Disclaimer: Nay mine, nor ever. Can't think of a funny way to say it this time.
Author's note: The reason for the title will become apparent. Thanks reviewers, so much so.
The Nodding Story
by BJ Garrett
Somehow, I guess, I made it to my cubicle. Somehow I finished the first draft of the press release. Somehow I opened my e-mail and started proofing the speech I found there. Somehow I unwrapped my PB&J and ate it. Somehow I accepted a fresh cup of coffee from a passing trolley and drank it.
Somehow, I'm still breathing.
I have a sinking feeling that there's a goofy grin on my face, but then maybe people always look at me strangely and I just never noticed before.
My hands still on the keyboard and I really look at what I've been typing all over Sam's revised CARE speech. Surprisingly, it makes sense. I can barely remember the last two-and-a-half hours. This is a feeling I haven't had since my freshman year of high school.
Part of me is worried that Sam's going to show up and expect an apology for what I said, while the other part is afraid he's going to show up and apologise. I don't know which would be worse, really. Because either way, I'm still right and so is he.
Mr. Ziegler did like my piece. But he didn't say so to Sam.
I wonder who he was talking to.
It doesn't really matter, I don't think.
I do think I should run my draft over to Ms. Cregg and get her reaction. Do Sam and Mr. Ziegler do that? A point to ponder. I won't know if I don't ask.
So here I go trooping down the hall with my print-out in hand. I wonder why Ms. Cregg doesn't write her own press releases. It would definitely cut out the middle man.
Middle woman. Me. I have to stop thinking like an economist. I just about down-sized myself.
As I pass Mr. Lyman's office, he steps out in front of me. I swerve to go around him, not avoiding him because I'm afraid, but simply for the sake of avoiding him.
"Hey, hey," he says reproachfully, coming up behind me as I knock on Ms. Cregg's door. "I didn't introduce myself."
"I know who you are, sir," I reply, turning to speak to Carol when Ms. Cregg doesn't answer. "Is she in?"
Looking confused, Carol nods. "Should be. I didn't see her leave."
I knock again, noticing that Mr. Lyman hasn't vacated the scene.
"I'm Josh Lyman," he says, holding out his hand when I glance at him.
"I know who you are," I repeat, shaking his hand perfunctorily. "I've been here for two years."
There is a moment of silence as he processes this with a blank look. "We've had a junior speechwriter for two years? And no one bothered to tell me?"
For the third time I knock. My annoyance level has begun to rise. "No. You had office staff until Friday. Sam told you today. Ms. Cregg?"
"Allow me." Carol steps in and knocks gently before turning the handle.
The door jerks inward abruptly, revealing a very tired-looking Ms. Cregg with a pair of fuzzy eye-covery things that you wear when you're sleeping pushed up on her forehead.
"What?" she demands. The three of us just stare at her, noting the red-rimmed eyes and drawn-in lips. Her hair is tousled, her suit jacket rumpled. Goodness me.
"What!" she repeats aggressively. "What do you want, Josh?"
He gestures vaguely at me. Those blood-shot orbs swing my way and I swallow. This is quite funny. I will laugh when I've changed into clean underwear.
"Well?"
They've been staring at me as I stare up at her. "Um," I say numbly, hugging my print-out to my chest.
"Is that important?" she asks me, pointing at the print-out. I nod. "Is it for me?" she elaborates.
Yes, it is. It's a press release. Do Sam and Mr. Ziegler let you proof press releases? Just for future reference, because I'm the new junior speechwriter. I think we'll be seeing a lot of each other. But, no, I can't say that, because that would be intelligent.
The door closes in my face, the print-out suddenly gone from my hands. "Ah," I gasp. Mr. Lyman pats my shoulder.
"It's okay. I'm scared too."
I turn away from the door, and Mr. Lyman escorts me back to Communications. "Where's your cubicle?" he asks gently.
