By E.R. York
She’ll scoff when she reads this. She’ll snort, roll her eyes, dismiss this with a “talk to the hand” dismissive gesture. She’ll bare her teeth, the claws will come out. Then she’ll quickly tuck them away. She will make every effort to keep them hidden, to keep these elements of her personality out of her eyes. She thinks no one sees them. She’ll pretend that this doesn’t relate to her, that no one could possibly be talking about her in this story.
But she’ll look around the room and wonder. Do they recognize me? Do they see me?
They do.
She walks into the meeting late. Always late. She smiles brightly, and whishes around like a little tornado. Oh, I’m just oh so busy, the traffic from downtown where the important people work was just oh so monstrous, as usual (and I’m just oh so important, that I just couldn’t be bothered to get here on time. That would have implied that I respect you, cared about what you think, genuinely want to hear what you have to say.)
She sits down at the end of the conference table, opens her little clam-shell take out box, and begins eating her (pasta al dente with bits of shrimp and sun-dried tomatoes and artichoke hearts. Created especially for the discerning palate, by the oh so special chef of the exclusive restaurant downtown. You ordinary folks move along, elite only may apply.) The meeting is well underway. After the requisite silence, the perfunctory hellos, we all return to discussing the matter at hand. Someone hands her a copy of the day’s memo and she sort of skims the page as she eats. She commandeers the attention of someone at her end of the table and begins a separate conversation. Here’s what’s happening in my life, because as we all know, I’m the most important, interesting person here. None of this is as important as me. Let’s talk about me. Of course, you’re not interested in anything except me either.
Her separate conversation is loud enough to override the discussion. We all talk just a bit louder in an effort to drown her out. She talks even louder still. Then she laughs – a loud, twittering laugh. Shrill. Shattering glass. Someone shoots her a scathing look, but she looks back at them and laughs some more. You can’t possibly imagine in your wildest dreams that what you are discussing is of even the slightest import to anyone at this table, not when I’m here and I’m the most interesting, most important thing at this table. We talk louder, try to continue the discussion. Most of us turn away from that end of the table. Body language that says that we want to talk about the matter at hand, not her dinner with your “new boyfriend”. When we all met him last week, he was stiff, distant. From her, not from the rest of us. “New boyfriend?” Does he know that he’s had this title bestowed upon him?
We continue to discuss the matter at hand. We take turns giving our opinion, feedback, impressions, thoughts. We go around the table and each of us speaks in turn. Occasionally, someone who has already had a turn will generate a new thought and will interrupt to share it. The discussion is lively, it evolves into two-way, three-way, many-way discussion. We work things through, hash out the premise, brainstorm. Someone gets off a quick, witty line and everyone laughs. Except her. And the person or persons whom she has commandeered into separate conversation. Because they didn’t hear the quip, didn’t get it because they were only able to catch just a snippet of it. It’s hard to divide your attention like that. Sometimes the person or persons she has commandeered will look toward the rest of the group, try to show with their eyes that they would like to join in the discussion. Help me... But she will have none of that. NO! You can’t join that discussion – we’re talking about me. Here, look over here. We’re talking about me. I always feel sorry for her captive. Everyone always does. But no one comes to the captive’s rescue. I always wondered why. Now I know.
I know what she did. At first I was angry. It took me a while to figure out just who would be so mean, so conniving, so pathetically childish as to do such a thing. Then I remembered. A meeting three weeks ago. She was late - as always. She had her separate conversation - as always. We all waited when it came to her turn, time for her to give her opinion/feedback/impressions of the matter at hand – as always. She made us wait while she picked apart the matter at hand with her expensive pen. We sat in silence, all looking at her. Then she held court. We all had to sit in silence as she spent 20 minutes telling us about the wrongness of a misplaced word. We wanted to hear about the premise, the core idea, the main gist of the entire matter, the value of the proposal. But she made us focus on the one misplaced word. In the first paragraph.
Then she brought up something completely counter to the discussion. We wanted to discuss the matter at hand. The subject she brought up is important, no argument there. We all agree on that point. But at that moment, we wanted to discuss the matter at hand – the proposal. The person who had made the proposal was waiting for feedback. He sincerely wanted help with it. She wanted him to understand he didn’t have a prayer of bringing the proposal to fruition and she did this by telling him about how there was no market for his work – unless he made the changes she deemed necessary. I saw the pain in the eyes of her target, something she didn’t see or maybe just ignored. I spoke up. I expressed an opinion counter to hers. She said my opinion was naive. I told her she was wrong.
Her eyes and lips narrowed to tight little slits in her face as she stared at me. Then she caught yourself, reopened her eyes, went back to her standard face. See what a cheerful, sweet person I am? Look, my eyes are wide and open and oh so “interested” in you. But I saw those eyes – eyes as cold and grey as a Midwest winter morning.
Then I looked more closely, saw what I had missed. Well, actually I recognized it months ago, but I chose to ignore it. Decided that it didn’t affect me. I should have known better. I could just kick myself for dismissing the clues. I always want to believe people are better than they are. It always gets me burned.
But I did recognize what she is. I saw it the first day I met her. The impossible blond hair. The perfect highlights placed just so in this year’s trendy ash blond. Cut in little girl style. On a wrinkled face under too much make-up. The requisite business suit, classic cut, skirt knee length precise. Wrinkled and sagging. The ones from Wal-Mart almost look like the expensive ones, but they don’t hold their shape as well because the fabric is cheap, and they aren’t tailored the same. The expensive bag - outdated style, from the outlet mall. The cheap shoes. The constant talk about working in a corporate office. Trying to imply position and power, but speech patterns and behaviors that scream clerk, not executive with money. The vulture posture. Closed, arms always crossed covering her heart. And the need to dilute anyone’s achievements and accomplishments by one-uping them. Always.
When I got the call questioning my professional credentials, I was shocked. I couldn’t think of anything to say. Then I got the rest of the report, filed anonymously, of course. And realized it was a non-issue. Not even worth the effort to respond. Not even filed with any department with any authority. It was just a malicious way to try to discredit me. The very definition of frivolous. The only effect of the report was to stir up trouble. Create chaos, confusion, frustration. And waste time and energy. But it made me angry. And it wasted time – both mine and others. And it brought chaos into a nice life. It knocked me down for a few minutes till I remembered I’m better than that.
I always wondered why the other people at these meetings let her behave the way she does. Wondered why disparaging remarks were made clandestinely, furtively. Why no one would confront her and make her behave. Now I know why.
