A team protests to his manager to call a work shirking team mate too for the weekend tasks
|“But, why the hell you don’t ever call her on weekends, George?” yelled a team mate.
“Why is it always us who have to give up our weekends, huh?” shot another in George’s direction.
George quickly put on his diplomatic hat. “I don’t see why is it so hard for you people to see that only you are called on weekdays and not her.” Truth was that George himself didn’t know what else they could see apart from the obvious fact that Rachel hadn’t come to work on a weekend for over twenty occasions while the rest of the team slogged away. It wasn’t just the tiny matter of working over a weekend. In fact, if anybody had kept a count of the number of days when Rachel called in sick then he would either assume that she was suffering from recurring life threatening disease or be a mighty irritated; team was in latter zone.
George continued where he left off and searched for some hollow words. Then, suddenly, the muscle memory kicked in,
“You people, standing right here in this room with me, are the soul. And a soul never leaves its body in bad times,” he looked around and to see if somebody was giggling because he had heard what he said.
A voice, not a giggle, boomed at him,
“We don’t care George. There is no other word for this other than – “
So defeated was the person’s voice that he wanted to hug him. He knew they couldn’t revolt because of the poor job market scenario.
“I will show you people now that all of you are the same. When George decides something he does it,” he looked around again to see if people believed him and sadly they seemed to. So he had to do something about it. Duh, gullible people!
She saw George coming towards her. He generally came to ask her about her progress on the assigned tasks which strangely never progressed. She was ready for his questions. When their eyes met, she blinked her eyelids in such super slow motion that it appeared as if she required the help of at least two and a half Superman to push those platinum laced eyelashes back up. To make matters worse for someone posing as one with platonic interests, her hazel colored eyes talked the language of intoxication. Then, Rachel’s tongue skimmed over her bare lips lazily. Poor George could well have been a red bulb on a Christmas tree as his bald head and white face went crimson all at once.
”Georgey,” cooed Rachel as her droopy eyes revved their magic from behind the red rimmed glasses. She paused to ensure George’s wandering eyes traversed the distance from her dimpled chin to her eyes and then gave her work status update, “I can’t do it tonight.”
Lord, did she know how to say her words. Of all the words she uttered, the “do” in particular was said in such a purring undertone that it could hijack a saint’s mind to consider taking a sick leave and take a bumpy ride from sainthood towards destination fatherhood.
George obviously was no saint, in fact quite the opposite; he was a mid-tier Manager who had to get work done from his “human resources”, especially around weekend and planned leaves.
In the space of two seconds after Rachel’s banal words, George’s mind imagined a box full of naughty stuff which should supposedly happen in locked curtained rooms, after the moon sets in and especially when wife is not home.
“What happened, Rach?” said George in a voice which sounded caring and anxious in his head but needy and greedy outside it.
“Not in mood,” she giggled in that naughty manner which swooned anything which had a thyroid gland.
“What does that even mean, Rach? Deadlines have been breached, we have a basket full of issues and you’re telling me that you can’t do it?” he said it all, rather seriously, but just in his head. What he said instead was,
“Everything okay, dear?”
And without a warning, the next second the evil manager in him took over.
“We were planning to work over the weekend, Rach.”
There, there he said it. He felt both guilty and proud at his achievement. Yippee, he had finally pushed the envelope. He had never done it before though he tried it week after week.
He congratulated himself, nervously adjusted his loose pants not knowing what to do and then looked towards Rachel who was not even semi-looking in his direction. Instead, she was busy analyzing some seemingly critical task located on the red nail polish covered second finger of her left hand. Once satisfied with her execution, she then raised it artfully towards George so that it meant something.
George disgust knew no bounds, not that he would mind doing what Rachel’s gesture suggested but the fact that she suggested it at an inopportune time. Before the evil manager in him could lead for something untoward to happen, Rachel moved even closer to George. Then, she looked in his eyes in such a manner that it just pierced the guilt filled cells in his skull. She whispered, “Sorry, I can’t help you. I have a headache tonight and plans for tomorrow. I am all full, you see,” and giggled.
“Bye,” she said as she walked away to pick up her purse and George almost raised his hand to wave back.
George’s eyes went to see-off her and return in time before anybody saw it. He ran away to his cubicle like a part time loser not because he was dying to work but because he could see her take the taxi from there. As soon as she boarded the taxi, he woke up from his trance and dropped a mail to the rest of the team,
“Boys, gear up for this weekend, too!