Cold

Charlize Zuraek

Period 5

WLH

Bennett

Cold

Brisk morning air blasts my face immediately after opening the door. I stride out of the café- cell phone clamped between my chin and shoulder, an angry attorney on the line shrieking profanities, and blistering hot cups of coffee in my hands. I glance down at my watch; it’s cheap, flimsy, and the hands of the clock sometimes freeze up for a few minutes. However, I recently graduated from Harvard Law and my career as a lawyer has yet to skyrocket as I had hoped. One would think that by studying at a top university in the country, my job after graduation would not have me scurrying across town like a pet hamster on a wheel; desperate to complete one trivial errand after the next.

The watch reads 7:01. That leaves me with nine minutes to get to a law firm five minutes away. A sigh of relief escapes me and my breath forms a translucent cloud amongst the bleak cold. My heavy eyelids are weighed down by exhaustion and deprive my red, shaky eyes from opening. I could fall asleep right here…

“Ms. Elliot! Excuse me! Hello!” my eyes snap open like a child’s on Christmas morning.

“Mr. Gutierrez , of course, how can I assist you?” I attempt in an apologetic tone.

“Ms. Elliot! First, you can take your head out of your ass and listen to me! My client demands…” he continues.

I sustain conversation with the hostile attorney and fake my best sincere apology a handful of times. When he grows tired of belittling me, I hang up and scan the busy downtown for a canary yellow taxicab soaring down the streets. With no time to waste, I jump like a lunatic: one hand in the air and the other balancing coffee. Smirks and comments fly like arrows in my direction. Whatever minuscule amount of dignity I have left is the target.

7:04. A few taxicabs drive by, but none stop. A sense of panic begins to set in. My boss lives by the saying: “If you’re 15 minutes early, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late. If you’re 15 minutes late, you’re fired.” I cannot afford to be fired.

Beads of sweat line my chocolate brown hairline and my sore arms resemble Jell-O when a taxicab finally skids along the curb in front of me. I thrust myself into the backseat and recite the law firm’s address.

7:05. I urge the driver to slam his foot on the gas pedal as if his life depended on it. Anxiously peering at the expressway out of the streaky windshield, my cell phone buzzes in my pocket yet again. I pull it out and read the contact name on the screen: big, block white letters spell CHAPMAN. I feel my arid throat gulp and blood pound in my head like a festive conga drum. My thumb hovers toward the emerald answer button. Why is he calling me this early in the morning?

“Good morning, Mr. Chapman, sir” I calmly answer.

“This weekend you will be coming with me to Detroit for a case. The flight leaves Thursday night at 7:00. Our E.T.A. is 6:45 on Friday morning. Sharp. We will return that Sunday afternoon-”

“No sir, please,” I interrupt.

“Sir, it is my grandparents’ 50th wedding anniversary this weekend. I already have plans to take a train to Chicago and celebrate with my family. These are my vacation days and it has been planned for quite some time now. Please…” I utter.

The silence on the other end of the phone is impossible to ignore. It screams like the relentless strums of an undiscovered rock band. I’ve never heard such a loud silence before.

“Meredith… I am sorry to inform you that while endearing, your family situation is none of my concern. Unless you wish to be employed at another firm, inquire about a refund for your train ticket. I will see you in… three minutes,” the dial tone cuts off his stern commands.

I feel salty tears plummet down the slope of my cheekbones. Defeated, I sit in the back of the taxicab like a deflated child's pool floatie. How could he take something so cherished by me and crush it in his ominous hands within a mere two minute conversation?

Pulling up next to a metropolitan building, the taxicab driver announces, “Ma’am. We are here.” 7:07, that jerk was right. I have three minutes.

I mop up the tears on my face- I will not give that man the satisfaction of seeing me squirm under such a cut-throat ultimatum. I march up the sidewalk and through the tall glass doors; coffees in tow. I race to the elevator, and check my watch with each floor we reach. Finally, the doors diverge. The eighth floor, infested with cubicles and stacks of paperwork, is in front of me. I see Mr. Chapman towards the left corner, talking to some other lawyers in their fancy suits.

7:10. I march up to him and wait for a lull in the conversation. I hand him his coffee and he acts gracious in front of his peers. As if he did not just ruin my plans with my family. After one sip, he purses his lips, scrunches his eyes, and the coffee catapults into a nearby trashcan.

“Cold,” he slowly pronounces as he stares me down. His colleagues giggle and within seconds they are back to their jovial banter. Overcome by confusion and frustration, I do not walk away. Though I am invisible to my boss and the men who have belittled me.

After reaching the conclusion that I will never set foot in this law firm again, I turn on my heel and retreat towards the elevator. I am appalled at his manipulation of me and that it is justified because he is my boss. Although, I am more appalled at myself for letting him order me around like a slave.