Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. If you really want this kind of stuff to happen, you obviously haven't thought the consequences through and need to stop reading these kinds of things.
Oh, yeah: Trademark, copyright, and ground-you-walk-on by Big Daddy 5.
*
Monday was going to be hell. Amanda Wilson knew that. She was going to face at least two snide comments from them. Maybe three. They'd sit in comfortable chairs atop their glass floor and look down at her. She'd look at the glass ceiling above her and fume. "I'm coming, you bastards! You can't stop me!"
Peterson would likely be first, since his office was next to hers. "Gonna join us at the club tonight, Wilson?" he'd ask. He never called her Amanda. Only Wilson.
"Yes, I will!" she'd snap. She never did anything but snap when talking to Ian Peterson. The man was a complete chauvinist.
God,
she thought.
That's a word I haven't heard since I was a little girl! Whatever happened to words like that? When did it start being wrong to want what the men want?
She reasoned that maybe it was what was happening in the
world. The only women you heard about in the news anymore were brain-dead bimbos with the hots for politicians. A dozen years ago, Amanda's lawsuit would have been the top story on the national news for months. Now, it was old hat. The final decision made page eight in the local paper.
Bread and circuses,
she thought.
Times had changed of course, but Morley and Associates was dragged, kicking and screaming, into the Twenty-First Century. Amanda was hired when somebody noticed that all of the executives at the firm were men. No one had to go to court that time, but they didn't like it. No sir, not one bit. They made sure that Amanda knew it, too.
Her first day there, Amanda walked into an empty office. On the floor was a crate marked "Furniture". Inside was an ironing board and an iron! Amanda always prided herself on her humor, but she was hurt and insulted by the cheap shot. Still, she said nothing and ordered the proper furniture. When she walked out of her office for lunch, that first day, she saw the man in the office next to hers snickering. She just noted the words "Ian Peterson" on his door and ordered a urinal for his office, that afternoon. It was installed after-hours and waiting for Peterson, the next morning! Amanda always gave at least as good as she got.
But while Ian Peterson was her greatest tormentor, he was hardly alone. There were also Gregg Hartman and Phillip Wildeman, for starters. Or, as Amanda referred to them, "the Hardly Boys". They looked like a gay couple on steroids, to her eyes. Always together and always rowdy, she took an instant dislike to them.
Even old man Morley was a problem. He was always polite and cordial to her, but she knew that he went to the local "gentlemen's club" for lunch most days. And the way he looked at his blond, well-endowed secretary was outrageous! She looked like a wet dream in tweed, which made Amanda cringe. Even her name made Amanda uncomfortable: Candi. It was even spelled like a stripper's name! She looked as if the business clothes she wore were part of her costume and she was going to hop up on her desk and start stripping at any moment.
In fact, it struck Amanda for the first time, that Sunday night, that most of the women in the office were young and beautiful and as brain-dead as a cage full of gerbils. You could see it in their vacant eyes. And the smoking! Every one of them was a smoker. You'd see them outside, rain or shine, lighting up. Amanda had given up smoking in college, and even then had smoked Carltons. She shuddered at the thought of ever picking up a cigarette, again.
Amanda's last thought, before sleep claimed her, was just how hard it was going to be to face everyone, just two days after the lawsuit--
her
lawsuit-- was finally settled. She knew how they all felt, from Morley down to Peterson. She didn't make any friends at the firm with this. She doubted she'd make any more by showing up at the club, either.
Monday was a bit cloudy and windy, but still pleasant enough to make Amanda Wilson smile. She got her usual bagel and coffee at the coffee bar in the building lobby before riding the elevator up to the fifteenth floor and her office. She shared a secretary with Peterson. The secretary, whose name was Wendy, was sitting at her desk, doing her nails.
"What do you think, Ms. Wilson?" Wendy asked, thrusting her nails into Amanda's face. "Scarlet Jungle Red."
Amanda reflexively pulled back to eye the painted nails with veiled disgust. "They're okay, I guess, Wendy."
"I hope Mr. Peterson notices them!' she beamed. "He is such a hunk!"
Amanda rolled her eyes. Maybe her dislike for Peterson colored her perceptions a bit, but she couldn't leave that comment alone. "Wendy, I would hardly consider Ian Peterson 'hunk' material."
"He's like Tom Cruise and Harrison Ford rolled into one!" Wendy gushed.
