All You Could Ask For A Novel - By Mike Greenberg Page 0,18
added human resources to my purview and named me executive vice president. A little more than two years ago I was recruited by another bank, a smaller one in California, with an offer of the very top position. But Phillip didn’t want to lose me, motivated at least in part by our personal history, so he created the CAO title exclusively for me. (The running joke, of which I am well aware and not overly concerned, is that I am the Chief Asshole of the Organization.) I am also currently the highest-ranking female executive on Wall Street, with oversight of our legal, HR, and corporate outreach programs, and a personal staff of eleven.
My assistant is Marie, a stunningly pretty bimbo from Brooklyn, whose title is team manager, but who, for all intents and purposes, functions as my personal confidante. I admire Marie for the exact reason I initially disliked her: she looks like a slut. She showed up her first day with an attitude—and an outfit—that seemed to make no secret of her intentions: she was here to find a man. Some women get an MRS degree from a prestigious university, but Marie was nowhere near smart enough for anything like that; she matriculated into Wall Street instead, wearing too much blush and a skirt that barely concealed her pubic hair. Within three months she had been asked out by at least a half-dozen of our bankers and by the end of the year she was engaged to one of them. I assumed that would be the last I ever saw of Marie’s stunning cleavage but, to my surprise, it was not. When she interviewed for her current position I asked her why she chose to continue working. The question clearly took her aback and hurt her feelings. “With all due respect, Ms. Emerson,” she replied, her Brooklyn accent heavy, “the way you dress I don’t figure you have to work either. So I guess I work for the same reason you do: I love my job.” The position was hers right then, and it was the only time in all my years on Wall Street that I have ever apologized to anyone.
Now, on my birthday, Marie took one look at me and followed me into my suite.
“Whatsa matter, boss?” she asked, without saying hello.
I began pointlessly shifting papers about on my desk, trying to appear busy so as to avoid the conversation. “Who says anything is the matter?”
“Is it a man?” she asked.
“What’s a man? I’ve never heard of one of those.”
“You know: a despicable creature that smells bad most of the time.”
“I thought that was a dog,” I said.
“No, dogs smell bad all of the time but they aren’t the least bit despicable.”
I smiled at her. “Marie, I’m enjoying this Neil Simon conversation, I really am, but I have a crazy day so I’m afraid I’m going to need you to exit stage left.”
She turned to her left, then back to me with a slightly confused expression. Her innocence always makes me smile. Marie is the perfect example of how life is all about your expectations. Her life is better than she had any right to imagine, thus she is the most honestly happy person I know. I, meanwhile, was raised with endless expectations, my life is a limitless menu of options, and thus I am the most honestly dissatisfied person I know. Sometimes dual master degrees from Harvard can bite you in the ass.
“All right,” I said, softening my tone. “It’s my birthday today.”
Her eyes opened like full moons. “Wow! Happy birthd—”
“Please.” I cut her off, reaching out my arm. “I don’t feel like talking about it all day.”
“I get it,” she said, whispering. “Happy birthday, boss.”
“Thank you.”
“Any big plans? What are you doing to celebrate?”
“You’re looking at it.”
“No, no,” she said, shaking her pretty head. “That’s not good enough.”
“I appreciate the thought.”
“NO!”
That took me aback, I’ll admit.
“You’ve been so nice to me,” Marie continued, more calmly. “I am not letting you spend your birthday just working and going home. You and me are doing something tonight, anything you want, my treat.”
This conversation was making me sad. And embarrassed. “That’s very sweet of you to offer,” I said, “but you really don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t have to,” she said. “I want to.”
I’m not sure exactly why I was fighting this. There was part of me that definitely favored the idea; it seemed it would have to be more fun to go anywhere with