Page 7 of Glass Half Full
“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” I announce to the empty office.
Then I drop to my hands and knees so I can start searching the floor.
I have the side of my face flat on the ground and my arm wedged under the desk, fingers inching toward what I hope to god or whoever else may be watching is the resume, when I hear the office door swing open. Footsteps approach faster than I can alert whoever it is to my presence. I get the corner of the paper I’m reaching toward pinned between my index and middle fingers just as a shriek rings out.
I whip my arm out from under the desk and try to sit up, my roar of pain joining the sound of a second shriek as my head collides with the underside of the desk.
“Dylan, what the hell are you doing on the floor? You scared the shit out of me!”
“Good evening, Monroe,” I greet my boss. Shuffling out from under the desk with one hand pressed to my throbbing skull, I raise the one clutching the resume to wave at her. “What’s up?”
It’s the first time all five-foot-nothing of Monroe has ever towered over me. She watches me with a mixture of confusion and residual alarm.
“I repeat,” she finally manages to respond, “what the hell are you doing on the floor?”
“Yoga,” I answer, completely straight-faced. “Just some, uh, pre-dinner-rush yoga. I’m thinking about making all the staff do it. It’s very refreshing and a great way to focus the mind. Would you like to try?”
She raises her eyes to the ceiling. “Sweet baby Jesus, I know it’s a lot to ask, but could you maybe one day help me hire someone who isn’t totally insane?”
I flap the resume at her. “As if you’d want to work with normal people.”
“At least normal people wouldn’t leave me on the verge of a heart attack just from walking into my own office.”
She steps back to give me space to get up. I pull myself to my feet using the edge of the desk and groan at the continued throbbing in my head.
“Are you okay?” she demands. “You’re not concussed, are you? Please don’t be concussed. That would be so bad for business. Should I get you some ice? You should probably sit down.”
In true Monroe fashion, she starts going into Ultra Concerned mode, and it’s all I can do to keep her from pulling out the first aid kit as the pain starts to fade.
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” I protest, giving my scalp a rub. “Just a good whack. We all need a good whack to the head sometimes.”
“We really do not.” She gives me a wary look like she’s expecting me to fall down unconscious at any second as she pulls up a spare chair for me before settling into her own.
“I’ve deduced that is the real reason you were on the floor.” She points to the resume still clutched in my hand.
“Yeah, I, uh, dropped it.”
She tilts her head to the side, her uncanny ability to read any situation coming into play. “You haven’t called her, have you?”
“I, um...”
“Dylan.”
“Yeah, I just, uh, um—”
“Hey, Dylan.” Monroe’s tone prompts me to look up from where I’m tapping on the resume with my fingers. “It’s okay. I know it’s a big jump to go from staff to manager. I had to do it myself—years ago, I know, but still, I remember it wasn’t easy. I don’t expect you to perfect your management skills overnight. It’s a process. I’m still learning it too.”
I nod to show I appreciate her words, but it’s difficult to believe anything about this job is hard for Monroe. She’s infallible. She’s like the messiah of restaurant management, and I’m apparently a very unequipped disciple.
“So,” she continues, “did you call her?”
I still don’t know how I forgot to make the call. Renee Nyobé has been haunting my thoughts like some kind of ghost since Monroe called me into the office yesterday and showed me her resume.
I looked down at the name printed on that piece of paper, and the whole office started to spin.
Renee Nyobé.
Tangled brown hair that never wants to stay tied back and a slightly gap-toothed smile.
