Page 6 of Mike's Assistant

Appearances could be deceiving, and Vanessa Satchel was the perfect example of that. With her meek and mild-mannered demeanor, one might not guess the ferocity that lurked beneath her surface. She was a lioness through and through. Her power not only rivaled that of her brother, but also that of her father, the king. Had fate decreed her to be the firstborn, there was no doubt she would have been next in line to lead the pride.

I closed my eyes and took more deep breaths. I didn’t want to say anything I’d regret, and I was on the cusp of doing just that.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” Vanessa said softly. “I’m going to go grab us some coffee and a treat. While I’m doing that, you’re going to sit on that couch you have over there and compose yourself. I’ll tell everyone to leave you alone for thirty minutes; no calls, no emails, nothing.”

I lifted my head and opened my eyes. “But there’s so much work that needs to get done.”

“It can wait, especially if you’re having breakdowns like this. Take the thirty minutes, Mike,” she said.

Her words were more of a command. I had no choice but to nod. Vanessa smiled and blew me a kiss before leaving my office. I didn’t move from my seat. I looked down at my desk. There was something I needed to do before taking that rest.

I quickly picked up the phone and dialed. “Denise,” I said as soon as the line connected. “I need a competent P.A. hired by the end of the day. I don’t care how you make it happen. It needs to happen today.”

Karma's Promotion

Jake

"Sorry, we're not hiring," the department store manager's gruff voice echoed in the modest space. It was a phrase I was growing dishearteningly accustomed to.

I exhaled a sigh, forcing a courteous nod. "Thank you for your time," I said, not wanting my desperation to seep into my words. "Do you, by any chance, know of anywhere else that might be hiring? I've tried everywhere I could think of."

Florida had been a gamble, one made of hope and a desperate need for change. The boys and I had ventured here on little more than a wing and a prayer. Maybe it was the nostalgia of family vacations and Disney magic that drew me in or the tantalizing promise of swapping snow for the sun. Either way, that dream was slowly turning sour.

Our tight apartment, more of a cramped space than a home, ate into our meager savings. Now, with the bulk of my last two hundred dollars already spent on cleaning supplies, canned foods, and other essentials, my reality was closing in faster than a Florida thunderstorm. In my pocket, the last twenty-dollar bill felt thinner and more valuable than it had ever been. Two things were becoming painfully clear. First, my step-aunt had shown her true colors—cruel and uncaring. Second, and more terrifying, I might lose the boys if things didn't change soon.

The manager eyed me for a moment before replying, "You could try Java Joe’s—two blocks north of here. That coffee shop's always looking for new blood. Can't rely on you young ones to stick around, it seems."

“Thank you. Thank you so much,” I said as I practically ran out the door.

The manager’s words rang in my ears as I exited the store, a potential lifeline amid a sea of rejections. Java Joe’s was my next shot at keeping our heads above water. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

Stepping into the January heat, I marveled at the drastic climate change. Just five days ago, I'd been battling snow up to my knees. Now, I was navigating the sweltering Floridian weather. The irony wasn't lost on me.

The oversized coffee mug sign of Java Joe’s appeared ahead, a beacon in my desperate job hunt. I needed money - for food, for the boys, for our life here. Our landlady had kindly agreed to look after the boys, but her childcare services had added an extra four hundred to our monthly rent. Florida's high cost of living was bearing down on us.

Reaching the door of Java Joe's, I paused and took a deep breath. This was it. As I moved to open the door, a woman stepped up behind me. Reflexively, I stepped aside, holding the door open for her.

She offered a radiant smile, her gratitude evident. "Thank you so much."

Returning her smile, I felt a connection—a moment of camaraderie in this unfamiliar place. "You're welcome."

With that, I stepped into Java Joe's, hoping and praying things would be different. The place was bustling. The chatter of people, the hiss of the coffee machine, and the clatter of dishes filled the air while a queue snaked its way up to the counter. My stomach fluttered with a strange mix of hope and dread. For a moment, the urge to turn around and bolt was almost overpowering. Swallowing hard, I steeled my nerves and pushed myself to move forward. This had to work, I thought as I approached the counter.

"What can I get for you?" asked a young girl behind the counter. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, her youth clear in her cherubic face. But her eyes—those told a different story. They were a weary shade of hazel, veiled with the kind of fatigue that came from too many double shifts and not enough sleep. A layer of perspiration glistened on her forehead, wisps of blonde hair sticking out from under her Java Joe’s cap. The constant hum of activity seemed to weigh heavily on her slender shoulders, but she held herself with a resolute determination that was beyond her years.

I flashed a quick smile. “I was wondering if I could speak to the manager?”

"What do you want, kid?” came a gruff voice from behind the young barista. As I leaned to the side, a woman emerged from behind the espresso machine. A mop of chestnut hair, streaked with strands of silver, was pulled back into a messy bun. Lines of age and stress were etched into her features, but it didn't diminish her stern beauty. She was in her late thirties or early forties, but the way she carried herself—with the air of someone who was not to be trifled with—made her seem older. Her apron was stained with old coffee spills, evidence of the countless hours she'd likely spent behind this counter.

“I was hoping you’re hiring,” I said, clearing my throat.

Her movements froze, and the cup she was holding clattered onto the counter. The bustling noise in the shop seemed to drop a few decibels. I felt the sudden urge to flee, as if I had just awakened a sleeping bear. The young barista flinched and retreated to the other end of the counter, serving another customer with an anxious glance in my direction.

The woman swiveled around to face me, her brown eyes blazing with a fire that had me taking a step back. The lines on her face deepened, transforming her stern features into a mask of anger.

“Hey! The guy’s just asking for a job. No need to get all dramatic.” The voice came from my right, and I turned to see the woman I had held the door open for, now being served by another young barista.

The manager shot a lethal glare at the woman, but eventually turned her attention back to me. She stalked up to the counter and punctuated each word with a jab of her finger on the countertop. “This. Is. My. Busy. Time.” She drew in a deep breath, as if gathering her composure. “I don’t know why I need to spell it out for you punk kids. Never ask for a job during busy times, idiots.” She shook her head. “I don’t have a job for you. In fact, get out.”

---