“The seventh floor,” I reply, swallowing. “It’s, uh, sitting empty.”
He tenses, the light in his eyes dimming. “We had to cut expenses.”
It can’t be the whole story. Whatever that space was costing him, it was minor relative to TSG’s budget. But my purpose here isn’t to quibble over the decisions he made in the past…it’s simply to fix them. “The difference in utility costs since you closed the seventh floor are negligible, and this is what it could be.” I turn the laptop to show him the rough drawing I created online—ping-pong on one side, a small coffee bar on the other, tables in the center.
He frowns. “That looks like a magnificent place for my employees to fuck around instead of working.”
His reaction doesn’t surprise me. I’d have died of shock at this point if he hadn’t shit all over the idea. “Caleb, people care about work-life balance, whether or not you approve. If you’re going to force them to come into the office, you’ve got to make it palatable.”
He groans, leaning his head back against the chair. “I’ll consider it. And in the meantime, I’m signing you up to speak about the walking program at this thing. We need to rehabilitate our image a little.” He slides a flyer toward me.
The Northern California Technology Consortium. The name, the glossy paper, the pops of royal blue—it all screams important and intimidating. It makes me want to hide under a desk until it’s over.
“Present it? You mean, to people?”
A single brow raises. “That’s usually how presentations work, yes. It would be very good press for us.”
I picture a room full of people far smarter than I am, tearing apart the program, asking questions I can’t answer, making me feel stupid. I don’t even know what I’d say. Sure, the building feels more lively: there’s trash talking in elevators, across divisions, and this week, the call center had the most miles and their office got toilet-papered by another team. It was probably not great for productivity, but people have been laughing about it ever since. I’m not sure I can tell a roomful of executives that one team toilet-papering another is progress, however. “Couldn’t I just give you the data?”
He tilts his head, observing me. “You’ve done public stuff before. Weren’t you, like, the Papaya Queen or something?”
“Your grasp of our state’s produce is surprisingly weak. Yes, I used to do beauty pageants, but that was different.”
“How?”
I stare at my hands. “Beauty pageants don’t involve having your ideas criticized or being asked questions you can’t answer.” I got criticized plenty at home, though—my mother laughed when I told her I was entering and said I didn’t stand a chance. Proving her wrong only made things worse.
“There’s nothing to be scared of. Anyone willing to attend a session on a walking program has already swallowed the Kool-Aid. They want their employees all holding hands and singing ‘Kumbaya’， same as you.”
“Yes, you sound super accepting of what I’m trying to do with my hand-holding and singing ‘Kumbaya.’”
He grins. “It’s a lecture I’d avoid like the plague. But that’s just it…people only go to a breakout session if they’re open to the topic. And I’ll go over it with you in advance. You must realize no one there will be a bigger asshole than me.” He leans back in his chair with a grin.
Ah, there’s that dimple. I’d agree to anything he asked when that dimple appears.
“True,” I agree. “No one could possibly be a bigger asshole than you.”
He laughs. Somehow, I knew he would.
I take another look at the flyer. “You know what would really make my presentation exciting? If I could tell them about our new break room.”
His jaw falls. “Are you actually trying to blackmail me into agreeing to that?”
“I prefer the term strong-arm, personally. That way it’s not a felony.”
The dimple makes another appearance, and it unfurls this small seed inside me—something warm and hopeful that shouldn’t be there.
“Fine. Go ahead and pull some costs together and we’ll show the executive committee, but I’m not paying any designers or architects or whatever. It’s got to be bare bones.”
“Violate building codes. Got it. You won’t regret this, Premier Stalin.”
“I already regret this,” he mutters, but I leave with a smile.