My soul nearly leaves my body as Ayisha pops her head into my cubicle, greeting me in a shrill annd chirpy voice, two paper cups of what I hope is coffee in either hand. It is far too early in the morning for happy sounding voices; she should know this by now.
Either way, I let her in, despite her giggling at me practically jumping six feet from my chair. She sees my sullen face and frowns.
"God, what's got you in a funk? Amir being a prick again?" Ayisha says, handing me a cup. Yes, it was coffee. I take a sip.
"You know, one day he's going to walk past and hear you and then you'll be joining me in the doghouse," I say, relishing in the sweet taste of coffee and hazelnut syrup. Ayisha knows exactly how to wake me up; I don't know how I ended up with her as a friend, but without her, I think I'd have quit a long time ago. She's the only friend I've made in a month since working here; she's stuck with me know whether she likes it or not and I hope she's aware of that.
"He loves me, just like you do. I'll be fine. Doghouse though? What've you done?" she asks, a worried half-smile on her face. Seriously, her upbeat voice is sickening. I take another sip. It's slightly less sickening.
"I don't know, but he dumped a few more manuscrips on my desk this morning. That makes seven! Seven goddamn things I've got to read by the end of the week to give him something good to give to editors, which means I have barely any time to do any writing of my own. Ugh, I knew being his assistant was a challenge, but not this bad."
She smirks. "The fuck you mean? I've told you horror stories of the last few assistants he's had. You know what you got into, don't be too whiney or he'll have to get someone else."
I can only respond with a grimance. She takes a sip of her coffee--an iced long black, I assume--before settling in my guest chair opposite my desk.
Wearing a plaid pencil skirt, a tightly buttoned blouse, high heels and her curly hair tied up in a tightly pulled back bun, you'd take one look at Ayisha Mwanajuma and think she'd kill you on the spot for looking at her the wrong way. But, underneath all that fierce businesswoman attire is a woman with a quick and funny wit, endless rainbows metaphorically shooting out of her ass and a smile so bright it would melt the icecaps. She's the sugar that balances out my bitterness, much like the syrup in my drink.
Bleh. Maybe that's why she doesn't need sugar in her coffee; she's sweet enough as is. Adding more would just make her melt into some horrific Mary Sue character that the likes of Snow White would find irritating. But still, how can someone drink coffee without sugar? Blasphemy, I tell you.
Speaking of coffee; another sip seems to wake me up more. My body doesn't ache as bad. Despite many people telling me I should be at my peak, being in my mid twenties fresh out of a crappy rugby league career really does a number on the joins. My muscles, I swear, seem to be shrinking, slowly being replaced by a steadily increasing layer of fat. Guess this is desk-work; wow, no wonder Mr. Incredible turned into a weird lump.
I take a quick glance at the rest of the floor's open office. From my vantage point, I can see how alive it is. I'm in my own glass office separate from the rest of the floor's workstaff--thank God--but Ayisha always makes an effort to check on me throughout the day. Modern couches encased in brilliant shades of red, blue and yellow dot the floor's main office, providing break areas for the many suits and pencilskirt pencil-pushers to take a reprieve or a mental sebattical. Accompanying these are awkwardly-yet-stylishly made wooden coffee tables, an abundance of indoor plants (that I'm not sure have been watered in a very long time, judging from a nearby fiddle fig's crispy leaves) and sickeningly bright throw pillows. It looks comfy, but the chatter coming from there reminds me of a university library; hardly any work, all talk. I shudder at the thought of attempting work in that environment; I'd go crazy.
I've been working for Beauke.co for about a month now and I still don't know what it is exactly that everyone does here. Sure, I know Ayisha is one of the head editors, but aside from her it's a guessing game. It is one of the most successful book publishing companies in Australia, home to some of the best illustrators, writers, editors, and the like; sometimes I still find it surreal that I work here, in a skyscraper, overlooking the city below us. However, the last few days, I feel like I've been enslaved. Damn Amir. Damn Amir to hell.
"What even time is it?" I ask. Ayisha smiles.
"Lunch. Got you a coffee to get you enough energy to at least crawl out of the office. Where do you want to go today? My treat."
Groaning, I lower my head onto my desk. "Can't we just get one of the workers to get us the food? I've even seen uber drivers come up here before."
Ayisha shakes her head. "That's technically your job for Amir. C'mon, Kian, let's go before he gets hungry and you end up having to bring him soup again!"
My mind shudders at the thought of me spilling a hot bowl of soup on me again. I barely got the stains out of my best suit. "Fine fine, let's go."
#
We weave our way through throngs of classy businesspeople and make our way to the elevator. I drown out the sound of the office with thoughts of my next poem; maybe something that offers commentary on the hive mind of a company would be a good addition to my debut poetry collection. I've written well over forty poems and plan to self-publish, since Amir probably would look at my work and piss himself laughing. At least he pays me so I can keep the lights on at my apartment. Here's hoping that the rent spike doesn't happen, like my landlord proposed it would. If it weren't for this job, I probably wouldn't be able to keep my hobby--no, my passion--for poetry alive.
