“Fun night?” I ask, the sound of my tablet smacking the table, making Roman cringe. Caden and I take our seats, preparing ourselves for what we know is going to be another drunk story from Roman.
He lets out a long breath and stares straight ahead. “Love Swipe got the best of me, man.” I roll my eyes at the mention of Love Swipe, the premier dating app used in NYC right now. “I swiped right and wound up in crazy town with a busty blonde whose favorite pastime is sucking toes. I can’t even look, I’m too scared.” He holds his foot out under the conference table. “Take my shoe off. Do I still have fucking toenails? For the love of God, just give it to me straight. I need to know.”
I slap his foot away. “Roman, self-respect man. You look like shit, and you’re at work. Frank is going to fire your ass if you don’t get it together.”
Roman tips his glasses down and looks me dead in the eyes. “I’m not kidding when I say I walked on my heels all the way here. That lady did some serious damage. I don’t think there’s anything attached to my toes right now. I feel them bleeding as we speak.”
“We’ll deal with your toes later.” I look at my watch and swat him in the stomach. “Sit up straight, button your damn shirt properly, and tuck it all the way in. And take off those sunglasses. You’re on Frank’s last nerve as it is, you don’t need to give him an excuse to fire you.”
The only reason Frank hasn’t fired Roman yet is because he’s damn good at his job. He’s vice president of marketing and despite his inability to act like an adult, he’s able to pull it together enough to head a well-oiled machine and keep us in the black every year. And he knows the ins and outs of the entire company better than anyone, even hung over four out of the five days he’s at work.
“Promise you’ll check my toes?”
“Christ.” I adjust my watch. “Yes, just get it together. I’ve taught you better. Did you have your hangover drink this morning?”
Busy tucking in his shirt, he answers, “Dude, I still have that blonde’s underwear in my back pocket. There was no way I was able to down a hangover drink before I got here. The only reason I didn’t pass out at my desk this morning was because Polly guided me to the conference room and handed me coffee.”
Polly, Roman’s assistant, is another reason he hasn’t been fired yet. She covers his ass every damn day and deserves every cent of her hefty yearly bonus.
Before I can answer, people filter in through the door, followed by Frank, who shuts us all in. Roman visibly straightens in his chair and acts like the professional he is . . . or pretends to be.
“Good morning.” Frank stands tall and buttons his ubiquitous purple jacket. He scans the room. His goatee is longer than it should be and his eyebrows entirely too thin—there’s certain facial hair etiquette men should follow, which Frank clearly refuses to acknowledge. As he adjusts his cufflinks, he asks, “How was everyone’s weekend?”
Not giving anyone a chance to answer, he claps his hands together and starts pacing. He doesn’t pace the width of the room, though. He takes laps around the conference table, his hand hovering over our heads like some kind of grown-up version of Duck, Duck, Goose. When he stops behind you, buckle up, because your work life is about to be “blessed” with one of his asinine ideas.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about our social media presence and I think we’re missing out on something.” Oh boy. Here we go . . . He stops behind Caden and grips his shoulders while looking out over all of us. The tension in Caden’s shoulders is entirely too noticeable. I make a mental note to talk to him about controlling his body language. “What do you think we’re missing out on?”
Ever the try-hard, Caden suggests, “More news content?”
“No.” Frank releases him. “Leave that to CNN.” He balls his fists together and raises them to his shoulders. “We’re missing personability.” He walks to the front of the room and grips the table. “Who here has put their real life into their work?”
No one raises their hand—and for good reason. We all keep work separate from our personal lives. I may give advice and live up to The Modern Gentleman persona, but I don’t ever tell my readers about my specific experiences. I’m not a personal anecdote-giving guy. I try to keep things as basic as possible, as separate as possible.
“Exactly!” Frank jabs his finger into the air. “We’re missing a huge opportunity. Who are the career-driven people working at HYPE? What do they do when they part ways with their computers at the end of the day? What are their hobbies? What are their interests? Do they take cooking classes?”
Roman mumbles, “Does Love Swipe count as a hobby?”
From the corner of my eye, I see Caden elbow Roman, who chuckles to himself.
With too much passion in his movements, Frank starts moving around the room again, hand back to hovering over employees’ heads. “We need to humanize this company, connect with our public, show them they aren’t alone in this crazy, unpredictable world.”
I sit back and listen to Frank ramble on about his new idea, relieved I only write an advice column. Based on Frank’s enthusiasm, I can see the painful journey some of my colleagues will have to endure.
“That brings me to your new assignments. It’s time to get personal . . . personal,” Frank singsongs an off-key version of “Let’s Get Physical.” This man, Jesus. It’s as if the eccentricities of Johnny Depp had a baby with the trying-too-hard Michael Scott. He’s a vision, that’s for damn sure.
Making his way around the room, he hovers over Darla and places his hand on her shoulder. Her face says it all—an oh hell crossing her features. “Darla, your recipe videos have been informational, but I want more. For the next month, you will take subscribers into your kitchen and show them the ins and outs of your nightly ritual in front of the stove. I’m thinking apron, paper grocery bag on the counter, and that bright smile of yours.” Christ, that’s invasive. She nods and starts taking notes. Poor Darla.
I stretch my legs out and lean back in my chair, trying to predict who he’s going to target next.
“Keith . . .” Oh shit. He runs the adult content. “The erogenous zones of a man. What are they? What makes them tickle? How can you get them humming? This month I want you to experiment with your body and different techniques for how to get the male anatomy up and running.” Oh fuck, I hold back a chuckle as Keith turns white. “Charmaine, I want you to work on the same article but from the female point of view. Focus on your arousal and don’t be generic. Really dig deep.”
“Dig deep,” Roman mumbles and laughs like the hung-over, immature asshole he is.
Frank divvies out three more assignments. There’s a piece on family tree genetic testing, which didn’t seem too terrible until Frank required pictures of all family members for visual references. He assigned a pregnancy article to the only pregnant woman in the office, Sunny, who luckily pulled her HR card when he mentioned doctor visits. Good for her. And then there’s the battle with adult acne. Oh Greg, hang in there, man.
I grip the table, ready for this shindig to end, while Frank goes into detail with Greg about all the angles he can focus on. Slow-motion charcoal mask videos being a “high ticket” piece. I look at my watch and realize we’ve been in this meeting for over an hour now. If we can move past blackheads, that would be appreciated.