Benny: A Tale of a Christmas Toy (7 page)

She expected him to admonish her, that would
be normal for him, but instead he just smiled and motioned to the
metal folding chair across from his desk.  "Quite all right,
Carol," he said.  "That sort of thing happens. You look very
nice today, by the way."

"Thank you, sir."

"How's little Sam?"

"Very good, sir."

"What's he, eight, nine now?"

"Five, sir."

"Right, five."

Her nylons did little to protect her from
the ice cold metal, and she would have yelped if she wasn't in an
interview.  Instead she maintained eye contact, tried to look
as comfortable as possible. 

There were a number of filing cabinets and
bookshelves, a few fake plants, and on the far wall, a glass case
that contained a bunch of metals and ribbons from his Marine
days.  His cologne smelled like gasoline.  Everybody at
the store had chipped in and bought him a new cologne for
Christmas, but as far she knew he had never worn it.

He turned to his computer, his wooden swivel
chair squeaking, and glanced at the spreadsheet program currently
running.  It was the same spreadsheet he always had running,
with lots of tiny numbers and rows highlighted in different colors,
very complex and hard to read, and it never seemed to change except
for the colors.  After nodding thoughtfully a few times, he
turned back to her, smiled, then opened one of his drawers and
pulled out a manila folder.  He placed it on the desk, opened
it carefully, licked his thumb, and spent several seconds flipping
through the papers.

"Well, now," he said.  "You've been
with the company for three years and nine months, it would
seem."

"Yes, sir."

"And for the last fourteen months, you've
been a Customer Service Supervisor."

"That's right."

"And a damn good one, I might add."

"Thank you, sir."  A compliment was a
good sign. 

"You handle difficult customers well. 
Your cashiers are well trained.  You almost never come up
short, and when you do, you get to the bottom of the problem real
quick."

"I do my best."

"Oh, you certainly do.  In fact, I'd
say you're one of the best Customer Service Supervisors we've ever
had.  And I've been here twelve years, and I've seen more than
a few."

"Thank you."  She felt herself actually
blushing.  This was going better than she hoped.

"And here you are, applying for Assistant
Manager."

"That's right."

 
He glanced down at
her paperwork.  "Well, here's the deal, Carol.  Nobody
can really know if you're ready or not.  Personally, I think
you're pretty close, but I have some doubts."

Carol made sure her smile didn't leave her
face, even though she felt herself deflating like a balloon. 
"Doubts, sir?"

"Nothing major," he said.  "You're
doing a great job, you really are.  But you must know that
being an Assistant Manager is a big step up from being a Customer
Service Supervisor.  It's not in the cards for every Team
Member at Martco.  Even capable ones.  It's a lot of
responsibility.  My assistant managers are my right hand
men.  Or women."  He chuckled.  "The point is, I
count on them.  You're got to be willing to do what it takes
to ensure the store's success."

"I'm willing to do whatever it takes, sir,"
she said.  She knew there was tension in her voice, but she
couldn't help it.

"Of course, of course, and I think you're
almost there.  Almost.  This close."  He held his
fingers an inch apart.  "But even though it's not much, it's a
lot.  I put my ass on the line—excuse my language—every time I
hire an Assistant Manager.  They do poorly, the store does
poorly, and my DM doesn't like it.  He won't take it out on
the AMs, he'll take it out on me."

Carol felt the job slipping away from
her.  This wasn't the way it was supposed to go.  There
were supposed to be questions, what-ifs, role-plays.  She
wasn't even getting a chance to make her case.  "Sir, if you
could just give me a chance, I'm sure I'll prove myself worthy of
your trust."

He nodded.  "Well, I can't quite take
that chance, Carol.  Not quite yet.  But I have an idea .
. . A proposal . . . Something I think can help you get
there."  He was stumbling over his words, and she saw a bead
of sweat on his forehead. 

"I'll do what I have to do," she said. 
"Take a class.  Read some books.  Talk to the DM. 
You name it."

"Oh, that's not necessary . . . Um, what I'm
suggesting is that I . . . I
personally
coach you. 
I've got a lot of experience in retail, Carol.  And beyond
retail too.  I know how to lead.  I can teach you how to
lead, too.  Together we can get you to the next level, so
you're ready to take on the . . . the additional responsibility of
being an Assistant Manager."

