The door to my office swung open. My jaw dropped bouncing three times of my chest giving me a touch of whiplash. My blood pressure spiked. A light haze covered my deep blue since baby eyes. I felt as if I were pushed through the window behind me and I was floating carefree through space. I am the prince and my Cinderella stood in the middle of the door frame. She was a tall woman with skin the color of my coffee having the perfect touch of cream. Her body was as lithe and supple as a gymnast. In my mind or perhaps it was an angel sent from heaven singing I Will Always Love You. If this was work, I wanted more, lots more of it. I stared a her long blonde hair parted in the middle, perfect white teeth, and pink lipstick, and perfectly displayed cleavage. Her hands rested on each of her beautiful hips slightly cocked to the right. My mathematical mind quickly calculated size 38 c cups. I knew then that being rich and being in love are the two best things in the world.
My Venus opened her mouth and her voice was like Ella Fitzgerald or Beyonce singing straight from her lips to my heart without a detour.
“You must be the spoiled brat, rich trust fund baby who’s the shrink. If you’re not, you touch me and I’ll wrap you up in a ball so tight you will make a golf ball look big,” She said giving me an icy stare that could cut through steel. Then she added, pointing with two fingers toward her face, “My eyes are up here. Let’s get that straight.”
I put to use my highly honed communication skills to get passed this little stumbling block on my way to romance, “Huh? Are you the receptionist?”
“Receptionist? Is that what you think I am? If that’s what you think, you a bigger fool than Pettibone told me you was.”
Her voice was an angelic choir. What are words when the melody sets your heart on fire,
“I said, you can be whatever you want to be. Want to have dinner with me after work?”
“Dinner? With you?”
“No. What fool said you were getting a receptionist?”
Actually, no one did. I thought that’s what you called a woman sitting behind a desk in a waiting room playing solitaire on her computer. If anything, I am quick on my feet I said, “The guard in the lobby called and said my receptionist was on the way up to see me. He didn’t tell me she was black Venus.” I gave her my award winning, impossible not like smile.
“I know Lawrence. We used to date. If I tell him what you said he will hit you hard on top of your head and you be looking out between your toes.”
I said, “If you won’t go to dinner with me, say we quit work early and go out for drinks.”
She jabbed a beautiful long index finger with a perfect nail, whose color matched her lips, at me and said, “I am your administrative assistant. What this means for you is that I do not do coffee. I do not run out and bring back lunch or donuts or whatever. I already know the kind of support you want and the kind of support you need. You’re not getting any of the first part. We straight on that?”
“Un uh,” I answered. “What exactly does an administrative assistant do? And, cut me some slack. This is the first day of work in my life and I’m worn out. It’s been rough.”
“How long you been at work?” she demanded.
I checked my iWatch, “About ten minutes. It’s a killer.”
“Pettibone was right. You are going to need all the help you can get.”
“I’m a quick learner if I’m tutored,” I said trying to butter her up.
She walked toward my desk. I scooted my sheepskin chair back until it hit the window overlooking the Pacific Ocean. She placed both hands palm down on my desk and bent over and stared at me. I could die now and know I’ve seen an angel.
“Eyes up here,” she said pointing to her eyes then placing her hands back down on my desk.
I quickly moved my eyes from her cleavage to her eyes then back down to her cleavage.”
She lifted both hands up and turned her palms toward her. I looked at the fingers I want to kiss. I looked at the hands that I want to hold me. My thoughts were interrupted.
“These nails do not type. They got several purposes. One, to make me look beautiful. And two, to scratch the eyes out of anyone who bothers me.”
“What’s your name?” I asked. I made a mental note to check Pondbone to find out if this woman had a license to wear dangerous weapons.
“My name is L Johnson. You can call me L or you can call me J. But you can’t call me Johnson.
I said. “Nice to meet you J. I’m Dr.” I had a brain burp. I couldn’t remember my last name. I knew I had a PhD so I was a doctor. I wasn’t sure what kind of doctor. Mother attended my classes. She wrote my dissertation. She hired a tutor to teach me enough to defend my dissertation. Paid trips to London, Paris, and Rome for each member of the committee and one guest may have pushed the needle a bit in my direction.
J said, “You need me to come over there and slap your white ass so you can remember your name?”
I said, “No, it’ll come to me. Say, do we have any patients in the waiting room I need to see?”
J started laughing. She stood up and her laugh turned into a belly laugh and tears rolled down her cheeks. When J composed herself, which was a good ten minutes later, she said, “You’d have to be crazy to voluntarily come to you for help.” Then she started laughing again. When she stopped she said, “You vote for Trump?”
I cringed. Was she working undercover for Costa Rica? I heard they tried to influence the election for Hillary. I truthfully said with a sigh of relief, “No.”
L or J or whoever she is bent forward a bit and stared into my eyes. It took a superhuman act of will not to drop my line of vision six inches. She said, “I can tell if you lying. You better no lie to to me. You vote for Hillary?”
I truthfully answered, “No.”
She said, “You write in Bernie’s name?”
I said, “No.”
“Who you vote for?”
I twisted around on my chair and stared out toward the ocean, I was losing control of my line of vision. I had a sudden urge to urinate. I always do when I’m nervous. I kept staring at the ocean. I answered, “I was at the spa on election day. Who won?”
“Hell, you don’t even know who’s President?”
“It’s either Obama or Bush. I’m not sure of which one. I don’t watch the news. I’m into reality shows.
J answered, “We gonna have one hell of reality show in this office with you in charge.”
I had a brainstorm. It was the best idea I’ve had since I had the idea I wanted a Porsche for my high school graduation present. I said, “Let’s make that your first job, see if you can get Netflix or Amazon or HBO to do a reality show here. We’ll be stars. I get top billing.”
J was silent. This was a welcome relief. I swiveled around but didn’t stop in time and ended up doing a 360. I tried it again let my sandals skid me to a stop. My arms outstretched, my palms landing face down on the desk.
J said, “Another four inches and I’d break every one of those fingers.”
“I said. “You never answered about having a drink after work. We should be done in another five minutes.”
“Is this a pickup line?” asked J.
“Uh huh?” I said with a questioning inflection in my voice.
J started laughing so hard she stumbled back and fell into one of the chairs. When she recovered, she said, “I give you a maybe on the reality show. It’s got possibilities. That’s the worse pickup line I ever heard. It ever work?”
“Uh huh, when I add after drinks we’ll fly to Rome for dinner.”. I believe I had a chance. My heart did a double flip, and a triple twisting jump scoring 9.9, 9.9, 9.9 on the love scale. I stared at my creamy skinned goddess with my tongue sending a message to my brain to let it drool. My thoughts were interrupted by my Venus rising.
J said, “No on dinner. No on drinks. No on Rome. Pay attention. You get to work with a group of criminals who are at a half way house. That means they half way between full time prison and half way to full time freedom. They live together in a house and they can’t go nowhere without supervision. They going to come here as a group and you’re supposed to help them get ready to go back into society. Some white fool must have made this decision. You ain’t going to help nobody.”
“I don’t want to work with criminals. I want to work with nymphs,” I said.
J said, “You crazier than the people you gonna be working with. Listen up Dr. Something.”
I interrupted, “That helps, my last name begins with an S.”
J said, “Group starts tomorrow at 9:30 a.m. sharp.”
I said, “Huuh?”