“But I’m only three years younger than Keith and I’ve worked my way up the ladder since I got here?” Surely my time at the company should be enough to counteract that.
Andrew looks so uncomfortable it makes me think of one of my short-lived relationships, where the guy was near disgusted when I said I was on my period and didn’t want to hook up. It was as if the mere mention of the way my body functioned made me a pariah.
Wait. No fucking way. That can’t be it, surely? I’ve heard rumors but never actually seen it in person.
“It’s not that I’m twenty-nine. It’s that I’m awomanwho’s twenty-nine.”
He shakes his head. “No. No. This isnotbecause of your sex or age.”
Cause that would be discriminatory and if he said that it would be a liability for Lakin-Cole. I keep going though, my anger at the unfairness peeking through the carefully constructed persona I’ve curated.
“The quality of my future work is in question because you believe at my rapidly deteriorating age, the incessant ticking of my ‘biological clock’ will leave me beset with a sudden urge to procreate, and that would put my dedication to the company in question. Even though if Keith were to have a kid he’d be just as much a parent as I would, it counts against me but not him.”
Wiping his hand across his mouth, Andrew takes a beat before his own corporate mask slips onto his face to cover the discomfort.
“Keith is the preferred candidate. He’s dedicated to this company and we are confident he will provide what we expect out of a leader. I’m sorry you’re unhappy with the outcome but that’s the reason. He’s your superior and I suggest you accept that sooner rather than later. We don’t have time for employees who let personal pettiness impact their work. This is a large-scale contracting company and professionalism and teamwork are a requisite for working here. It’s your choice.”
Take it or leave it but either way I’m the loser here. If I speak up, I’ll be giving in to every stereotype I’ve been trying to avoid. If I sit back and let it happen I’ll be trampled under what I’ve been working to break through.
“I know you’re disappointed, Rachel. I hope it’s a consolation to know we think you’re indispensable where you are now. We can’t afford to lose you as a developer. No one can do it like you can and we do see the effort you put in.”
Rising from the chair, I nod at him before leaving, my thoughts a maelstrom in my head.
“Hey, Rach,” Keith calls out from the water cooler when I emerge from Andrew’s office.
I acknowledge him with a little wave.
“After work celebratory drinks at Public at six. You better be there!” Keith says to the whole office more than just me, and there’s a little cheer among our colleagues at the prospect of Thursday night drinking.
After work, drowning-out-the-rage drinks at Public Service sound great. And Ángel will be there. One upside to this whole mess.
* * *
It’s gin.I fucking hate gin. It tastes like chewing a tree leaf—a pine needle stuck between my teeth and burning through my chest when I swallow. But I take a swig and bite out a smile in the direction of my mysterious benefactor. Turning back to Ángel—the bartender and my best friend—I sit with my back to the rest of the room. I catch a distorted glimpse of myself behind a wall of bottles and consider my options.
The gin sucks but today sucks even more.
“You don’t have to drink the rest of it.” Good ol’ Ángel, kind as always, and well aware of the face I make when I find something disgusting.
“It’s free. I’m having a bad night.”
“It’sgin.”
The sigh shudders out of me. “I know. But if I turn it down he might get nasty.”
We both turn to take a quick glance at the man who sent the drink again and I get a brief look at a baby blue button up and perfectly coiffed blonde hair.
“What do you think?” I ask.
Ángel and I play this game every Friday night, taking bets on which sector these guys might be working in. When I lose, I owe Ángel a twenty. He puts it toward his Paris fund. He wants to walk the streets of Montmartre and feel like a “real poet” even when I tell him that writing poetry makes him one, not the location. He’s firm. So far, I’ve helped him save up a couple hundred dollars over the last few months. When he loses, and let’s be honest I lose on those nights as well because most of the time I stay here until they close, Ángel takes me to get something greasy to soak up the alcohol.
Raising a newly-bleached eyebrow, Ángel has more opportunity to look without being obvious. “I’m going to say Capitol Hill. He’s slinging his jacket over his arm. Looks like he’s heading over here.”
“Ohcome on,that is such a cheap shot. Half of the people in this bar probably work on the Hill. Hurry. Give me something real to work with.” I take another swig of the disgusting liquor for some courage.
If he really is heading over here, I need to try and get in the right mindspace.
“Fine. Assistant or intern of some kind.”
