The Migraine Mafia

In retrospect, Sidney Dott's bowtie should have warned me that something was terribly wrong. It was one I'd never seen before, dyed his signature power colour, a red-orange, burning-tar-coloured blend he refers to as "funky sunrise," a freakish mix that probably elevates Sid's endorphins. Sid is our chief technical officer, my boss's boss, and he's famously fond of wearing power colours to difficult meetings. From what I hear, he's even more enamoured of his endorphins.

I had run into Sid in the hallway after snagging my second Coke of the morning from the break room, and he had deftly steered me towards my office. My boss, Elliot, our vice president of technology, fell in step beside me, and within seconds the three of us were all having what I thought at the start was an impromptu meeting. But I was distracted by Sid's bowtie and his shiny grey three-piece suit, his cowlick so aggressive today it left him looking more than a little surprised. So maybe that's why it took me a few minutes to realize that the meeting was actually about me.

When Sid said, the first time, "You're definitely not fired," I started paying attention. He repeats it again, now, probably because I haven't said anything in response.

"No, definitely not," Elliot echoes. Elliot is business-casual, bald-egg bald, nerdy, plump, and proud of it. Today, as ever, his shoes are spit-polished.

"Really?" I ask, even though all I can hear is that one word echoing in my head: fired.

"Definitely," they answer at the same time, an off-key duet.

"So I can come to work tomorrow?" I try not to sound too eager.     

"Yes, of course," Sid says, before smiling in that inscrutable way of his.

The squeeze in my chest eases as I exhale and slowly move back in my seat. "And next week?"

The look that runs between the two of them is an I told you so. "Uh...no." Sid lifts his shoulders in a kind-of-but-not-really apologetic shrug. "So, Viive," he says, mangling my name the same way he always does: Vee-vie instead of Vee-veh. "We know you've been under a huge amount of pressure lately, and we want you to take some time to get yourself together."

I take a sip of my Coke to try to ease the moment, but that small swallow manages to turn itself into a cough that won't stop. Another look passes between the two of them, one that makes my stomach hurt. When I finally get a hold of myself, I say, "Sure, the Dagobah project was a lot of work, but we're up and running now. Everything's fine."

"Well, here's the thing, Viive," Elliot says. Elliot starts a lot of conversations like this, and it's generally not a prelude to anything pleasant. "Sid and I have noticed over the last few months that morale in your team is down, and you've missed...how many?" He turns to Sid.

"Six," Sid says succinctly, pulling on his bowtie, a little tic he has.

"Six management meetings," Elliot says, while he holds his hands out in a well there you have it kind of a way. "And you were late for the conference call with Spiegel & Spiegel earlier this week–"

"I was dealing with an emergency that day, and I had one of my guys take that call. Unfortunately he was waylaid by an executive assistant–" (I don't say who did the waylaying, because we all know it was Sid's corporate helpmate, a pouty twenty-something blonde who breaks into a little dance that looks like she needs to pee whenever she wants something.)

Sid coughs.

I continue, "...who needed help with her printer. Like we've discussed before, I run a technical team, but we don't fix printers." I pause for a minute before adding, "And with all the overtime lately, everyone's morale is down these days."