A Brief Conversation With My Boss

“Annaliser,” a gruff Long Island accent bellowed from the bowels of a throat coated with three lifetimes of nicotine. I impatiently, yet cautiously, treaded from my office next door to see what my boss, Barry Owitz, could have possibly found so important that he had to summon me vocally, rather than with proper office etiquette.

I stood in his door, smiling with what I hoped came off as eagerness. But I couldn’t stop my shoulders from slumping. “What’s up?”

He paced circles in the center of his office, an unlit cigarette dangling from his stubby fingers. I assumed the reason he called me in here was also the preemptive cause of this upcoming bi-hourly smoke break. “Do we need a model,” he coughed.

I sighed. On the TV show we produced, we were going to have a segment featuring close-ups of Belgian chocolate. Barry’s not-so-internal conflict had been whether or not to hire a hand model.

“That’s up to you. The shoot’s tomorrow though, so we better figure it out.” Ugh, now I was going to have to call agencies and make last-ditch attempts to get someone on such short notice.

“What’re your hands look like? Let me see.”

“Barry, I don’t have nice hands. They won’t look good.”

“Just let me see.”

I begrudgingly stuck out my chapped appendages which were still clinging to the remains of my scarlet nail polish from New Year’s Eve, two weeks ago.

Silence. Barry stared, lost in a world no one will ever truly understand.

“Well you’re gonna have to take that polish off.”

“I can do that,” my voice solid with a special brand of patience reserved only for him.

“Maybe we should get a model.”

I smiled. Barry laughed, more at himself than the situation. He knew his indecision was legendary.

“We can’t use your hands,” he asserted blatantly. I laughed, anticipating his next statement. “Look, you’re a very pretty girl, but you just don’t have nice hands. You’re not a hand model. It is what it is.” Then he laughed too, glad that I wasn’t going to spiral into depression because of his comment.

“Do you want me to get a model?” Patience.

“Nah, I don’t think we need it? Do you think we need one? I don’t think we’re gonna need one. It’s a waste of money. You think we should get one? Nah, we’ll just shoot the chocolate. Is someone getting the chocolate?” His questions mostly rhetorical, I had learned to weed out the ones he genuinely sought answers to.

“Yes, the art director is bringing chocolate.”

“Belgian chocolate?”

“Of course.” I turned to leave.

“Do you think we need a model?” I looked back, waiting. The question wasn't directed at me. “Nah,” he waved his hand, “I need a cigarette. I’m quitting after this shoot.”