Free Samples 1

Griffin Yearwood has been trying to get on his supervisor's good side since they met. After a crucial mistake at a conference, Griffin gets to know his boss, Marco Marchesi, very well through a series of mishaps and ill-timed "meetings."

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(Here's another story from the vault. It's a long one, but a one-shot! Per usual, mind the tags. Happy reading!)

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It wasn't like I'd set out to make much of an impression at work. Truthfully, I was set on surviving in my undergraduate field until my cousin's music popped off, and I figured I'd become his creative director.

Many years later, and I'm getting called "baby faced" by my older female coworkers at this office job. At 28.

"

Better that office job than prison,"

Al always says. He's been to jail, not prison, but I'll just take his word for it. I was a bit of a silent troublemaker when I was younger, but as soon as I moved for high school, I discovered my inner nerd and the internet, and all my anxious energy was directed elsewhere. When I went to college, I went real corporate real fast.

Al says he was scared I'd act up again, and there was no way I would survive prison, looking the way I do. I tried not to read into that, but I knew I wasn't immune to looks from people of all types, men and women. No matter; dating was the last thing on my mind, and the more I look at the world around me, I'm not gunning to start a family soon.

I just like fucking around. Haven't had a serious girlfriend since senior year of college. Haven't wanted to mess around enough to possibly end up a baby father. Every once in a while, I crave something that will shake up my world a little. Sitting at my desk has been driving me a little nuts.

Truthfully, after the company was bought out last year, I thought I'd be fired, and that'd give me an excuse to get creative again, but no such luck. My cousin keeps calling me a corporate sellout. He's kind of right. Shit's comfortable.

I know what he means. It's a good job, good pay. Just not the "chasing dreams" kind of job. No cool graphics, chrome, fancy fonts like my earlier pursuits in design. My portfolio is full of Arial, Calibri, and tables. Even my most "impressive" work here is boring. Sometimes I wish I was still working on my art in Al's basement. I'm the only black guy here. Sometimes I feel invisible.

Being said, getting in good with our new boss isn't a bad idea. He's rumored to be picking people to be on a closer working team, and the pay seems even bigger. Money isn't everything, but it's great to have.

Too bad I've made a decent, though forgettable, impression on everyone besides Mr. Marchesi.

It's one of those things; wrong place, wrong time situations that keep happening over and over again. I'm opening a door too fast and I slam it into his toe. Or spilling coffee all over him. Accidentally throwing out a set of important papers that were put in the wrong place. Ordering a special laptop and sending it to the wrong state. Things like this keep piling up.

I must look completely incompetent to him. It's like I'm only making these dumb mistakes when he's nearby.

He managed to spook us all when he arrived, monotonously announcing that he intended to change daily operations as soon as possible, and we would be learning entirely new systems. The first week was rough, as he didn't seem to talk to anyone, until our liaison, Josh, broke all the tension by forcing a friendship on the guy.

We figured if Josh Lancaster, famous idiot, could get along with Marchesi, then any of us could.

Foolishly, I figured this, too. But my damn nerves take over every time. Even our first interaction wasn't too smooth. He'd stuck out his right hand, and I stuck out my left. As if I'd never given a handshake.

"Griffin Yearwood, Sir. Nice to meet you. I handle the budget and order supplies whenever you guys need."

"Marco Marchesi. Nice to meet you," he'd said plainly.

"Oh, your parents must be funny," I'd said with a laugh. "Marco Marchesi... Marc Marc. Heh."

He didn't find it funny.

"Good thing it's not Marco Polo?" I foolishly tried again.

"My last name was Palmero. My dad died. My Ma got remarried. I'm Marchesi now. It's hilarious, I know."

Gut punch.

"Thanks, Griffin. I'll let you know if I need anything." He didn't seem too interested. I couldn't blame him for dismissing himself.

Ever since then, all the random work mishaps that anyone could have started happening, and I was playing catch-up on building any kind of rapport with the man I had to pass by every day on my way to my cubicle.

"Griffin?" He'd called one day.

"Yes, Sir?"

"What is... 'Bullshit Art from Highschool' that you sent last night?" Mr. Marchesi gently thumbed at his computer. Immediately, my eyes went wide. Before I knew it, I was caught in a loop of breathing in to say something, then nothing coming out. He put his hand up. "I'm sure it's just a mix-up. You were supposed to send updates on supplier stuff, right?"

