1
YOU’RE NOT MRS. MORTON
Bailey
I don’t think I ‘get’ abstract sculptures. Not that they aren’t art, I just never understand what they mean. Take, for instance, the garden in front of my new workplace; it’s filled with indiscernible concrete sculptures. Art should make you feel things, but all I feel is intimidated.
Maybe that’s the point? Cryptech is one of those fancy tech companies whose office building is more like a compound. The temp company usually sends me places with beige cubicle walls, but this place has multiple modern buildings where all the walls seem to be windows. The lobby doesn’t even have magazines for visitors to read, just a water feature and those see-through fiberglass chairs that collect smudges. My hands are too greasy to be around furniture that can show fingerprints.
“I’m here for the temp position. It’s my first day.” I tell the chic blonde behind the desk. She’s pretty, with a starched white button-down and her hair pulled in such a tight updo that it makes me feel unkempt. “It’s an assistant job. Mr. Kwatch. My name is Bay. Bailey Thorn, is the full name, but I go by Bay. I’m supposed to be assisting Mr. Kwatch.” I fumble throughmy introduction, feeling, not for the first time, that the improv classes I took in college didn’t actually prepare me to have real conversations.
Yes, andI should shut my mouth more often.
“You’re working under Sacha?” The woman eyes me with pity. “He’s gonna eat you alive. No offense,” she adds quickly.
No offense was taken, until that last part. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? I’m not exactly in my element here, but in my yellow pencil skirt and pink blouse, I thought I looked more like a snack, not someone that could be devoured.
“Best of luck to you, but he’s an actual monster. I wish I could give you pointers, but I’ve always avoided him. Thank you for calling Cryptech. How may I direct your call?” She switches to a phone greeting without even taking a breath and passes me a clipboard full of papers to fill out before gesturing to the empty lobby chairs.
I take the forms and wait until an HR lady finds me. She gives me a tour of the office. Everything in this building is either stark white or space gray. Even the people seem to be dressed monochromatic. I feel out of place in my second-hand blouse that I was so pleased to score for three dollars. I don’t find a lot in thrift stores that fit a size 22, so I always snap them up.
I’ve been navigating the gig economy since I was seventeen. Working odd jobs for the past eight years, supporting myself through the fancy MBA program I thought would help land me a job.
Spoiler alert, it didn’t.
I’m twenty-five, perpetually single, and struggling to find an employer who will hire me full time. Cryptech deals with some kind of tech that requires higher security; apparently, not many people pass the three background checks needed just to get through the door, so the temp agency sent the first person who qualified—me.
It takes half the day to check all the boxes on all the forms and acquire my temporary security badge. I’m passed from an HR person, to an office manager, back to HR. I’m introduced to more names than I will ever be able to remember. Until finally, after a quiet lunch of a PB&J and a granola bar that I dig out of the bottom of my purse, I’m sitting behind a desk with a pile of completed forms in front of me.
It’s an assistant job. The desk’s previous occupant apparently left for a better opportunity. Which makes sense, because almost every office worker I’ve met seems to agree that Sacha Kwatch is the worst.
“Nice to meet you, but no use getting to know our names. You won’t last any longer than the others did,” laughs the woman with long green hair who works at the desk across the aisle from me.
“Hush,” the man in the cubicle next to her mutters. “You’ll give the poor girl a complex. I’m Jacob, this is Tatiana. Kwatch might be a monster, but he’s not going to fire you for no reason.”
“He’s had four different assistants in the last six months! I don’t know what they’re paying you,” Tatiana crinkles her nose, “but I am sure it isn’t enough.”
They make their boss sound like an asshole, but they don’t know how much I need this job. I’d work for the Jersey Devil himself for this hourly rate. The company must be desperate after the other assistants left because it’s more than twice what I’ve been paid at any other temp job. If I land a full time job here, it would be enough to properly furnish my new apartment, pay off some of my student loans, and maybe even start saving for something bigger.
I’m settling behind my desk, when a voice calls from Mr. Kwatch’s office.
“Mrs. Morton, the Iliad files.”
I glance around, checking if there’s someone else he could be speaking to.
A noise emanates from his office, something between a growl and a sigh. Did the CFO of this company just growl? “Mrs. Morton! I need you to update the Iliad files. Now.”
I leap to my feet and hurry to the door. “Sorry, sir, were you talking to me?” I ask.
The office is large, and in contrast to the rest of the building that I’ve seen, this room is warm and moody. The walls are wood-paneled; opposite the door is a wall of windows, framed by dark, heavy curtains, neatly drawn back to let in the afternoon light. The middle of the room is a sitting area with a set of plush upholstered chairs. To my left, behind the desk, is a wall of wooden shelves, full of those kinds of post-modern-looking awards that rich people love giving each other. The desk itself is a dark wood, leather-topped desk, and sitting at that desk is a man. Presumably, Sacha Kwatch.
His head raises from his computer, catching my gaze for the first time. His eyes are large, dark brown, and soulful. He is also the hairiest man I have ever seen. His long red hair is slicked back from his sloped forehead and his even longer red beard is carefully combed in front of his tie. A sharply tailored navy blue three-piece suit complements his wide shoulders.
“You’re not Mrs. Morton,” he says.
“I’m not.”
“Who are you?”
