My Boss is a Serial Killer by Christina Harlin Page B

reprimanded. Well, unless Junior
Gestapo Brent caught me, which he never did because I could always
hear him coming by the sound of his thighs rubbing together.
    Before this admission causes any
consternation about whether I was doing my job or even deserved it,
I’ll reiterate that I was good at what I did. I was an excellent
secretary. But I was there almost fifty hours a week, and my job
didn’t require fifty hours a week. Maybe it used to when I was
still learning, but I’d gotten it down. I got my assignments done.
I kept Bill Nestor happy. I helped Suzanne with her extra workload,
such as the nightmarishly awful deposition summary about screws
that was still, still, still growling at me from my inbox. I got to
work on time, I didn’t steal anything but the occasional pen or
roll of tape at Christmastime, and I didn’t cause trouble.
    The only problem was how to cope with the
extra hours while still appearing to look busy. Here are some
pointers. Carry a pen and pad of legal paper everywhere you go. It
looks as if you’re going to a meeting, doing research, or carrying
out an assignment. I have found that it boosts confidence to have
some notes written on the pad that hint at monumental tasks.
Something like, “Research. Discovery. What are rules? Has anyone
dealt with this before? PPT. RSMO. NOT ENOUGH INFO to be definite.
Consult Westlaw.” See how industrious that seems? It appears that I
have already started the project, been unsatisfied with my initial
results, and have determined to dig further with more
PERSERVERANCE. Armed thus, I could wander around, stop and chat
with Lucille (who knows what everybody is doing, always) and read
the front-desk copy of People magazine.
    Staring off into space, dreaming about a
hunky muscular detective who is going to take you out the following
afternoon, can only be passed off as “brainstorming” if you are
peering over a piece of legal text. That’s what I was doing on
Friday when Charlene materialized at my cubicle to grill me. She
had been designated as reconnaissance, for everyone who wanted to
know about my date. Robo-Secretary Charlene always got the facts
straight. Incorrect information was as upsetting to her as poorly
aligned rows and angles were to Bill Nestor, and she was as
ruthlessly studious about her gossip as she was about her job.
    She stood holding a file under one arm and a
pen and paper in the other hand, so she gave the appearance of
being extremely busy. Charlene’s face was a supervisor’s dream come
true because she always looked focused and vaguely troubled, and
that’s the kind of attitude that supervisors like.
    “ What are you and the detective doing
tomorrow?” she demanded outright.
    “ Lunch is all I’m sure of. Then who
knows?”
    “ Meaning what?”
    “ I barely know the guy,” I said. “I
don’t know what he likes to do. I don’t even know if we’ll have
anything to talk about for more than fifteen minutes.”
    “ All the girls are impressed that you
were asked out so quickly.”
    “ I was very forward with the poor guy.”
Still, I felt rather smug. Sometimes I was envious of many of my
coworkers, who all seemed to be married to great guys and raising
adorable children or still single but taking sexy vacations,
building mansions, and buying sports cars. Meanwhile I seemed to do
nothing but work for Bill, watch television, and remain divorced.
Ha ha , now they could sit on their greener-grass yards and
look enviously at me. I could throw myself at a hunky muscular
detective that I barely knew, badger him into taking me out, and
hope that we wouldn’t cringe at how incompatible we were. Normally,
becoming the center of attention at the office required developing
a terrible illness, having a baby, or doing something extremely
wrong.
    “ Where is he taking you for
lunch?”
    “ I don’t know. I was so happy he asked
me out that I didn’t get details.”
    “ Then we’ll spin it as a surprise,”
decided Charlene. A