"Yes... Sir..." I said solemnly, feeling my shoulders slink. Immediately, the badly drawn half-naked girls and overzealous cars I crafted years ago came flooding into my mind, and the thought of my boss clicking through those oversaturated images made my skin crawl. "You didn't look through--"

"Not bad art for a teenager. I'm sure you've improved since," he said bleakly, turning back to his computer. "Mind closing my door behind you?"

I did, and along with it, I closed my opportunity to ever have my boss think of me as a respectable person. I sent him the right file immediately after.

From then on, I've been spending every day wondering exactly what kind of strange interaction I'd have with him next. I share everything with Cleo, who can't help but laugh at every mishap. She says it's a curse at my desk. She's considering making a bingo card for my interactions with Marchesi.

Otherwise, my job is a breeze. I even hang out with people at work on the rare occasion.

Lately, it wasn't so much keeping my head down, so much as it was trying not to put my head anywhere near Mr. Marchesi and his 'no-bullshit' demeanor. My head was clever, except for when it comes to him.

Today, I've managed to make it almost the whole day without embarrassing myself in some way around him, and I figure I'll even treat myself if I manage to make it til 5:30 without saying or doing something stupid.

Cleo decides to cash in on a favor, and I've decided to take up her tasks for the rest of the day. Honestly, this is one of at least ten favors I owe, so I'm not complaining to do any tasks, until I see the last one.

-

marchesi - 1 sandwich w pork, egg, onion, sharp cheddar, iceberg, tomato, spicy ranch; lrg sweet tea

It feels like a setup.

I know the sandwich shop, and nearly shake as I read the sandwich composition slowly, as to not leave out a thing.

It's a half-hour until the end of my shift, and Marchesi seems to be settling into some more work. He'll be here late again. He must want to eat before the long night. Proudly, I clear my throat, and walk up to his door, knocking gently. "H-hi, Mr. Marchesi. Cleo had to head out, so I brought your sandwich."

He looks up from his files, and he nods, waving me over. "Thanks, Griffin."

"You're welcome, Sir. Wish I could eat that kind of stuff. Watching my salt intake," I say jokingly. "Smells great."

He nods to himself tightly. "Surely the guy twenty years your senior has a better metabolism."

Shit. Again. Unintentionally insulting him.

I remember it was his birthday recently, maybe a month ago. He's likely only 42-ish, and he

looks

in his mid to late 30s. He must think I'm way younger than I am, at 28. It's the baby face.

"You hardly look older than me," I try again. "Well, I mean, you look like you could run me over, so. Older, younger, who cares. We're all humans."

Ohhh what the fuck?!

My nonsensical babbling has even him blushing in embarrassment for me, and he has to look away. "Sandwich smells good. I can smell it from here."

He briefly sniffs the brown paper bag, and he nods contentedly. "This helps a lot. Hey.. uh... I had a question. You may have a seat."

"Yes?" I piped up, eagerly taking the seat in front of his desk.

He sighs, deep and heavy, as if he's been dreading every moment of this interaction. "You... type quickly."

"

Thank you

, Sir."

He puts his hand up. "I mean that's what it says on your resume. Is this actually true?"

I nod. "Yes, Sir." Lie. I still look at my hands.

Clearly, he's on eggshells, and I lean back in my seat, crossing my arms. This doesn't seem to lessen the tension.

"There is... a large meeting. A big conference, two days long, one day to brief. Three days total. My usual travel associates are occupied with other projects. But it's necessary to take thorough notes. Are you up to the task?"

I couldn't believe it. I wondered briefly how far down the list I was as an option, but quickly dismissed it. Perhaps this was his way of building rapport.

"Yes. Yes I c-can do this. I'll cancel my weekend plans."

He seems to brighten. "That's unnecessary. If you have plans I wouldn't want to--"

"I'll cancel them!" I say quickly, grabbing my phone and texting friends. I won't miss this opportunity for anything. I text my friends that I won't be there for the planned bar-hopping, and am typing away until I hear Marchesi clear his throat. I shoot up from my seat. "Sorry, sir."

"You may leave now," he says, not very subtle. I was lingering after all. I quickly head toward the door, and just as I'm about to head out, I seem to remember as soon as he says it.

"Where's my sweet tea?" he asks aloud, but then he looks at me again, and shakes his head, as if he shouldn't have even asked. "Nevermi--it's alright. Thank you." I speed out of his office, shaking my head as I swiftly pace down the hallway.

