You're Fired

Damion

I finished making my editorial notes on the article from one of my new journalists before adding a complimentary note and emailing it back. She was a talented writer and I was looking forward to seeing what she could do.

There was a soft knock on the door. “Come in,” I called, knowing it would be my assistant.

She pushed it open. “Mr. Whittle, Tony is here.”

I nodded and waved a hand, indicating he should come in. “Thanks.”

Tony walked in. The guy was in his thirties and probably about one of the worst employees I had ever had the misfortune to work with. Tony flopped down in the chair across from my desk. I took in his wrinkled shirt and unshaven face. The guy was about a hundred pounds overweight and didn’t even try to clean up.

“What’s up?” he snapped. “What did I do now?”

I offered my best smile. “Tony, it isn’t about what you did, but what you didn’t do. We’ve had several conversations about your work. I have a feeling it all fell on deaf ears. Your work didn’t improve. In fact, it got worse.”

“Excuse me?” he said, an ugly frown on his chubby face.

“At this point, we’ve exhausted all options. Your position with the magazine is officially terminated.”

I kept my voice even and devoid of all emotion. He wasn’t the first man I had fired and wouldn’t be the last. I ran a tight ship. I believed in giving second chances, but Tony was on his thirtieth chance with me. I had felt sorry for him.

“Fuck you,” he seethed. “You don’t know shit about anything.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s your opinion.”

“I should have known a little prick like you would get promoted over me. You come in here thinking you’re all that with your Hollywood looks and think you can boss me around.”

I slowly, purposefully looked down at my broad chest that was an appropriate size for my six-four frame. Little prick was not a term I had ever been called. I cleared my throat and straightened the royal-blue tie before offering him a small smile. “Tony, I’m sorry you feel that way. All the same, you’re fired.”

He hopped up from the chair. His stance and demeanor were aggressive. I got to my feet and stared down at him. He was almost a foot shorter than me. I gave him a hard look, warning him not to try anything stupid.

“You stupid motherfucker,” he shouted. “I fucking hate you. You can take your job and shove it up your ass.”

I nodded and walked to the door, pulling it open. My assistant stood on the other side, her face a mixture of fear and shock. “Sir?” she breathed.

“It’s okay,” I told her, jerking my head and telling her to step out of the way. I turned to look at Tony, who was still glaring at me. “Tony, I’ll walk you to the elevator.”

“Fuck you.”

“Let’s go,” I said, my voice low.

He glared at me before stomping by me. I followed him, not trusting him not to damage company property or possibly hurt another employee. Employees sitting at their desks looked up to see what the commotion was.

“Good luck working for this prick,” Tony said loud enough for everyone to hear.

I pushed the button on the elevator. Tony continued to rant, insulting the size of my dick and the color of my hair. His tirade was almost comical. The elevator doors slid open not a second too soon.

“Asshole,” he said, turning to look at me. “You’re a spoiled brat that doesn’t know the first thing about shit. You’ll crash and burn.”

He stepped onto the elevator and stood right next to my grandfather, who looked like he was about ready to knock Tony on his ass.

“Grandpa,” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

Tony looked at the old man standing close to him and currently staring him down. He must have realized the threat and stepped back. My grandfather was an intimidating man. His steely-blue eyes could stop a rampaging steer dead in its tracks. I inherited my height and eye color from him.

The standoff between them ended when my grandfather stepped off the elevator. I breathed a sigh of relief. As much as I wanted to knock the shit out of Tony, I couldn’t afford to get hauled off to jail.

“Damion,” my grandfather said in that rich baritone voice that could shake the rafters one minute and read a bedtime story the next.

“Grandpa, when did you get to New York? I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Why do you let a little pissant talk to you like that?” he growled.

I sighed. “Because, Grandpa, this isn’t Montana. We don’t settle our differences with our fists.”

“I don’t think you settled anything,” he stated. “A man like that needs to have his ass beat.”

“I like being able to pee when I want without five other men watching me,” I told him.

He shook his head. “If you keep letting him talk to you like that, he’ll never respect you.”

I smiled, put my hand on his shoulder, and guided him back toward my office. “That’s why I fired him,” I said with a great deal of satisfaction.

“I would have popped him,” he insisted.

I ushered him into my office, closing the door behind us. “I’m glad to see you,” I told him. “Again, what brings you to New York?” 

“I wanted to see you. I didn’t think you’d be coming home anytime soon.”

“How long are you in town for?”

I took the seat behind my desk. I watched him sit down. He moved a little slower than I remembered, and he looked thinner. I studied his face, taking in the more pronounced wrinkles around his eyes and the yellowish tint to his skin.

“I’m only here for a bit,” he answered.

“How’ve you been?”

He nodded. “Fine. You?”

I smiled. “Good. Busy.”

“You work too much. You’re pale.”

“Pale?” I repeated, putting my hand up to my face. “I’m not pale.”

“You ever get outside? Let me see your hands.”

I laughed. “Grandpa.”

“You don’t go outside. You don’t work with your hands. What do you do?”