The Pro By Marolyn Krasner

I’m a temp.

I’ve worked at 29 companies so far this year and it’s only April. Temping is my way of observing – I like to think of it as modern day anthropology. I’ve seen all there is to see in cubicle land. Food fights, irate upper management meetings and the aftermath of the old itching-powder-on-the-toilet-seat trick.

Last Valentine’s Day and I was working at Sycamore and Sons when I looked up from my stack of files to find a lazy-eyed, buck-toothed, pregnant redhead who wasn’t a day past 16 years old standing over me.

“Hi, I’m looking for Mr. Sycamore. He’s my daddy.”

At first this really didn’t seem like a big deal, aside from the fact that this little girl with a big tummy looked like Pippy Longstocking—on glue. But as it turns out, it was a big deal. You see I had met all of Sy Sycamore’s children. All four were boys. All four were the offspring of Sy and Louise Sycamore, neither of whom had red hair. But this new addition to the Sycamore clan came via Waco, Texas, where Sy had attended a trade show about 16 years ago.

Little Samantha Sycamore found here daddy through that reality TV show Family Reunion. So that day it wasn’t just Samantha who showed up to surprise her daddy. The young woman was accompanied by an entourage including a 10-person television crew and a lawyer representing the southern angel, who was due to give birth any day.

Well, bless Louise Sycamore, she knew all the girl really wanted was some love. The surprisingly media savvy Louise agreed to a rehearsed, on-camera reunion then sent the crew, cameras and the lawyer back to Hollywood. Little Samantha was accepted as an official member and moved into the family home. Now the Sycamores are enjoying their new grandson—in separate bedrooms, I’ve heard.

 Back to Cynthia.

I think I’ve proven that I am in the ranks of what we in the biz call a pro-temp. In fact I feel I deserve a metal, a badge, a bronzed fluorescent light bulb. At the end of a month-long tenure at one office I did receive a flower planted in a coffeepot. I thought that was creative as well as thoughtful.

I was a hardened veteran ready for anything that came my way. No data entry assignment was too monotonous, no chair was too ergonomically incorrect and no coffee was too old for me. But even the most seasoned office worker can be brought to her knees by a supervisor like Cynthia.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to throw your boss on the table among the cream cheese and hummus on bagel day and have your way with her? Or have you ever felt the need to enter your superior’s office dozens of times a day to ask:

“I’m sorry, how many copies of this report did you need again?”

“The courier is here to pick up, is there anything else you need to send?”

“Can I get you some coffee?”

“Would you like a foot massage?”

“Does this door lock?”

Stuff like that.

No?

Well, me neither, until I met her. I have no apologies. I knew that she was the one.

Everything had been perfect so far. She felt it too. From the moment she first took my hand in hers and said those magic words, “I’m the office manager, Cynthia. I’ll show you your work station.”

Could it have been any more obvious?

All morning she had been playing hard to get, just talking on her headset. I knew she was thinking about how to ask me to dinner and calling all her friends to tell them how glad she was that she hadn’t called in sick that day.

After my 13th visit to Cynthia’s office I needed some space. Some time to regroup. After a good 10 minutes in a bathroom stall reciting the mantras of a successful seducer, I emerged to find Cynthia in the doorway of the bathroom. I froze. She looked up and our eyes locked. I knew it was meant to be. I went for it. Before I knew it we were on the floor. Rubbing. Kissing. Moaning. It was blissful. It was everything I expected it to be. It was magical.

It was sexual assault, she said, and I was out on my ass in front of the building in less than five minutes. I was undaunted. I love a challenge.

After multiple failed attempts to re-enter the building, I slipped the parking lot attendant a $20 to point out Cynthia’s car.

Her reaction to me waiting for her in the backseat was not as positive as I had hoped.

I never knew the sting of pepper spray lasted so long.

The next day and a half that I spent in the cells allowed me time to step back from the situation and gain perspective on what had gone so wrong between the two of us. At first I thought maybe it was too much too fast. My passion was so strong and I guess Cynthia just couldn’t handle all the love I was offering her.

Looking back from an even further distance, I guess I may have misread Cynthia’s signals and she probably wasn’t as interested in me as I had hoped. It seems Cynthia has a partner and a couple of young ones at home already. I don’t think I’d be welcomed into the mix. There are some couples who are into that sort of thing, you know, multiple partners. I think I’ll give Cynthia a little more time before I broach that subject.

My temp agency has since dropped me and I won’t even be paid for the two and a half hours I worked in that pretentious office.

It’s all right because there are thousands of opportunities out there for a pro with credentials like mine.

Maybe I should see if the Sycamores need a nanny.

Marolyn Krasner's novel You Know You Wish You Were Me
is available for free download here: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/82175

copyright Marolyn Krasner 2011