"This one," I reply, stepping inside and sinking into my chair. After a second, I realise Mr. Lyman hasn't left, and I attempt conversation. "She's never snapped at me before."
Mr. Lyman shrugs. "There was a gala last night that went until two this morning. The President told her to stay until a certain senator left, and he left at two when the hosts kicked him out."
"Which senator?" I wonder if maybe Ms. Cregg is in on this Marles thing too.
Another shrug. "I don't know. I wasn't invited."
Sam walks past and hits the wall of my cubicle with a rolled up newpaper. "Staff, Josh! Bring Annie!"
Mr. Lyman raises his eyebrows at me. "Our presence is requested in the Chief of Staff's office. Shall we?"
Why not? I've never been to a staff meeting before. Seize every available opportunity to learn, as my oft-quoted professor once told me.
"Okay."
And so we go. As we pass the Roosevelt Room, Mr. Lyman trips on a carelessly discarded black plastic something. Catching him as he falls against me, I inquire, "Are you alright, Mr. Lyman?"
"Josh. I'm fine. But you should call me Josh," he says, smoothing a hand over his unsmoothable hair. A Secret Service guy scoops the black plastic something up and disappears.
Yeah, right, I'm going to call him Josh. "That's okay, sir."
We resume walking. "No, really," he insists. "Nobody calls me Mr. Lyman."
"You've obviously never had a conversation with office staff, sir," I reply, straightening my suit jacket outside Mr. McGarry's office.
He pauses for thought.
He hasn't ever had a conversation with office staff. For heaven's sake. "Can we just go in?" I ask.
"Oh, yeah, go ahead," he says, gesturing towards the door. I open it and step inside.
Sam looks up and smiles at me, not even a little apologetic. He's the stupidest man who ever lived if he thinks he's going to get away with this. I smile coolly back and fold my hands in front of me.
Mr. McGarry spies me as he scans the room, which is as yet missing Mr. Ziegler and, of course, Mr. Lyman. Ms. Cregg is sitting on one of the chaises, trying to keep her eyes open.
"Who are you?" Mr. McGarry asks bluntly.
"Annie Wright," I reply firmly.
He nods. "Junior speechwriter, hey?"
"Yes, sir."
"Welcome aboard. How long have you been working here?"
"Two years, but I was promoted last Friday, sir."
"Sir. I like that." He nods at Sam and Ms. Cregg. "You should call me sir."
Ms. Cregg looks about to tell him to screw off, while Sam grins. "Yes, sir," he says perkily, with a salute.
"Never mind," Mr. McGarry amends, irritation in his voice. "Where's Josh?"
"Here," the devil replies, entering and swerving around me to sit on the chaise opposite Ms. Cregg. "How are you, CJ?"
"Leave me alone."
"Those were some nice sleeper shades, Claudia Jean. I never figured you for the fuzzy type."
"Shut up."
"Wasn't that a lovely pair of sleeper shades, Annie?" he looks over at me, unaware that I'm not going to join him in making fun of Ms. Cregg. At least now I know what those things are called.
"Mr. Lyman, I think that Ms. Cregg would feel much better if you didn't insists upon making fun of her tiredness." There.
"Ms. Cregg?" he asks. "What is it with you?"
Mr. McGarry pipes in with, "Well, Josh, she's polite, for one thing."
"I'm polite," he protests.
"No, you're not," the room choruses. Well, not me. I'm too polite.
"Where's Toby?" Mr. McGarry grumbles, looking hopefully at the door. He does not appear. Perhaps it's a one-trick horse.
Or is that dog?
Pony. I think.
No matter, in comes Mr. Ziegler with an ominously familiar file in hand.
"Senator Marles just phoned me and he's upset," Mr. McGarry begins, and everyone moves to stand around the furniture. I scurry up behind Sam a couple of seconds late. "He wants to know why we're investigating him."
"Well, that's easy," Sam says, "He's a closet Republican."