Of course. I can't have one day.

-------

I'm so worried about messing up that I pop into the office an entire hour early, having ridden my bike, and the security won't let anyone in for another thirty minutes. I stand in between the hall and the doorway, with no chairs to sit in. It's too cold outside to stand and wait, or sit in my crappy car.

Finally, I see an Escalade pull up, and Mr. Marchesi is in the back seat. I stand in the window, waiting for him to come inside, when I get a message from our work app.

Mr. Marchesi:

Please come to the car so we can go.

I facepalm, remembering that we're

traveling

to a conference.

I hop into the back with him as we take on the three hour ride. "Got everything?"

"Yes, sir."

He pauses, and then his look gets serious. "Are you sure?"

I gulp, running over the checklist I ran over in my head a million times. "Yes. I am entirely sure."

------

"We only have one room booked under 'Marchesi.'" The woman says with a nod. "Sorry."

"My last name is 'Yearwood.' There must be a mistake."

"Oh, no. There is no 'Yearwood.' Bookings actually end at the letter V this weekend. I'm sorry." She doesn't actually seem sorry.

At least this one isn't my fault. "Sir--"

"There isn't an empty room? At all?"

"No," she says. "Not until Sunday evening. This entire hotel is partially the conference for the weekend."

Mr. Marchesi seems frozen, debating what to do, before he holds out his hand for the key. She hands it to him, and he shakes his head, trudging toward the elevator. I follow swiftly after him.

"I'll find a room to--"

"You'll stay in mine," he interrupts. "No time for fodder. Where's the first open discussion board?"

I check my notes. "Room 103. All the way downstairs."

"We're staying in room 1324. Waiting for the elevators will be a nightmare, especially on the first-come-first-serve thing," he clicks his tongue. "Sometimes they'll do some random pop-up meetings and people come flooding the halls. Be ready to run down thirteen flights of stairs if we have to."

Nodding, I take everything in. This essentially was a free-for-all, make-your-connections bonanza. I'm sure there'll be times when I'm wandering around alone, and if I find anyone who's looking to hire an artist, then I'm in the bag. With my updated portfolio, of course.

"...Griffin."

"Yes, Sir?!" I snap out of my daydreaming, and stand up straight. "Sorry."

"I'm counting on you to do more than notes, here. Pick up on leads, overhearing conversations, these are all important for our next quarter. A two-in-one survey for consumers and producers here."

"Got it," I reassure him.

With that, the day goes off without a hitch. I'm almost shocked. We make it to every meeting on time, my notes are precise, and I even manage to shake my nerves for a few jokes. By the time we eat and dash to the next meeting, I'm not sure if I'm imagining the impressed look on Marchesi's face, or if he's equally surprised at the smoothness of Day One.

Either way, as we finally make it to the room at 10pm, I'm exhausted. Josh invited us out for drinks with his branch, but Mr. Marchesi declined. I declined in turn, even though I wouldn't have minded going out for a bit. I wouldn't dare drink enough for Marchesi to know I was off my game.

No matter. I wash my face in the mirror, drying the tightening curls of black hair bouncing about my head. Mr. Marchesi is sitting on the corner of his bed, tapping away on his laptop. I wonder if I forgot anything for the day.

Silently, I do my nightly routine, trying not to be too loud or get on his nerves. By the time I'm tying a durag on my head, I'm falling asleep sitting up.

Marchesi turns on a tiny lamp, and I take it as my cue to get a good night's rest.

The next day, I wake up to the bustling of the hotel, and decide to get an early start on my organizing. I'm pretty sure Mr. Marchesi barely got any sleep, given that he has papers on the pillow beside him, and a pen behind his ear. Is this how he is at home, too? Working on projects well into the night?

No wonder he's so serious all the time. I decide to say the first word, wondering if my curse is broken since yesterday went off without a hitch. "Good morning."

"Morning, Griffin."

"Morning," I say again, and I want to pinch myself for my repetitiveness, but I decide to cruise by it. "I summarized yesterday's morning and afternoon. Investments are in the shared file and I sent the password."

"Thank you. I have an updated schedule." He hands me a paper, and I wonder where he printed it off from, given the timestamp of 4:37am. Geez. This guy likes to work. I mean, I figured he was good at his job, but still. "Ready for some more walking and talking?"

"Yes, Sir," I say affirmatively. I almost want to salute, but I figure that's too much, even as a slight joke.