All at once she understood exactly what he
was getting it, but she didn't want to believe it.  "Oh, you
mean meet once a week or something in your office, sir?  Talk
about issues."

"Not my office," he said quickly.  "I
mean, my door is always open to you, you know that, always
open.  But this kind of . . .
mentoring
, that's the
right word, I think . . . shouldn't be done on company time. 
If you want the job, it's up to you to put in the extra
effort.  On your own time.  But I'm willing to put in my
own time, too.  We could meet for coffee.  Talk about the
challenges of becoming an Assistant Manger at Martco.  That
sort of thing."

Now she knew what he was after and she felt
her stomach churning.  It didn't surprise her—she had gotten
hints from him before, a few winks and compliments—but somehow she
didn't think he would stoop this low.  He was a married
man.  He had something like fifteen kids.  She could
never remember how many, because all of their names ended in
y:
  Jimmy, Jenny, Corey, Billy, Penny, Ricky Jr. . . .
She wondered what his wife would think about this.

"Well," she said, choosing her words
carefully, "I appreciate the offer.  I do.  But with my
son, it's just too hard to meet outside of work."  What she
really wanted to do was spit in his face, but it was the thought of
Sam that kept her from doing so.

He looked wounded.  "Ah," he said.

"And I appreciate you trying to . . . mentor
me.  I do.  And I hope we can do some of that here at
work."  When she said the words, she felt herself
shudder.  She knew that
some of that
would mean
something entirely different to him.  "Mentoring, that is,"
she added quickly.  "Talking about what I can do to get
better.  That sort of thing."

He nodded.  "Of course, of
course.  I'm very busy here, but we'll do what we can.  I
won't be—I won't be able to give you the same kind of attention and
effort I could give you outside of work, of course."

She had a hard time meeting his eyes, so she
looked at his tie, which in turn made her think about his
underwear.  She shuddered again.  "Oh, I understand sir,"
she said.  She knew he was bound to notice all this shuddering
eventually.  "Boy, it is a bit cold in here, isn't it?"

He said nothing for a while, then closed her
file.  She wondered how long it would be before she would be
sitting here again with her file open on his desk. Glass ceiling,
her ass.  It was made of Titanium.

"Well," he said, putting her file back in
his drawer.  "I guess that's all for now.  Thanks for
coming in.  I appreciate it.  And if you should ever
change your mind about that private mentoring . . ."

"Oh, you'd be the first to know," she said,
thinking to herself, not a million years, asshole.

She rose, wanting to get in her car as
quickly as possible so she could start screaming and cursing, and
maintained her composure as she walked to the door.  All this
effort for nothing. 

"Oh, one last thing," he said.

She had her hand on the doorknob, and she
turned, smiling faintly, her defenses raised.  He rolled his
chair around the desk, and for a moment, she actually thought he
was going to try to grab her.  She wondered if anybody outside
this windowless little cave would hear her scream.  Her hand
started to turn the doorknob.

"Yes?" she said.

"I need you to come in early next
Monday."

She was still thinking this had something to
do with sex.  "Oh?"

"Yes, I'll need to talk to you about a few
things."

"About what, sir?"

"About the new Assistant Manager. 
He'll be starting that day, and I'd like you to give him a tour of
the place.  My other assistants will all be busy, and nobody
knows the store better than you, Carol.  Besides, he'll be
your boss."

Carol stood there, dumbfounded.  Olsen
was being awfully confident that they would find somebody, hire
them, and have them start all by next week.  It would take
longer than that just to get their paperwork processed by
headquarters.  Then she realized the truth.  "You're
already hired somebody, didn't you?" she said.

There must have been something in her voice
that made him realize he had made a mistake, because he spoke
quickly.  "Oh, well, yes, I got an email from the DM last
night.  He's hired somebody himself."  He shrugged and
put up his hands in a gesture of helplessness.  "I think it's
my store, but he tells me to hire somebody and I've got to do
it."

Carol wished she could melt Olsen with her
eyes.  She could make it into a little joke for Sam. 
What's red, white, blue, and black all over?  A puddle of
Olsen, that's what.  "I'm a little confused, sir.  I
thought . . . I thought I was interviewing . . ."