"Senator Marles says that is not the case."
Sam throws his hands out. "Well, then, why don't we see how he votes next Tuesday regarding the tax cut for shelters?"
Mr. Lyman shakes his head. "A third of our own party aren't going to vote for that bill, Sam. It's no indicator of Democratness."
"That's not even a word!"
Raising an eyebrow, Mr. Lyman replies, "It doesn't need to be. The shelter bill will not be an indicator of partisanship. How's that?"
"Fine," Sam says huffily, starting to pace behind Ms. Cregg.
"I want to talk about the press release I received this morning," she says abruptly, turning to look at me now that my Sam-shield has deserted. "What was the deal with that?"
"It was a draft," I reply, not as strong as I'd like, but not as weak either. "I wanted to ask you if Sam and Mr. Ziegler--"
"I like that," Mr. Ziegler intones out of the blue. I can't believe he interrupted me.
Mr. McGarry nods in agreement. "Definitely. Especially the 'sir.'"
"Makes me feel respected," Mr. Lyman admits a little sheepishly. I knew the guy was protesting too much.
"It gets annoying when she says thank you, though," Sam points out. Okay, that's enough. I am in the room.
Ms. Cregg clears her throat suggestively. "How about we get back to the press release?"
Taking my chance, I leap in, "I was going to ask you if Sam an Mr. Ziegler get you to proof press releases and stuff before they polish them."
Ms. Cregg looks at them, then back at me. "Quite frankly, no, they don't. And I was never asked if I'd like them to."
Sensing the hint, I prompt, "Would you?"
"Well, yes."
Mr. Ziegler rubs his face, mumbling, "It's inefficient."
"You don't know what those bloodhounds are going to pounce on!" Ms. Cregg says with sudden heat. "You don't know which word, which phrase, will set them off! When have you ever dealt with the press?"
He looks up at her, their eyes meet. "Okay," she concedes. "Okay. If a draft can be given to me for proofing, I'd like that, but no, it's not necessary. Okay?"
Sam and Mr. Ziegler mumble what sound like affirmatives of some sort. Cool, I just witnessed not only a conflict resolution but a procedure change. Hey, and I caused it too.
M. McGarry nods slowly, once. "Now can we get to Senator Marles?"
We all nod back.
"As Josh pointed out, the bill on Tuesday will not be an indicator of partisanship. That bill will not pass. It's a gesture, really. Just a gesture." A very expensive, futile gesture that will get us more negative than positive press, but who's counting? This isn't the first time I've heard of the gesture tax shelter bill. I did proof a speech on it over the weekend.
"So we won't look at the bill. We'll look at the man. Am I right in assuming I'm the only one of you who's met the man?" Mr. McGarry looks over all of us, who stare somewhat-dumbly back. "Okay. I can deal with that. He's a good man. Loves his wife, never involved in anything shady--"
"That anyone knows of," Sam interrupts.
But Mr. McGarry plunges on. "--never involved in anything shady, decent father, no drug or alcohol abuse in his family. He's a nice guy."
There is a pause. I can sense the concession, the 'but' coming. Mr. McGarry is a very effective speaker.
"But he's always been a little on the conservative side."
Sam throws up his hands. "A spade's a spade, and he's a closet Republican."
"No," Mr. McGarry replies simply, stilling Sam with his voice. "An upside-down heart looks like a spade, don't it, Sam?"
Dropping his hands, Sam looks perplexed, but intrigued. Much like the rest of us, I'm sure. Except Mr. Ziegler's putting his head on the back of his chair and muttering something in a long-suffering voice.
"It is my belief that Senator Marles has come to a time in his life where he is re-evaluating his politics. A young man who is not a liberal has no spirit, and an older man who is not a conservative has no heart, I think Churchill said, though much more eloquently. You get my drift, right?"
Sam starts the quiet nodding. I find myself joining in. I do understand, now. I think. I'm not sure, though, if Mr. McGarry is making excuses for the Senator or the man told him himself.
