The Brewing Storm

The Lesson

"Come in," a cold voice calls from inside. I shouldn't be surprised that the voice is emotionless and utterly stoic, but it irks me anyway. Why couldn't the man show even the slightest bit of compassion? I open the door and step inside, facing the dimly lit man sitting behind the mahogany desk. I briefly wonder why a room with no natural light would have only one small bulb lighting it, but Mr. Ambrose doesn't give me too much time to ponder it.

"You're late." He says, not looking up from his typewriter. 

Anger sparks through me. "What are you talking about? It's 8:55!" I left so early from home to get here on time, and this man dares to say I'm late? "You didn't tell me what time to come." I remember that this man is supposed to be my boss, and try to level my voice. 

He finally pauses to look up at me. "I am aware of the time. That does not excuse you from being late, Mr. Linton." His voice remains cool, still not even a hint of annoyance. It makes me wonder how far I'd have to go to elicit such an emotion. It is a challenge that appeals to me. 

"So what time do you expect me to arrive then?" I try to match my voice to his, but a bit of frustration leaks out. 

He looks at me, and even though he doesn't respond immediately, I can read the expression in his eyes. It says, Why don't you already know? As if by being his secretary I gain infinite knowledge about him.

When I remain silent, he finally speaks, "I come in at five in the morning every morning. You should be here before I am." He says it so nonchalantly, as if this is normal behavior for people in the industry. Whatever industry this is.

Once again I am too stunned to respond, but it doesn't seem to be a problem to Mr. Ambrose, because he just continues on after giving me a pointed look. "Your office is one floor below this one. In the future clients will come to you before approaching me. Your daily tasks will be assigned through the pneumatic tube system I have installed, and they will be carried out in the like." With that, he returns to the paper he had been typing up when I walked in. 

I'm still standing there like an idiot, a million thoughts racing through my brain. The loudest of them keeps asking, why are you here? Why are you here? It is a disturbing thought. I came here to teach this man a lesson and somehow concocted a crazy plan in order to do so. Was my lesson even worth teaching?

Mr. Ambrose looks up from his work again with an impatient look on his face, "Well, go on, Mr. Linton. You've wasted enough time. And knowledge is power is time is money."

I cross my arms, "That doesn't even make any sense."

He looks back at his work and replies, "You're only proving my point. The door is behind you."

Yup. This man needs to be taught a lesson. With that thought, and a newfound determination, I follow his orders and go to the elevator. I find myself yearning to push a button to a floor other than my own, eager to unravel the mystery behind the building that has been a source for gossip in this town for many years. But in order for my plan to work, I need to follow the rules, so I press the button for floor 85 and wait.

When the doors open, I expect to find another waiting room, just like in Mr. Ambrose's office. But instead I walk right into a room which I am left to assume is my office. It looks nothing like an office though, save for the desk sitting in the middle of the room. The rest of it looks more like a storage space, mainly because of the floor to ceiling filing cabinets that take up every inch of wall space. I'm surprised, to say the least, and make a mental note to myself to stop expecting things when it comes to this man. The only break in the chain of metal drawers is a plain white door. 

I walk over to inspect it and find a bathroom inside. I heave a sigh of relief. The idea of having to go to the little boys room every time I have to do my business is not a pleasant thought. At least he isn't a completely cruel man. The thought surprises me, and I mull it over, finally deciding that giving your secretary her own private little bathroom is a good enough sign of generosity.