Hello, my name is Angel.
Yes I know, quite humorous isn’t it?
It sounds like a dog or better yet a stripper.
In fact it is one of the reasons that when I am conducting business I lie and use Angelica.
I am an entrepreneur for lack of a better term.
Really, what I truly am is what I term “Every woman.”
I wear various hats and I am doing fine financially.
I am what could be defined as upper middle class.
I work a lot but I have the fruit of it to show for my efforts.
Many of my contracts involve working with words, I write well in the sense that I am able to take a person where I want to take them with my words.
It is not so much that I am some great author, but I am a great story teller, thus I tend to get a lot of jobs writing commercials for new products that come out, or new sales concepts for products that are not doing well as far as sales.
I do well enough that a local sales ad agency has set me up a nice office in their building.
I come and go as I please, because much of what I do can be done from my computer at home.
When I come to work in my office I am strictly business.
I am dressed and armed with an attitude of just such, nothing but professionalism.
I have this attitude because I do not confer with those who are employed here, as I said I am in and out at will and my work speaks for itself.
I am always cordial and polite but I never let down my guard as far as my professional attitude.
This is a multi-million dollar company and I am expendable, they can find someone else to tell their story.
It is mandatory that I keep on top of my game, as far as producing results for them.
In this business it all boils down to dollar bills, or in this case, well let’s just say large amounts of money.
This day would be a day that I should have been more perceptive and discerning.
I was on the phone and I had 5 or 6 windows open on my laptop as I usually do when I am working or writing.
The door to my office was open and I heard someone walk in and saw it was the delivery man with a package for me.
I impatiently waved him over and all but snatched the package out of his hand.
I continued with the phone call, if you can call punching 30 different sequences of numbers that directed me to 30 different wild goose chases on 30 different automated voice messages of, “For blah press one, for blah, blah, press two,”
you get what I am saying.
I really just wanted to talk to a human and why was this delivery boy not going away?
I looked up to view him with both of his hands palms down and on my desk glaring at me.
His tousled curly brown locks and striking blue eyes that held more intensity and depth than what I was accustomed to and the fact that they never broke their gripping gaze of holding on to my visage, was not going to break through my shell of professionalism on a day like today, or any other day.
“What…….. Do………. You need?” I drew out the words as if speaking to a five year old child.
“I need you to sign for the package, that you all but jerked out of my hand, little Miss High and mighty,” he calmly replied.
The little twirp was making me mad now.
Once again I drew my words out as if speaking to a child, “Did you see…….. The lady who was sitting at the desk out there? She is called a receptionist………. Now run along and have her sign it” I stated: as I shooed him away.
He never moved his firmly planted palms, nor his cold gaze and called out over his shoulder, “Mrs. Taylor, could you come here please?”
“Certainly,” the receptionist responded, making her way in.
By now we had locked gazes into a staring match. This little jerk was beginning to bug me.
“Mrs. Taylor” he calmly stated, never removing his gaze, Miss Hanesley is demanding that I take this form to you to have it signed, what do you think about that?”
I looked up to view Mrs. Taylor in the door wringing her hands and muttering, “Oh dear.”
The delivery boy was still standing his ground, “I said to sign the delivery statement, do as I asked you to do and sign it,” he calmly stated: never breaking his gaze.
I scrunched my lips and squinted my eyes, once again looking over to view Mrs. Taylor in a mild case of panic, still wringing her hands.
I grabbed the paper signing it and all but threw it at the little smart alec as I hissed: “The only reason that I am signing it is for state of her health. She looks as if she may have a heart attack.”
He smirked as he turned walking away, “Well, I would say that you have caused enough problems for one day young lady.”
I picked up the phone to dial the irritating automated message machine again and looked up to view Mrs. Taylor still wringing her hands and saying things like, “Oh dear and oh my” over and over.
“What!?!” I asked: thoroughly exasperated after having to deal with the irritating delivery boy.
“Oh my” she shook her head, “That is not the delivery boy.”
“He is the owner of the company.”
“Oh shoot,” I muttered under my breath, “I think that I just lost my job.”
©2013 Amber Hawkins