Mr. McGarry nods in reply. "Good. Let's take a break and then talk about the bill on Tuesday, CARE, and some other things, okay?"
More nodding. Whether it's merely a continuation of the earlier nodding or it's true comprehension is up to interpretation, I suppose. Good golly I need some coffee.
As we file out of the office, Mr. McGarry says, "Annie, stick around a sec."
"Okay." I look over my shoulder at Sam, who shrugs and asks silently if I'd like hom to stay. I wave him on, and he goes.
Mr. McGarry is seated behind his desk when I turn to him. "Are you enjoying your promotion, Annie?"
"Yes, sir."
He nods. "More intellectually stimulating than replacing printer cartridges?"
I blush. He's been talking to Sam. "Yes, sir."
Tapping his fingers on the edge of his desk, he nods and looks around himself as though searching for something. A moment later he continues, "I've heard you're very good."
The blush deepens. "Thank you, sir, but Mr. Seaborn is, naturally, biased. He did promote me, after all."
His eyebrows meet and he looks at me with confusion, then slow appreciation of a point. "It is annoying. Quit calling me sir, and people over twenty-five do have first names, you know."
"I--I--yes, Mr. McGarry."
"Leo."
Oh dear. I don't know about that. Two years of rigid office classism has made me unable to accept casual use of superior's names. I called Sam Mr. Sam, for Pete's sake.
"Leo," he insists.
"Leo," I reply weakly. I've been beaten.
He nods with satisfaction. "No more of this 'sir' and 'mister' nonsense. For anybody. Well, except the President. You'll give those guys fat heads with so much respect. Understand?"
"Yes, sir. Um, Leo." I've been told, and let no one say I'm not a fast learner.
"Okay, you can go." He waves me off, which is endearing.
I turn to do as he says. My hand is on the doorknob as he says off-handedly, "And it wasn't Sam who said you were good, by the way."
Holy cow. Upside-down heart.
THE END
Author's note: The reason for the title will become apparent. Thanks reviewers, so much so.
The Nodding Story
by BJ Garrett
Somehow, I guess, I made it to my cubicle. Somehow I finished the first draft of the press release. Somehow I opened my e-mail and started proofing the speech I found there. Somehow I unwrapped my PB&J and ate it. Somehow I accepted a fresh cup of coffee from a passing trolley and drank it.
Somehow, I'm still breathing.
I have a sinking feeling that there's a goofy grin on my face, but then maybe people always look at me strangely and I just never noticed before.
My hands still on the keyboard and I really look at what I've been typing all over Sam's revised CARE speech. Surprisingly, it makes sense. I can barely remember the last two-and-a-half hours. This is a feeling I haven't had since my freshman year of high school.
Part of me is worried that Sam's going to show up and expect an apology for what I said, while the other part is afraid he's going to show up and apologise. I don't know which would be worse, really. Because either way, I'm still right and so is he.
Mr. Ziegler did like my piece. But he didn't say so to Sam.
I wonder who he was talking to.
It doesn't really matter, I don't think.
I do think I should run my draft over to Ms. Cregg and get her reaction. Do Sam and Mr. Ziegler do that? A point to ponder. I won't know if I don't ask.
So here I go trooping down the hall with my print-out in hand. I wonder why Ms. Cregg doesn't write her own press releases. It would definitely cut out the middle man.
Middle woman. Me. I have to stop thinking like an economist. I just about down-sized myself.
As I pass Mr. Lyman's office, he steps out in front of me. I swerve to go around him, not avoiding him because I'm afraid, but simply for the sake of avoiding him.
"Hey, hey," he says reproachfully, coming up behind me as I knock on Ms. Cregg's door. "I didn't introduce myself."
"I know who you are, sir," I reply, turning to speak to Carol when Ms. Cregg doesn't answer. "Is she in?"
