Page 5 of Bigfoot Boss
Sacha rolls his eyes almost every time the Mothman speaks, and honestly, Pleasant does seem like a bit of a blowhard. There’s a lot of discussion I don’t understand. Terms I don’t recognize keep popping up: blockchains, hash codes, DNS. Things that I assume are computer jargon. I’ve never bothered to learn much about computer security, I was just super grateful when my browser started offering to save all my passwords for me. I threw out so many sticky notes.
It’s a struggle to pay attention to the first forty minutes of the meeting, and as it drags into the second hour, with no end in sight, I begin studiously doodling in the margins of my notebook. When the Mothman finally logs off, I realize I’ve zoned out for the better part of an hour. When Sacha stands to leave, I take his movement as my cue to follow. I tuck my notebook under my arm and diligently trail my boss down the hallway.
“Can you type up those notes? Send them in a neat, bullet-point list. Do not use any of the fancy styling. I want to see it plain and simple. I need to be sure we have everything Pleasant agreed to in my records. We’ll get you a tablet or laptop for note-taking in the future.”
“Oh. Right. Notes. Yes. Right. I can type up my notes, sir.” I walk double-time down the hall, trying to keep up with his long strides.
“You took notes like I asked, didn’t you, Ms. Thorn?” His pace slows, so I can catch up.
I grin pathetically.
“I saw you writing the whole meeting, didn’t I?” The corners of his mouth pull down.
“Not exactly writing, sir—” I clutch my notepad to my chest.
“What’s on your paper, Ms. Thorn?”
“Nothing,” I insist.
“It isn’t the notes from the two hour meeting where I convinced our CTO we cannot afford the many upgrades he’s insisting on? With the details of our lowered budget after negotiating for an hour?”
I shake my head, not wanting to answer.
Sacha scowls. The serious expression looks good on him. “Let me see.”
He holds out one leathery hand and motions at my chest. My heart squeezes; I glance down at my notebook and back at him. Saying no now would probably be an automatic dismissal, and I don’t want to get fired on my first day.
“Whatever you’ve written about me, I’m sure I’ve heard it before. I can imagine worse than anything you’ve said.”
“Oh no! Sir! It’s not about you!”
He raises one bushy eyebrow, a small movement that communicates that he doesn’t believe a word I’m fucking saying.
“I promise! I would never!” I lean toward him. I’d hate for him to think I was writing mean things about him. Even if he is a grump who hits on his employees.
His empty hand is still outstretched. “Prove it.”
I give him an awkward nod and hand over the notepad with a soul-crushing sigh. After years of rejection you start to notice the signs. This is about to be a classic Bailey Thorn, first day/last day job opportunity.
Sacha’s hot fingers graze against mine as he takes the notebook. His fingers flex as he examines the page I handed him. There’s a long moment of silence before he speaks.
“I see,” he says slowly.
I put my full attention on the floor. I know I’ll start crying if I’m looking at him when I get fired, and I’d rather not make a scene.
“Ms. Thorn,” Sacha takes a deep breath, “is this a rather skillful drawing of our CTO, Mr. Pleasant, wearing a diaper and holding a rattle?”
“Yes.” I sigh, pretending that there’s anything interesting in the pattern of the gray carpet.
“Hmph.” He makes the noise in the back of his throat, and when I finally glance at his face, there’s almost a grin there. “And what are these?” He points to the swirls around the drawing.
“Stink lines,” I admit.
A small scoff escapes his mouth.
“You’ve got talent, Ms. Thorn. That much is obvious.” He nods seriously, still staring at the paper, letting the silence hang between us.
“I used to run classes at a paint and sip place, down on Market street. I took a couple of art classes in college. I was never super great, but I was good enough to run those kinds of groups. Mostly bachelorette parties and wine-mom birthdays, but it was a good gig! Until the store closed, the owner moved to Belize with her fiancé. Not that any of that matters now—” My explanation crumbles to a halt when his eyes dart up from the drawing to my face, and the muscle in the side of his jaw twitches.
