The Manager

Greetings Hairballers,

Today we have a short story by our guest blogger, George Gracie.  Hope you enjoy.

The Manager©

On the day before she was fired, Stunada stood and surveyed her domain, marveling again at her good fortune.  Corner office with a water view--yes.  She wobbled slightly on her 5 inch red high heels (those shoes said it all) while holding the doorjamb to steady herself.  Yes, this was her job--the manager.  Wiggling her way into the promotion had been worth it and, perhaps, he’d actually leave his wife.  Then, she wouldn’t have to work at all.  Even she knew that wasn’t going to happen.

        

He hadn’t told her of his transfer to California.  What was with that?  Maybe giving her this job was his way of taking care of her before he left.  She’d be great in California, though.  Stunada was young, shapely and trendy.  A California kind of gal.

        

She was bothered that he barely acknowledged her at his sendoff party last night.  Of course, his wife was there wearing her proper little suit and patent leather pumps--hardly a head turner.

        

Whatever, she thought.  She could always find someone else.  She didn’t need him any more.

        

Right now, she had this divine job unlike her cousin, Carol, with her big deal law degree.  While Carol slaved away every night with her legal stuff, Stunada was visiting the bars she recommended on the apartment website.  Everything for her was on the house and she was a celebrity, welcomed with open arms.

        

There wasn’t a lot of heavy lifting to do.  The maintenance guys fixed anything that broke or replaced it.  The rental agents dealt with the tenants.  God, those tenants, they always wanted something.  What a bunch of losers.  Wasn’t it enough that she posted on Facebook when it was going to rain and just yesterday, she had a whole spread on National Sticky Bun Day?  Plus, she got them discounts at her favorite bars.

        

Then there was that bitch in the other building, who said it was against the law to give out people’s personal information when she posted birthdays. Stunada showed her, she started posting only first names with the birthdays so no one would know who it was.  She also changed the Facebook page so the bitch couldn’t comment. Stunada wanted only likes and praise.

        

She left the office and walked over to the sinkhole by the pool thinking the maintenance guys ought to fill it up with dirt or something. It was lunchtime by now so that thought would have to wait ‘till later if it resurfaced at all.

        

People were moving out like it was a hotel.  No biggie.  The investment company didn’t want people to stay.  They made more money renting vacant apartments where they could double the rent.  Besides, the young and with-it tenants tended to move on and they were the sort the complex wanted.

        

She sat for a while in her office pulling a strand of hair across her face, wondering whether to add blue streaks to the fuchsia ones.  She then shut off her computer and left for the day.

        

Little did Stunada know that in less than 12 hours, she would be packing up her ruby slippers, blue streaks or not, and moving back in with her parents.  The new female vice president, who replaced her former benefactor, had other ideas.

George Gracie