Marchesi gathers his things quickly, and he's in the shower and out before I've even gotten dressed. He smells like a strong soap. Something that works fast and gets the job done. I glance at him as he takes out his fine tooth comb, hilling his full head of dark brown hair over at an angle. He's barely got grays, and it could be mistaken for the lighting if you even spot them. He gently shaves off a few chin hairs with a cheap razor, and tosses it in the trash.

After brushing his teeth, he turns to me with a huff. "Alright. Let's go."

"Roger that."

We're off to a busy morning. It starts with a conference hall meeting, with a few guys cracking jokes and telling us when and where the food will be, just like yesterday. Like usual, Marchesi is uninterested, checking his emails and texting away in our work app.

After a presentation about where to meet investors, aka people like me and Marchesi, the day is going strong.

"All the food people are here today," Mr. Marchesi says, turning toward me. He shows me his phone. "They're on the schedule. We're gonna do some fru-fru nature stuff. Granola places, boba shops, vegan-everytings, so on and so forth."

"Do we have to eat it?" I ask with a frown.

"Hell no," Marchesi says, recoiling in his seat. I can't help but chuckle.

"What if they give me special powers?" I ask, and Marchesi gives me a "really" look. "Sorry."

"Don't be shy with the judgement. If they look weird, it's a no. If they act funny, it's a no. If they seem all desperate, cut 'em. I'm trusting you, here. We've got ground to cover." Mr. Marchesi holds out his hand. "Gimme your phone."

I scramble to pull my phone from my pocket, and hand it to him without thinking. My background is a scantily-clad comic book villain with her thumb in her mouth. My curse isn't over, it seems. He cringes, but I watch him go into my contacts, and he adds himself. "Alright. At 12:40 go get lunch. I wrote that down, too."

"Got it, Sir," I nod.

"Split up from here. I've got places to be." With that, he looks at his phone, and heads toward the elevator.

My list is small, just 6 booths. I've seen Mr. Marchesi interact with these startups before, and decide to act the way he would.

I'm done with my assignments, and by the time I check my watch, it's 12:53. "Ah, shit!" I shake myself off, looking over my notes to make sure I didn't forget anything, and quickly look around for Mr. Marchesi before dashing off downtown. He's made it clear he doesn't prefer the conference food, so my thirteen minute delay could mean the difference between making or missing a meeting. I try not to panic, picking up the pace and nearly jogging to pick up his sandwich. To my surprise, in the lunch hour, his sandwich is ready to go within a few minutes, and I thank the high heavens for the universe making up my time for me. As I head back, I spot a stand outside, clearly taking advantage of the conference. Cupcakes. I know Mr. Marchesi has a thing for chocolate and peanut butter, given the ice cream containers that are always in his trash. I decide to grab him one, and walk along a few other stands, picking up free samples.

"These are the best cupcakes you'll ever have!"

"You'll never try a green tea like this!"

"These are the strongest on the market."

I chuckle. "Strongest mints on the market?"

"No. Only take one. Any more than that is overkill," the girl says, smacking her gum. "I'm serious. It's even on the package."

"Only take one, ha." I can smell the menthol from my hand before I've opened them.

By the time I'm back, I almost feel his presence before I even walk in the door. Right as I step in, he turns around, and we make eye contact. I'm late. As I rush over, Marchesi taps his watch.

"I'm so sorry--"

"Next meeting was moved down by the CO. You got lucky." He eyes the bags in my hands. "What's all this?"

"F-free samples, mostly. Cupcakes, mints, tea, and some granola crap."

"Good work," he says, and he starts walking to the open hall. I can't tell if he's being sarcastic. Either way, with a skip, I'm following right behind him.

We find a tall table, standing up to eat as various people approach Marchesi, and he gets annoyed as he tries to eat his sandwich, but it's not like these corporate boneheads notice, or care. Every so often, he turns to me, grumbling a "these guys are running on air" or "can't let a man finish his sandwich" or something else that makes me want to chuckle, but I've given up on trying to joke with him.

"What's the scoop on that bike guy?" he asks. I don't even have to look at my notes.

"Bike is too lightweight, seems dangerous. He couldn't answer some questions about test runs on downhill slopes," I say, shaking my head. Marchesi seems impressed.

"Yeah, no way on that. Looked cool in the email, though," Marchesi finishes his food, and wipes his mouth. "That for me?" he asks, pointing to the cupcake. I nod. "Is it gluten-free or somethin'?"