how average it is. His executive-style desk sits near a window across from a smaller desk. My hand sinks into the soft leather and I pull the chair out and sit down. Satchi still doesn’t look up and my eyes drift over to the window where he has an oscillating fan and a blue and gold windchime hanging. There’s also a camera sitting on a tripod facing into the room. It’s odd, not a setup you’d typically see in a school environment. I watch the sun reflecting off the windchime’s small pieces as they slowly sway every time the fan blows it. There’s something peaceful about it.
"Our meeting was supposed to start ten minutes ago. Right, Mr. Black?" His voice seems to come out of nowhere and I almost jump as I snatch my eyes away from the chime to look at him.
"Yes." Damn it. "Sorry, sir. There was a traffic jam and it was unavoidable." He stares at me for a second and I’m not really sure how to read his expression. Is he annoyed? Is he waiting for me to blink? I can't tell. I just sit in my seat, keep my back straight, and stare at him head on. Eye on the ball.
"Well, let's get this over with. You've got five minutes," Satchi says with huff.
For that five minutes, Satchi grills me. The questions range from my career goals to my first job changing tires at the old garage in the center of town. I answer everything quickly and don't miss the chance to tell him my hope to work with him at Crill Enterprises. He seems shocked at how much I know about his company. Hopefully that's a good thing.
"How many of my classes have you taken?"
"Three, sir. Two my freshman year and the one I'm in now."
"You do realize that this job will require you to grade papers and give exams? Do you have any trouble speaking in front of a crowd?"
"Not at all."
The questions keep coming and I have no idea if I'm doing well or not. He isn't smiling or giving me any indication he likes my answers. Shit, I hope I'm not fucking this up.
"What about football, parties, and other distractions? I don't enjoy having upperclassmen as my assistants. It usually comes with a bunch of bullshit. How do I know you won't waste my time?"
"Because I've wanted the opportunity to learn from you since my freshman year of high school and I just quit the football team. I wouldn't get this far and fuck it up—um, sir."
He watches me as he fiddles with his pen, wagging it between his fingers, every now and then causing the end of it to tap the side of his computer. The sun burns hot on my face through the window, the only relief coming from the fan which blows in our direction sporadically. After a few tense moments, a smile slides across his face and he nods slowly.
"You know what, Jordan? I wasn't sure about you. You have all the smarts. You do amazing in class, but you have this brooding football player jackass attitude sometimes and I can never tell if it's just for show or if it's really you. But I commend you for coming in here. Clearly late, which I hate by the way. You gave an excuse but weren’t overly apologetic about it. I got facts, it is what it is. It was unavoidable and you made amends. I respect that in a person. I respect that in an assistant. Someone who will look at the facts. Someone who will be logical and that's exactly what I'm looking for."
My entire body relaxes as I exhale, still trying to hold it together, but goddamn if I'm not relieved.
"The job is yours, pending how well you do on this exam," he says. After he speaks those words, it's like my brain short circuits. I'm watching him, his lips, his mouth. They’re moving, and I'm nodding my head and smiling, thanking him. But nothing else is registering completely. I know he's talking about scheduling and I think I heard the word “email,” but my brain is completely clouded over and all I can hear is the clicking of his pen and that damn wind chime every time the fan hits it. It's about ten seconds. No, thirteen, every thirteen seconds. Chime. Chime.
“What do you think of that?”
"Yes, sounds great!" I say, hoping that's an appropriate answer for whatever he just said. "Thank you, sir."