“That’s the name of it?”
“It is now. Google it. You’ll only find five-star reviews.”
“Hmm…interesting.” I continue eating, noticing a group of women walking in, giggling and laughing. They’re dressed professionally and there’s nothing informal about it, which has me thinking about the dress code from the video. I ask Zahara, “So what exactly is business-informal?”
She grins. “Girl, don’t pay that mess no mind. I wear a pair of black leggings every day with a blouse and heels or sandals. Greta looks like she wears her church clothes, Mauve dresses like she’s a member of Kiss, and Ian looks like he could be Steve Urkel’s brother from another mother. As long as you look decent, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Thanks for telling me that. I don’t want to spend my first paycheck on clothes. Correction—I can’t afford to spend my check on clothes.”
“Yeah, you don’t have to. Nobody will be sweating you like that unless you come up in here wearing gym clothes or something. And it also depends on what kind of mood you catch Mr. DePaul in…he’s a bad man around here. We all try to avoid him. If you ever pass him in the hallway, do not—I repeat—do not make eye contact with him.”
I chuckle. “It’s like that, huh?” I ask, but I’m already knowing the level of absurdity that comes along with Mr. DePaul. Still, I need to know what she knows.
“It is.” Zahara takes a sip of water then looks around like gossipers do when they’re about to talk about somebody. She says, “When we know he’s on the floor, we message each other with the words code red. Greta is even in on it.”
“Stop lying.”
“Girl, I lie to you not.”
I hold back a snort. “And what’s the point of warning each other of his presence?”
“So you can keep your job!” I shake my head and feel my stomach cinch at the same time. When I took the job, I was under the impression I’d hardly ever see him. I should’ve gotten it in writing. I ask, “How often is he on the sixth floor?”
“Every now and again. His office is like a penthouse suite. He doesn’t leave the twelfth floor often. He sends his executive assistant to do everything.”
“You’re talking about Shanice?”
“Yes…poor girl. She’s like a track star at this point—a track star in six-inch stilettos. We call them ankle breakers. Folks be placing bets on when she’ll twist her ankle.”
A smirk spreads across my face. “That’s so wrong.”
“Nah, what’s wrong is them shoes…trying to be all cute like Mr. DePaul checkin’ for her, and he ain’t.” She falls back laughing.
I say, “The heels are cute, but ain’t no way I could walk in them all day.”
“Chile, me either.” Zahara uses a straw to sip on a green drink – looks like some kind of smoothie. When she’s sipped to her satisfaction, she says, “I don’t know how Shanice tolerates him.”
“Have you ever asked her?”
“No! She is an extension of him, so I stay away from the broad.” She takes a breath then continues where we left off before by saying, “But, no, Mr. DePaul doesn’t come down to the lower levels to visit us peasants often, but when he does, it’s huge. It’s like somebody’s-about-to-get-fired huge! That’s why we’re short-staffed now. He fired the girl who had your spot. Guess why?”
“Why?” I ask, hoping it’s not for something ridiculously absurd.
Zahara answers, “Because she was two minutes late.”
“Two minutes? Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I wish I was. With him, you have to cross every T and dot your I’s. Or he will find you, and he will kill you.” She cackles. “I’m just kidding about the kill you part. It’s from the movie…Taken.”
“Oh, right.”
She continues eating and then keeps on yapping it up, or shall I say, spilling the tea. She says, “I heard Mr. DePaul had a woman for every day of the week – Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday—”
“Thanks for telling me the days of the week, Zahara. I had no idea…”
She cackles. “You’re funny, Tez.”
“Tez?” This chick done gave me a nickname? I didn’t think we were that cool just yet. After all, this is my first day.