Looking confused, Carol nods. "Should be. I didn't see her leave."
I knock again, noticing that Mr. Lyman hasn't vacated the scene.
"I'm Josh Lyman," he says, holding out his hand when I glance at him.
"I know who you are," I repeat, shaking his hand perfunctorily. "I've been here for two years."
There is a moment of silence as he processes this with a blank look. "We've had a junior speechwriter for two years? And no one bothered to tell me?"
For the third time I knock. My annoyance level has begun to rise. "No. You had office staff until Friday. Sam told you today. Ms. Cregg?"
"Allow me." Carol steps in and knocks gently before turning the handle.
The door jerks inward abruptly, revealing a very tired-looking Ms. Cregg with a pair of fuzzy eye-covery things that you wear when you're sleeping pushed up on her forehead.
"What?" she demands. The three of us just stare at her, noting the red-rimmed eyes and drawn-in lips. Her hair is tousled, her suit jacket rumpled. Goodness me.
"What!" she repeats aggressively. "What do you want, Josh?"
He gestures vaguely at me. Those blood-shot orbs swing my way and I swallow. This is quite funny. I will laugh when I've changed into clean underwear.
"Well?"
They've been staring at me as I stare up at her. "Um," I say numbly, hugging my print-out to my chest.
"Is that important?" she asks me, pointing at the print-out. I nod. "Is it for me?" she elaborates.
Yes, it is. It's a press release. Do Sam and Mr. Ziegler let you proof press releases? Just for future reference, because I'm the new junior speechwriter. I think we'll be seeing a lot of each other. But, no, I can't say that, because that would be intelligent.
The door closes in my face, the print-out suddenly gone from my hands. "Ah," I gasp. Mr. Lyman pats my shoulder.
"It's okay. I'm scared too."
I turn away from the door, and Mr. Lyman escorts me back to Communications. "Where's your cubicle?" he asks gently.
"This one," I reply, stepping inside and sinking into my chair. After a second, I realise Mr. Lyman hasn't left, and I attempt conversation. "She's never snapped at me before."
Mr. Lyman shrugs. "There was a gala last night that went until two this morning. The President told her to stay until a certain senator left, and he left at two when the hosts kicked him out."
"Which senator?" I wonder if maybe Ms. Cregg is in on this Marles thing too.
Another shrug. "I don't know. I wasn't invited."
Sam walks past and hits the wall of my cubicle with a rolled up newpaper. "Staff, Josh! Bring Annie!"
Mr. Lyman raises his eyebrows at me. "Our presence is requested in the Chief of Staff's office. Shall we?"
Why not? I've never been to a staff meeting before. Seize every available opportunity to learn, as my oft-quoted professor once told me.
"Okay."
And so we go. As we pass the Roosevelt Room, Mr. Lyman trips on a carelessly discarded black plastic something. Catching him as he falls against me, I inquire, "Are you alright, Mr. Lyman?"
"Josh. I'm fine. But you should call me Josh," he says, smoothing a hand over his unsmoothable hair. A Secret Service guy scoops the black plastic something up and disappears.
Yeah, right, I'm going to call him Josh. "That's okay, sir."
We resume walking. "No, really," he insists. "Nobody calls me Mr. Lyman."
"You've obviously never had a conversation with office staff, sir," I reply, straightening my suit jacket outside Mr. McGarry's office.
He pauses for thought.
He hasn't ever had a conversation with office staff. For heaven's sake. "Can we just go in?" I ask.
"Oh, yeah, go ahead," he says, gesturing towards the door. I open it and step inside.
Sam looks up and smiles at me, not even a little apologetic. He's the stupidest man who ever lived if he thinks he's going to get away with this. I smile coolly back and fold my hands in front of me.
Mr. McGarry spies me as he scans the room, which is as yet missing Mr. Ziegler and, of course, Mr. Lyman. Ms. Cregg is sitting on one of the chaises, trying to keep her eyes open.