Ayisha holds a door open. Without looking, I walk through, stopping abruptly as another figure tries to make his way past. For a moment, I lock eyes with Tate Wilkinson, one of the copyeditors in my office and Amir's personally appointed and favourite employee, before awkwardly squeezing past.
He's been a royal pain in my ass since I stepped foot in this company. Not that he's done anything personally to me--I don't think he even knows my name--but ugh, someone that attractive is dangerous. I see him all the time when I'm reading manuscripts; he's damn distracting, that's for sure. He knows how to look smart in a suit. Plus, whatever slicked back thing he's doing to his chestnut coloured hair is--wow. It goes perfectly with the freckles dotting his face and his perfectly trimmed stubble. I wonder how hot he would look with a proper beard.
Man, I wish I could grow facial hair.
Ugh, Tate is dangerous. Dangerous for the company, dangerous for the job position I'm applying for, and just dangerous for me all around. My career is my focus--a walking, smouldering, sexy coworker is not on the table for me. Much easier to hate Mr. Perfect than give him the time of day.
He gives Ayisha a quick look, nodding in what I think is a thank you, before shooting me an over-the-shoulder glare as he continues on his journey. She arches an eyebrow at me.
"Jeez, not even a sorry for Tate? Ouch, wonder what he's done this time," she says, moving through the doorway. I shake my head, shrugging.
"He should have looked before moving through. Really don't appreciate seeing his stupid face."
Ayisha smirks. "Is this your ego or your blueballs talking?"
I freeze, my cheeks heating up. They're probably as red as a beechroot right now; I've never been able to hid a blush on my pale freckled cheeks. Ayisha sees me and laughs; she knows exactly how to embarrass me.
"Can you just admit that you think he's hot so you can stop being so irked about him all the time? After all, he may just as well be an important person for you, if he gets that developmental editor job. You'd be handing him all the manuscripts once Amir approves your manuscript selection."
A shiver runs down my spine. "Don't even say that. You know that I've been gunning for that new position. If Tate gets it, then--"
"Yes, yes, yes, you'll fail as a poet and live the rest of your days as a homeless man in a cardboard box with nobody but a rat named Barry that steals your sad excuse of a blanket. I've heard this before. Take a joke, calm yourself. Still, I reckon you should cut the dude some slack. It'll add years back onto your life, I can promise you that."
I just hum a response. Amir just recently fired a developmental editor; something about her giving bad suggestions to an author and that author threatening to sue for defamation, or something dumb. He's told me he's been on the hunt, and that he's most likely going to hire someone within the company to save on scouting endeavours. I applied for the job the moment it was released to the staff. In a few days, he'll be calling a few people to his office to determine who will get the job. Think bachelor style, just much less roses and much more tears (from me, if I don't get it).
We reach the elevator. Ayisha sighs, relief painting her face. "I was so sick of using the stairs. Thank fuck the elevator is finally done being refurbished; I wonder what it looks like?"
As if to answer her, the doors glide open revealing a bright white room, silver buttons to our left and a wall made entirely of mirror infront of us. There's an electric map of the floor we're on displayed on the side of the mirror's glass, glowing a gentle green. I'm just happy that the elevator is ventilated now.
We step inside. As the lift descends, the light inside dims to a comfortable shade of orange giving us a slightly more relaxed ride. Ayisha's dark brown skin seems to glow underneath the lights; meanwhile, I look like a chunky carrot. White skin really does not agree with coloured lighting. We make our way down flights of floors, descending from the 25th floor down. Just a few levels before the ground floor, the elevator stutters a little, the lights dimming out for a flash of a second before resuming it's move. Ayisha side-eyes me.
"Guess the refurbishments need a bit more refinement..." I say, watching as the number of floors goes down. She nods in agreement.
"I bet my bottom dollar that Amir or someone important's going to get stuck in here first," Ayisha says. I shrug.
"Let's just hope it's neither of us."
She nods, sipping more of her coffee. I finish the last dregs of mine as the doors slide open on the ground floor. We spill out onto the marble foyer, walking past towers of ivory and perfectly curated indoor trees toward the spinning door exit. I toss the cup into the nearest bin. Ayisha's heels click against the ground while my low-heeled leather brogue shoes squeak with every step.
"Mexican today? I'm down for an enchilada." I say. Ayisha nods.
"Bet. Let's go."
===============
And with that, my entry to the #ONC2022 has begun!
What do you think of Kian? He's my first take on a curmudgeon-style character, so hopefully that's come across well. Ditto for Tate; I tried to go for a mysterious entry for him in this book, his appearance leaving the reader wanting more. Did I succeed?
And, also, what do you think of the side characters, like happy-go-lucky Ayisha and satan-spawn Amir?
Any thoughts or feedback is crucial and much appreciated. I'm a plotter when it comes to writing novels, but despite having an outline for this novella, I feel like I'm pantsing a lot of this. (aka, I'm winging it). Let me know what you think!
- Jacob