more than I do. That’s one unhappy bastard.
I’ve never been disrespected in front of the whole company like that before. That’s why I’m back at my desk; I don’t want my emotions take over and to make a hasty decision. I see people walk by my desk, unsure whether to congratulate me or say they’re sorry. Now, I have to be a mentor to someone I don’t even care for. I refuse. So I’m gonna handle it like I do all other tasks I don’t agree with: completely disregard it.
Jake is the only one who doesn’t fully realize I want to be left alone.
“That’s so fucked-up, bro,” he says.
I don’t respond.
“What are you gonna do about it?” he continues. “I hope you’re not gonna sit there and take it. Are you?”
I know he will not go away until I say something to him. I figure if I say anything, he might simply go away. “What else can I do?” I say.
My words seem to make him dig in even further. “You need to take action, man. Fuck that shit.”
“There’s nothing I can do,” I say.
“Go into his office and tell him how you’re feeling right now. Tell him you ain’t gonna keep taking him fucking you over like this,” he says.
Jake is pretty adamant, and most times I would take this as him talking shit. But he has a valid point. I should stand up for myself, or else Floyd will keep passing me over. But what I should do and what I’m gonna do are two different things. I‘m not gonna get into it with Floyd. Maybe this is a test and he wants me to take charge.
“You’re acting like a real bitch right now, all passive and shit. You should be fuming. And he needs to know it,” he says.
I’m getting increasingly madder the more Jake emphasizes how bad I got screwed. He’s describing exactly how I feel. It’s really like Floyd came into my house and stole something from me, then sold it right in front of my face. “I deserve that promotion. And on top of that, he turns me into a babysitter for this jerk-off,” I say as I point to Eddie, who can hear our entire conversation. “I’m tired of them stepping over me.”
“He basically spat in your face, bro,” adds Jake.
“Exactly.”
“Wipe it off.” He hands me his lavender Italian silk handkerchief to wipe off the imaginary spit. “Go in there and let him know you ain’t having it.”
I rise up with a new sense of purpose and storm off, while Jake looks on as if he’s just sent his son off to fight the town bully in order to get his bike back.
I stand outside of Floyd’s office, with all of my emotions brimming inside of me. I contemplate kicking the door down, but settle for releasing all of my frustration on the unsuspecting door with three thunderous knocks. I don’t even wait for him to answer. Or maybe he did answer, and it was muffled by my pounding heartbeat. I barge in like a one-man SWAT team ready to break up a hostage situation. I’m met with the loud bass thumping of Floyd’s music. I’ve seen this before. When he has a good day or is feeling really positive about a presentation, he blasts music in celebration. It’s so loud he doesn’t recognize I’m in here amid his arm-waving and shouting at the top of his lungs.
Floyd yells: “I call shots—like a Boss. . . . Stack knots—like a Boss. . . . Cop drops—like a Boss. . . . Paid tha cost—like a Boss. . . . When I floss—like a Boss.”
He makes a horrible attempt to cover up his embarrassment when he notices me in the room with him. “K-Deezy, what up, my playa?”
“Don’t start with that,” I reply.
He has a blank look on his face.
“K-Deezy, K-Dawg, Special K, K-Smoove, K-Slice. All of that. My name is Kevin,” I continue.
“Okay, didn’t know it got to you.”
“That, among other things,” I say.
He realizes this is unlike any other jovial visit from me when we can shoot the shit about last night’s episode of Entourage . “Well, sit down. We can talk about it.”
I look at the chair and think about sitting.
“I’ll
I’ve never been disrespected in front of the whole company like that before. That’s why I’m back at my desk; I don’t want my emotions take over and to make a hasty decision. I see people walk by my desk, unsure whether to congratulate me or say they’re sorry. Now, I have to be a mentor to someone I don’t even care for. I refuse. So I’m gonna handle it like I do all other tasks I don’t agree with: completely disregard it.
Jake is the only one who doesn’t fully realize I want to be left alone.
“That’s so fucked-up, bro,” he says.
I don’t respond.
“What are you gonna do about it?” he continues. “I hope you’re not gonna sit there and take it. Are you?”
I know he will not go away until I say something to him. I figure if I say anything, he might simply go away. “What else can I do?” I say.
My words seem to make him dig in even further. “You need to take action, man. Fuck that shit.”
“There’s nothing I can do,” I say.
“Go into his office and tell him how you’re feeling right now. Tell him you ain’t gonna keep taking him fucking you over like this,” he says.
Jake is pretty adamant, and most times I would take this as him talking shit. But he has a valid point. I should stand up for myself, or else Floyd will keep passing me over. But what I should do and what I’m gonna do are two different things. I‘m not gonna get into it with Floyd. Maybe this is a test and he wants me to take charge.
“You’re acting like a real bitch right now, all passive and shit. You should be fuming. And he needs to know it,” he says.
I’m getting increasingly madder the more Jake emphasizes how bad I got screwed. He’s describing exactly how I feel. It’s really like Floyd came into my house and stole something from me, then sold it right in front of my face. “I deserve that promotion. And on top of that, he turns me into a babysitter for this jerk-off,” I say as I point to Eddie, who can hear our entire conversation. “I’m tired of them stepping over me.”
“He basically spat in your face, bro,” adds Jake.
“Exactly.”
“Wipe it off.” He hands me his lavender Italian silk handkerchief to wipe off the imaginary spit. “Go in there and let him know you ain’t having it.”
I rise up with a new sense of purpose and storm off, while Jake looks on as if he’s just sent his son off to fight the town bully in order to get his bike back.
I stand outside of Floyd’s office, with all of my emotions brimming inside of me. I contemplate kicking the door down, but settle for releasing all of my frustration on the unsuspecting door with three thunderous knocks. I don’t even wait for him to answer. Or maybe he did answer, and it was muffled by my pounding heartbeat. I barge in like a one-man SWAT team ready to break up a hostage situation. I’m met with the loud bass thumping of Floyd’s music. I’ve seen this before. When he has a good day or is feeling really positive about a presentation, he blasts music in celebration. It’s so loud he doesn’t recognize I’m in here amid his arm-waving and shouting at the top of his lungs.
Floyd yells: “I call shots—like a Boss. . . . Stack knots—like a Boss. . . . Cop drops—like a Boss. . . . Paid tha cost—like a Boss. . . . When I floss—like a Boss.”
He makes a horrible attempt to cover up his embarrassment when he notices me in the room with him. “K-Deezy, what up, my playa?”
“Don’t start with that,” I reply.
He has a blank look on his face.
“K-Deezy, K-Dawg, Special K, K-Smoove, K-Slice. All of that. My name is Kevin,” I continue.
“Okay, didn’t know it got to you.”
“That, among other things,” I say.
He realizes this is unlike any other jovial visit from me when we can shoot the shit about last night’s episode of Entourage . “Well, sit down. We can talk about it.”
I look at the chair and think about sitting.
“I’ll
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