Working It by Leah Marie Brown Page B

flushing with heat. “Unfortunately, my boss wasn’t as impressed.”
    “I know you were terminated.”
    “How?” I blink. “How did you know?”
    “We read San Francisco Magazine’s editorial piece.”
    Wait. What?
    “What piece?”
    Rachel slides a thick manila folder to Finn. He opens the folder, removes the first piece of paper, and pushes it across the table to me.
    San Francisco Magazine’s banner stretches across the top of the page, and just below it, the words Aurèle L’Horreur in big, bold block letters. The perversion of L’Heure’s name—from the golden hour to the horror - makes me cringe. As I scan the text, the acid lying dormant in the pit of my stomach begins roiling. It is an op-ed piece criticizing capitalism and unchecked corporate greed. The editor—Roberta Buelher—mentions me by name and calls on her readers to boycott luxury brands like L’Heure until they “stop violating the fundamental, puritanical principles that are the cornerstones of this great nation.” It’s an articulate, scathing indictment against a company I respect. The final paragraph is brutal.
    “Ms. Moreau’s mission statement might not have been fiscally responsible, but it was uncommonly socially aware. Corporations like LVMH Global have become the tyrants of our generation, selling their over-priced, unobtainable luxury items and fomenting deep discontent among the less-than-privileged classes. L’Heure is like Louis XVI, bloated by profits earned from a slender segment of society, while ignoring the suffering of the masses. It is time for a Revolution—in fashion and finance. Let the masses no longer cry, ‘J’adore L’Heure!’ Let them firmly assert, ‘J’abhor L’Horreur and unchecked corporate greed.’”
     
    “You’ve spawned a movement,” Rachel says, smiling. “Soon, J’abhor L’Horreur will be the mantra on every consumer’s lips.”
    I can’t speak. The moment is too surreal.
    “J’abhor L’Horreur,” Finn repeats. “It’s the new catch phrase for those opposed to wanton corporate greed. J’abhor L’Horreur.”
    I wince. Finn and Rachel might be impressed with the op-ed piece, but I see it for precisely what it is: another nail in the coffin containing my mortally wounded career. J’abhor L’Horreur? Roberta Buehler’s article effectively destroyed my chances of ever getting hired by another major couturier.
    “Look,” I say, turning the article over and sliding it away from me. “When I wrote that mission statement, I was…”
    Drunk. I can’t very well tell these radical touchy feely do-gooders I got sloppy-drunk and had an epiphany.
    “Yes?” Finn encourages. “You were what?”
    “When I wrote that mission statement, I wasn’t intending to smear L’Heure or spawn a movement. I loved working at L’Heure and am horrified my mission statement has caused the company embarrassment.”
    “Which speaks highly of your character, Ms. Moreau.”
    “Thank you, but I am not worthy of such praise.”
    An awkward silence stretches between us. I want to slide off my sustainable leather chair and curl up in the fetal position beneath their recycled cerveza bottle table until the world forgets my name and my stupid mission statement. I don’t want these two tree-hugging do-gooders grinning at me like I singlehandedly settled the crisis in Darfur or negotiated peace between North and South Korea. Foutre! I wrote a mission statement. A stupid, ill-conceived, pity-fueled mission statement.
    “Yes, well,” Rachel says, clearing her throat. “We reviewed your application and believe we have the perfect position for you here at Each One, Teach One.”
    What the what? Did she just offer me a job? I look at her White House Black Market dress and boring chin-length bob and wonder if she wants me to be her personal stylist. What would a recruiter at a non-profit need with a stylist?
    Maybe they were so blown away by my rousing mission statement that they want to offer me a