"Who are you?" Mr. McGarry asks bluntly.
"Annie Wright," I reply firmly.
He nods. "Junior speechwriter, hey?"
"Yes, sir."
"Welcome aboard. How long have you been working here?"
"Two years, but I was promoted last Friday, sir."
"Sir. I like that." He nods at Sam and Ms. Cregg. "You should call me sir."
Ms. Cregg looks about to tell him to screw off, while Sam grins. "Yes, sir," he says perkily, with a salute.
"Never mind," Mr. McGarry amends, irritation in his voice. "Where's Josh?"
"Here," the devil replies, entering and swerving around me to sit on the chaise opposite Ms. Cregg. "How are you, CJ?"
"Leave me alone."
"Those were some nice sleeper shades, Claudia Jean. I never figured you for the fuzzy type."
"Shut up."
"Wasn't that a lovely pair of sleeper shades, Annie?" he looks over at me, unaware that I'm not going to join him in making fun of Ms. Cregg. At least now I know what those things are called.
"Mr. Lyman, I think that Ms. Cregg would feel much better if you didn't insists upon making fun of her tiredness." There.
"Ms. Cregg?" he asks. "What is it with you?"
Mr. McGarry pipes in with, "Well, Josh, she's polite, for one thing."
"I'm polite," he protests.
"No, you're not," the room choruses. Well, not me. I'm too polite.
"Where's Toby?" Mr. McGarry grumbles, looking hopefully at the door. He does not appear. Perhaps it's a one-trick horse.
Or is that dog?
Pony. I think.
No matter, in comes Mr. Ziegler with an ominously familiar file in hand.
"Senator Marles just phoned me and he's upset," Mr. McGarry begins, and everyone moves to stand around the furniture. I scurry up behind Sam a couple of seconds late. "He wants to know why we're investigating him."
"Well, that's easy," Sam says, "He's a closet Republican."
"Senator Marles says that is not the case."
Sam throws his hands out. "Well, then, why don't we see how he votes next Tuesday regarding the tax cut for shelters?"
Mr. Lyman shakes his head. "A third of our own party aren't going to vote for that bill, Sam. It's no indicator of Democratness."
"That's not even a word!"
Raising an eyebrow, Mr. Lyman replies, "It doesn't need to be. The shelter bill will not be an indicator of partisanship. How's that?"
"Fine," Sam says huffily, starting to pace behind Ms. Cregg.
"I want to talk about the press release I received this morning," she says abruptly, turning to look at me now that my Sam-shield has deserted. "What was the deal with that?"
"It was a draft," I reply, not as strong as I'd like, but not as weak either. "I wanted to ask you if Sam and Mr. Ziegler--"
"I like that," Mr. Ziegler intones out of the blue. I can't believe he interrupted me.
Mr. McGarry nods in agreement. "Definitely. Especially the 'sir.'"
"Makes me feel respected," Mr. Lyman admits a little sheepishly. I knew the guy was protesting too much.
"It gets annoying when she says thank you, though," Sam points out. Okay, that's enough. I am in the room.
Ms. Cregg clears her throat suggestively. "How about we get back to the press release?"
Taking my chance, I leap in, "I was going to ask you if Sam an Mr. Ziegler get you to proof press releases and stuff before they polish them."
Ms. Cregg looks at them, then back at me. "Quite frankly, no, they don't. And I was never asked if I'd like them to."
Sensing the hint, I prompt, "Would you?"
"Well, yes."
Mr. Ziegler rubs his face, mumbling, "It's inefficient."
"You don't know what those bloodhounds are going to pounce on!" Ms. Cregg says with sudden heat. "You don't know which word, which phrase, will set them off! When have you ever dealt with the press?"
He looks up at her, their eyes meet. "Okay," she concedes. "Okay. If a draft can be given to me for proofing, I'd like that, but no, it's not necessary. Okay?"
