I stared at the flickering computer screen and watched the spreadsheet in front of me curl together like day-old gravy. It was like a slow leak of gray matter was collecting in puddles across my desktop. Two million dollars in savings needed to be squeezed from a budget already gutted beyond recognition and I had a better guess why the Mona Lisa was smiling than I did for finding the missing money.
I know it sounds like I'm whining. From the outside looking in, executive life can seem pretty sweet. There's the country club membership, the corporate jet, the client schmooze events at five-star-resorts. Things could be worse, for sure. But peel back the flashy exterior and it can be a pressure cooker on the inside. The markets are more cutthroat than ever, eating bigger chunks of its young each day. All of us are expected to do more with less, do it faster, and, oh yeah, do it with a fucking smile too. I shouldn't forget the action item for replacing my beer-drinking-buddy's job with a half-priced Indian three oceans over. Most days it feels like one big corporate gang bang where guys like me are the lubricated guest of honor.
The door to my office cracked open and my temporary secretary, Mei Lin, peeked inside. She was just finishing her first month on the job since arriving on assignment from our Tokyo branch. The company had started a new employee exchange program, swapping personnel between international divisions to strengthen our "global diversity". In Mei Lin's case, she was here to fill in for Diane, my long-standing secretary who was on extended sabbatical taking care of a newly arrived granddaughter.
"Excuse please, Mr. Handee," Mei Lin said.
He voice was tiny and hesitant. I motioned for her to step inside. "Come in, Mei Lin . . . it's alright."
She stepped forward, bowing slightly as she approached my desk. Immediately I noticed something peculiar. It was her eyes. Large, dark, and almond shaped, they were normally bright and expressive, but today they were puffy and strained, like she had been crying.
"Your business person not on time," she told me.
"I'm . . . sorry?"
Her brow furrowed as she formed her words. "Your business person . . . Mr. Preston Sinclair . . . he not here."
I looked at the clock. "Preston's not supposed to be here for another fifteen minutes."
More confusion on her face. That part was normal. Mei Lin barely spoke English, something that was carefully masked on her transfer documentation as 'acceptable to function on a foreign assignment'. I took that to mean she could stumble through daily conversations and stumble we often did.
I tapped the face of my watch. "Not time, yet, Mei Lin. The meeting is at four."
I held up some fingers for emphasis.
She shook her head. "No . . . he not here . . . he not coming here."
"Ohhhh . . . you mean he cancelled?" I gave a 'no more' motion with my hands. "He's not coming at all?"
She smiled encouragingly and bowed again. "Yes, please . . . not coming at all."
I removed my glasses and squeezed the bridge of my nose. I'd counted on Sinclair to help with the missing pieces of this financial jigsaw puzzle I was trying to solve and finding him missing in action was only making a difficult situation harder.
"Figures," I answered. There was a moment of silence as I weighed my options. "I really need that data he's got."
Mei Lin stared at me, her hands laced in front of her, but said nothing.
"Oh well," I continued. "Just have to make do, I guess. Thanks for telling me."
I went back to work, but felt her presence linger. When I looked back, she was standing at the edge of my desk and watching me.
"I go now," she finally said, starting to turn away.
"Mei Lin?"
She paused, then turned back, her puppy-dog eyes pleading. "Yes please, Mr. Handee?"
I hesitated before addressing the obvious. I really didn't have time to play Dr. Phil. With Sinclair blowing me off, the job in front of me was looming. Still, I could tell the woman had more to say.
"Everything okay?" I asked.
No sooner had my sentence finished that she broke down in tears. Even on my best day, which this definitely wasn't, I'm not good with weeping females. I reached to the credenza behind me and grabbed the box of tissues, pushing it across the desk. "Here . . . sit down."
She took a tissue from the box and sat in the opposing chair. Chauvinist that I am, it was hard not to notice how her knee-length skirt rose when she crossed her legs. Her business attire for the day was a form-fitting, lavender skirt, pleated all around. It cupped her narrow waist, then flared slightly across her hips. Her blouse was a lighter lavender, the top two buttons unfastened to reveal a slender neckline and a wisp of cleavage. While it was a professional and unassuming look, it definitely tugged at my imagination in a variety of inappropriate ways.
"Mr. Handee," she said between sniffles, dabbing her nose and tugging her skirt to cover her exposed knee. "Why nobody like me?"