"Oh, you were!  You were interviewing
for Assistant Manager.  Just not this position.  As I
said, I didn't think you were ready yet anyway.  I figured, by
the time you were ready, there would be something else . . .
another position would open up.  It happens all the time, you
know.  All the time."

Carol was shaking.  Yes, after a couple
of years of hot sex in skanky hotel rooms, who knew what Olsen
would do?  Maybe he
would
promote her to A.M.  And
then what?  Would she be expected to give him blow jobs in his
office?   She couldn't believe she even thought she had a
chance at the job.  What had she been thinking?  And she
was wearing nylons.  Nylons, damn it!
"I see you're a little upset," Olsen said.

Upset, Carol wanted to say.  I'm not
upset.  I'm fucking pissed beyond belief.  I'm going to
complain to the District Manager that you've used your position to
try to get me to have sex with you.  I'm going to file a
sexual harassment complaint with Headquarters.  I'm going to
get a lawyer and sue Martco for every penny they got, and I'm not
going to be satisfied until you're out on your street, and you're
so poor you can't even afford shoe polish for your hair. Your wife
will find out what you did, and I'll tell her if she divorces you
that I'll give her a big chunk of my settlement money so that
she'll always have enough to take care of Ricky, Dicky and
Hicky.  How's that for upset?

"Oh, I'm fine," she said.  "Just . . .
a little disappointed, that's all."

"Sure," he said.  "I understand. 
That's normal.  You wanted to be Assistant Manger very
much.  It was your dream."
Somehow that was the worst insult, to imply that becoming Assistant
Manager at Martco was her dream.  The word dream was far too
lofty.  It had been a goal, that's all.  A stepping
stone.  A way of getting herself somewhere else, get a little
more money, allow her to finish her degree, and hopefully in a
hurry.  Dream?  She didn't even know if she had a
dream.  Ever since Alex left her and Sam, she had been too
busy worrying about surviving.

She opened the door, stepped outside, and
started to close it behind her.  "What's his name?" she asked
wearily, without turning.

"Hmm?" Olsen said.

"The new guy.  The Assistant
Manager.  What's his name?"  Carol wanted to know what it
was so she could start hating him right away.  If she couldn't
visualize his face, she could at least see his name. 

She heard Olsen open his drawer, pull out a
folder.  "His name . . . his first name is Jeff, I remember
that.  Yes, I've got it right here . . . Jeff . . ."

Chapter 5

". . .GARBY," OLSEN SAID. "Am I saying that
correctly, Jeff?  It is pronounced that way, right?"

For a moment, Jeff had no idea what the man
was talking about.  The employees, huddled at the front of the
store like some sort of intramural football team, stared at
him.  They were all so different, men, women, old, young, yet
somehow the green aprons made them the same, morphing them into
giant green blob.  The aisles behind the employees were empty
of people, the store not yet open.  Some Celine Deion tune,
the vocals stripped, played quietly from the ceiling. 
Standing close to the sliding doors, as he was, he felt a draft of
cool morning air.  Too damn early.  Usually he was never
out of bed until noon.  If not for the cup of cappuccino
warming his hand, he never would have been able to survive.

Finally he remembered that Garby was his new
last name.  How could he forget?  He had been rehearsing
for weeks.  Jeff Garby, a new graduate of Yale, originally
from Wisconsin, worked briefly for Target, pleased to meet
you.  He was fibbing a little, of course, but not so much
there wasn't a grain of truth in there.  He had shopped at
Target once.  That was close to working there.  And most
people, including himself, thought there was little difference
between Minnesota and Wisconsin.

"That's right," Jeff said, wondering just
how you could possibly pronounce the name any other way.

Olsen nodded, obviously pleased with
himself.  He had the kind of pinched face and slicked back
hair that made Jeff think of an otter—one which had just emerged
from a pond, fur still glistening.  He also had a hunch why
Horace Dugin had chosen this particular store:  Olsen was a
lot like Jeff's father.  Ex-military.  Always marching
around barking orders.  Even if what the guy said was
reasonable, Jeff still felt the urge to argue.