Sam and Mr. Ziegler mumble what sound like affirmatives of some sort. Cool, I just witnessed not only a conflict resolution but a procedure change. Hey, and I caused it too.
M. McGarry nods slowly, once. "Now can we get to Senator Marles?"
We all nod back.
"As Josh pointed out, the bill on Tuesday will not be an indicator of partisanship. That bill will not pass. It's a gesture, really. Just a gesture." A very expensive, futile gesture that will get us more negative than positive press, but who's counting? This isn't the first time I've heard of the gesture tax shelter bill. I did proof a speech on it over the weekend.
"So we won't look at the bill. We'll look at the man. Am I right in assuming I'm the only one of you who's met the man?" Mr. McGarry looks over all of us, who stare somewhat-dumbly back. "Okay. I can deal with that. He's a good man. Loves his wife, never involved in anything shady--"
"That anyone knows of," Sam interrupts.
But Mr. McGarry plunges on. "--never involved in anything shady, decent father, no drug or alcohol abuse in his family. He's a nice guy."
There is a pause. I can sense the concession, the 'but' coming. Mr. McGarry is a very effective speaker.
"But he's always been a little on the conservative side."
Sam throws up his hands. "A spade's a spade, and he's a closet Republican."
"No," Mr. McGarry replies simply, stilling Sam with his voice. "An upside-down heart looks like a spade, don't it, Sam?"
Dropping his hands, Sam looks perplexed, but intrigued. Much like the rest of us, I'm sure. Except Mr. Ziegler's putting his head on the back of his chair and muttering something in a long-suffering voice.
"It is my belief that Senator Marles has come to a time in his life where he is re-evaluating his politics. A young man who is not a liberal has no spirit, and an older man who is not a conservative has no heart, I think Churchill said, though much more eloquently. You get my drift, right?"
Sam starts the quiet nodding. I find myself joining in. I do understand, now. I think. I'm not sure, though, if Mr. McGarry is making excuses for the Senator or the man told him himself.
Mr. McGarry nods in reply. "Good. Let's take a break and then talk about the bill on Tuesday, CARE, and some other things, okay?"
More nodding. Whether it's merely a continuation of the earlier nodding or it's true comprehension is up to interpretation, I suppose. Good golly I need some coffee.
As we file out of the office, Mr. McGarry says, "Annie, stick around a sec."
"Okay." I look over my shoulder at Sam, who shrugs and asks silently if I'd like hom to stay. I wave him on, and he goes.
Mr. McGarry is seated behind his desk when I turn to him. "Are you enjoying your promotion, Annie?"
"Yes, sir."
He nods. "More intellectually stimulating than replacing printer cartridges?"
I blush. He's been talking to Sam. "Yes, sir."
Tapping his fingers on the edge of his desk, he nods and looks around himself as though searching for something. A moment later he continues, "I've heard you're very good."
The blush deepens. "Thank you, sir, but Mr. Seaborn is, naturally, biased. He did promote me, after all."
His eyebrows meet and he looks at me with confusion, then slow appreciation of a point. "It is annoying. Quit calling me sir, and people over twenty-five do have first names, you know."
"I--I--yes, Mr. McGarry."
"Leo."
Oh dear. I don't know about that. Two years of rigid office classism has made me unable to accept casual use of superior's names. I called Sam Mr. Sam, for Pete's sake.
"Leo," he insists.
"Leo," I reply weakly. I've been beaten.
He nods with satisfaction. "No more of this 'sir' and 'mister' nonsense. For anybody. Well, except the President. You'll give those guys fat heads with so much respect. Understand?"
"Yes, sir. Um, Leo." I've been told, and let no one say I'm not a fast learner.
"Okay, you can go." He waves me off, which is endearing.
I turn to do as he says. My hand is on the doorknob as he says off-handedly, "And it wasn't Sam who said you were good, by the way."
Holy cow. Upside-down heart.
THE END