"Not like you? Why do you say that?"
"None of ladies talk to me. I try and be nice and they not talk back . . . seem mad at me and I no do anything for them to be mad at me?"
So that was it. I suppressed a smile. Being liked wasn't Mei Lin's problem, but I could see how she might feel that way. The men in our office, particularly my executive peers, quite liked her. My little 'China Doll' doll, they liked to call her. It wasn't worth trying to explain that she was from Japan and not China. I've heard more than a few water-cooler jokes about how tasty she would look in one of those cute little schoolgirl uniforms so popular in Asian adult videos.
While I'd guess her age between twenty and twenty-five, she had a young face laced with innocence combined with a rocking little Asian body that appears barely legal, baby-smooth skin, and ass-length raven hair that swings two and fro as she hurries about the executive halls. She was definitely admired—actually, lust would be a better description—but admired all the same.
While the male executives lusted, the female executives sneered, and I'm sure that was the source of her isolation. Simply put, women in our office can be catty when they're jealous and many were just that. They didn't like the attention Mei Lin drew from the men, which led to quick branding that she possessed more empty sex appeal than professional competence. I didn't think she noticed, but obviously I was wrong.
I spent the next few minutes trying to reassure her. I knew the language barrier between us only made for limited understanding, but she seemed to sense my sincerity.
"You're doing a great job, Mei Lin . . . we're lucky to have you here. You just keep doing the best job you can do and the others will come around. I promise."
She smiled, stood up, wiped her tears, and came around the desk to hug me. Not only did she look good, but she smelled wonderful.
"Thank you, Mr. Handee," she said, her arms hugging my neck, my nose nestled against the opening in her blouse. "You always be so nice. I go back to work now."
Her perfume stayed with me as she pulled away. "You're welcome," I said.
I turned to my computer so she wouldn't see me blush and was faced with the murky spreadsheet.
Sinclair, you bastard
, I thought to myself. He'd pay for blowing me off. "What a day," I whispered under my breath.
I closed my eyes, squeezed the side of my neck, and leaned my head in a stretch intended to break the gathering tension. At this rate, I wouldn't be home until after midnight.
Expecting Mei Lin to leave, I was startled when she returned and her hands began massaging my shoulders. Her strength was even more surprising. The woman couldn't weigh ninety pounds soaking wet, yet her fingers dug into me like they were banded in steel.
"Mei Lin help Mr. Handee feel better," she said.
In her country, the cultures and business climate are dramatically different than the United States. Males are dominant and I suspect shoulder massages were all but commonplace in her home office, if not part of a secretary's core job duties. How could I explain that life in the states was different? Very different. In fact, it could be pretty easy to misinterpret what was happening if somebody walked in and saw us like this.
I placed my hands on hers. "Mei Lin . . . that's very nice . . . but really, not necessary."
Once again, my words weren't registering. Her fingers only moved lower and her grip tightened.
"Sitting tight, Mr. Handee."
I chuckled at her misuse of the language. In truth, as irregular as the moment was, she was doing a damn good job of unwinding my stress. It seemed her job training extended to massage techniques, as she alternated with her elbow to apply pressure points that were painful at first, yet sent tingling sensations down my spine that left the surrounding muscles noticeably limber. As much as I needed to stop her, I kept buying a few extra seconds, as it felt too damn good. The more I gave in, the more I rationalized. She initiated the moment. It wasn't like I coerced her. For that matter, it was just a neck massage . . . no inappropriate lines being crossed. If she could help me to loosen up, I might actually find the missing money. A 'win win', if ever I heard of one.
"Feels good, Mei Lin . . . thank you."
After a few steady minutes, her hands slowed, then stopped. With one palm still on my shoulder, she stepped to the side and stared down at me. "Mr. Handee like more?"
It was a question I allowed to linger, my gaze traveling up her pleated skirt and across her perky breasts as I considered all the inappropriate ways to answer. When our eyes met, she had a knowing smile, as if she could read my lecherous thoughts.
I cleared my throat and tried to remain composed. "That was very beneficial," I said. "I feel like a million dollars . . . or that I might find that two million I'm looking for."
Her head tipped to the side and her long hair fell across her chest as her brain worked to interpret my words. "You like?" she repeated.
I nodded vigorously. "Very much . . . very good." I took her hand in mine and stroked her fingers. "Very strong hands," I said.
