several hours to coordinate and photograph all the new items. As the minutes ticked by, I found myself glancing toward his door, wondering if he would ever come back. I’d created an intense fantasy about standing up to him, asking him what his problem was and why he thought he could treat me so badly.
I daydreamed of walking up to him and poking his chest with my finger, which of course would be difficult since he was so tall. I’d probably hit him in the belly, which would be way less effective. Either way, then I would force him to look me in the eye and admit he was being a jerk and that his first apology meant nothing. I wanted to tell him that he was a spoiled little boy who needed to treat people with respect.
That was what I wanted to do.
But he never emerged, so it didn't matter.
I sighed, because I’d never do it. I was too much of a chicken. I gathered a handful of leather belts and hooked them one at a time on a rack hanging from the wall. If I’d known I would spend my summer hanging up clothes, I would've gotten a job at the GAP.
I completed my work in the dressing room and went downstairs. I ate my lunch at my desk, finishing the data entry I'd started that morning. Thomas and Mark left while I was upstairs, and when the guy fixing the security system arrived late that afternoon I simply showed him what needed repairing. Mr. Palmer
Great. Back on the shit list.
Flushed and out of breath, I explained, "I stopped to help Thomas with something, sorry."
Abruptly, he turned away and went into his dressing room. I hesitated for a moment but followed him, unsure of my next step. I wasn't sure why he was irritated with me, it had only taken a second to speak with Thomas and it wasn’t like he knew we were talking about non-work-related activities.
I entered the dressing room and he pointed to the box on the floor. I could tell from his stiffness that the slight progress we had made downstairs was gone. Evaporated like water on a hot day.
"This package is filled with clothing and accessories. Please place them in the appropriate areas of the closet. Then take the camera, the one in the bottom drawer over there," I followed the direction of his finger as he pointed to of a row of drawers against the wall. "Photograph each outfit. In the box you will find an envelope with an itemized list that will provide information about what article of clothing goes in which section of the closet and binder." When he finished he turned without another word and walked through a side door I’d been instructed not to enter.
Wow. Okay, maybe he wasn’t so much a recluse but just a total weirdo.
Admittedly, he hadn't been overly friendly downstairs but he did, at least, appear sincere. Now he treated me like a child who had been caught with their hand in the cookie jar by a mother with eyes in the back of her head. What had I done? I ran through the possible offenses. Other than speaking to Thomas, and leaving him waiting for a moment, I hadn’t done anything wrong.
Whatever , I thought. Genevieve hadn’t told me about this side of Mr. Palmer. Quirky? Yes. A little strange? Sure. Standoffish? Definitely. But hostile and jerkish? No. Not at all. Actually, I felt like Genevieve really liked Mr. Palmer. She seemed genuinely fond of him. That meant whatever was going on between us was, well, between us.
I found a pair of scissors and opened the package. Inside were tightly packed stacks of dress and causal shirts, four or five pairs of nice pants and two pairs of jeans. There were also shoes, belts, and other accessories. I took a quick peek at the labels and rolled my eyes at the designer names. Ralph Lauren, Dior, Prada. I was sure the shirt I was holding cost more than my entire summer wardrobe. The items in this box alone would be enough to dress a normal man for a year, not just one summer. Honestly, he was going to run out of room soon to store it all.
It took me several hours to coordinate and photograph all the new items. As the minutes ticked by, I found myself glancing toward his door, wondering if he would ever come back. I’d created an intense fantasy about standing up to him, asking him what his problem was and why he thought he could treat me so badly.
I daydreamed of walking up to him and poking his chest with my finger, which of course would be difficult since he was so tall. I’d probably hit him in the belly, which would be way less effective. Either way, then I would force him to look me in the eye and admit he was being a jerk and that his first apology meant nothing. I wanted to tell him that he was a spoiled little boy who needed to treat people with respect.
That was what I wanted to do.
But he never emerged, so it didn't matter.
I sighed, because I’d never do it. I was too much of a chicken. I gathered a handful of leather belts and hooked them one at a time on a rack hanging from the wall. If I’d known I would spend my summer hanging up clothes, I would've gotten a job at the GAP.
I completed my work in the dressing room and went downstairs. I ate my lunch at my desk, finishing the data entry I'd started that morning. Thomas and Mark left while I was upstairs, and when the guy fixing the security system arrived late that afternoon I simply showed him what needed repairing. Mr. Palmer
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