"If you mean he's fat, I agree," Amanda muttered under her breath as she glanced at her stack of morning mail. When she didn't get a response, she looked up to see Wendy walking toward the elevator with a pack of cigarettes.
"That girl has the attention span of a fruit fly!" Amanda fumed. She spun around on her heels and almost knocked Ian Peterson down! He staggered a bit, but managed to stay up.
"Damn it, Peterson!" she snapped.
"Hey, whoa! Sorry, Wilson," he said, reaching around her to grab his own stack of envelopes. "Can I get my mail here?
"Hey, what time are you going to the club tonight, Amanda?"
The use of her first name threw her. "What?"
"I said 'What time are you going to the club, tonight?'"
"Don't sweat it, Peterson. I'll come and go from the club as I damn well please!" Ian Peterson laughed. "Hey, sorry. Just asking. My car's in the shop, and I could use a lift there, myself."
Amanda blinked. "You're asking me for a lift? Me?"
"If that's alright," he said, his tone suggesting sincerity. "I'd really appreciate it."
"Uh, yeah. I guess so."
Peterson smiled. She hadn't seen him do that since she dropped the paperclips. "Thanks, Amanda. I really... Thanks." He almost ran back to his office, waving at her.
"Sure. No problem." Amanda shrugged and walked into her own office. She stopped short when she saw that the room was empty, except for Ralph Gilford and her wastepaper basket. He was picking it from the floor and walking toward the door with it.
"Gilford," she snapped, "where the hell is my furniture?"
"Um, in the new office, Amanda." He said, innocently. His voice suggested the same patience a parent has when his child asks why the sky is blue.
Again, the first name. "New office?"
Gilford smiled. "Sure. You know, the corner office."
Amanda raised an eyebrow at him. "You mean I'm getting Shumway's old office?"
Gilford headed toward her, but stopped when he realized that she wasn't going to step out of his way. "Of course. They just finished putting in the new sprinkler system. I thought you knew, Amanda."
"No, I didn't."
"Well, I've almost got it organized. Come tell me what you think."
Amanda followed the mousy, little Human-Resources Director to the spacious corner office that Andrew Shumway had vacated upon retirement. She had expected Peterson to get the prize office. It was far larger than her old one or Peterson's, and he had seniority. Her feet stuck in place slightly, on the plush carpet. There was a new, large desk there, and all of her things atop it in boxes.
Ralph Gilford put down the basket and turned to her. "Is it okay? My wife helped me pick the colors. She's an interior decorator, you know."
Amanda nodded, looking at the wet bar in the corner. "Yeah. It's fine. Thanks." The whole thing was surreal, and Amanda Wilson decided to just go with the flow until Rod Serling made an appearance. "If you need anything," Gilford continued, almost running to the door, "let me know." Gilford was always a skittish person, but the way he ran out, he seemed almost afraid of the room.
Not Amanda. She sat down in the large, leather chair and spun it around to look at the city below her in the floor-to-ceiling windows. "So, the glass ceiling cracks."
An hour later, Phillip Wildeman showed up at her door. She was putting things away and didn't notice him until he rapped, lightly.
"Hey, Amanda," he called. "Got a sec?"
Amanda nodded, almost dumbfounded at the workout her first name was getting, today. "Why?"
Wildeman glanced around to see if anyone was looking. When he was satisfied that no one was, he said "Congrats of the lawsuit!"
Amanda Wilson's mouth almost dropped to her desk. "What?"
"I, for one, was all in favor of it."
Amanda could feel her cheeks flush. "Wildeman, you called me, and I quote, 'that ladder-climbing little pseudo-secretary' in court! Have you forgotten?"
"Hey, look, sorry about that," he almost whispered. He actually blushed! "My job was on the line. I couldn't say I thought that you were right with old Mr. Morley right there, now could I?"
"You damn well could have!"
Before Wildeman could respond, he spun around to see Hartman pass by. "Hey, Gregg!" he called out, taking off after his friend.
That night, Amanda took Ian Peterson to the club. He was a perfect gentleman the whole trip, talking about his life and his work. Not one rude comment passed his lips. If she didn't have the memories of all their past difficulties, Amanda might have relaxed and enjoyed the talk. As it was, she simply kept a stoic expression as he rattled on about inoffensive things.
