Jazzy and Ray

...

A grating, low voice is calling me out of darkness. "Jazzy."

I open my eyes to see my boss standing a respectful distance from my bed, looking groggy and wearing a white wife beater over plaid pajama pants. My alarm goes off then, at seven on the dot, and I reach over to turn it off.

"Oh... I didn't know whether you had an alarm set, figured I'd wake you just in case. Good dreams?" His eyes never leave my face, but I get the distinct impression that I'm laid bare in front of him.

I open my mouth, barely conscious, and silently curse the ground he's standing on, my heart still jumping in my chest. "Nah, just regular ones," I rasp.

"Hmm." He turns, stumbles, and holds up his loose bottoms with a careless hand. "We're out of here today, Jazz, make sure to pack up before checkout at two."

I make a face at his back and roll out of the messy bed. I packed last night. "Gotcha."

"And I want to blend in today, so you're wearing your charcoal gray suit with the navy blue accents and the black pumps you brought, if you don't mind."

"Right." I collect my showering bag and am in and out of the bathroom in fifteen minutes, hair pulled back into a puff by a navy blue headband and contacts in. Vasquez doesn't like his staff fumbling with glasses.

He tucks his undershirt into his slacks in the mirror while I collect my tools for the day.

"Jazz, we'll stop for a late lunch after I get out of my twelve o' clock conference; you don't have to attend the meeting but I want a report of the key notes. I don't care how you get them."

"Yes Mr. Vasquez." It's taken some patience not to bristle at the matter-of-fact commands about my whereabouts and appearance this week, but I'm learning to channel the subservient demeanor I had perfected while living with my mother until the ripe old age of 22. It works pretty well.

Raymond Vasquez is usually pretty strict, but always understanding. We admire and respect him day-to-day at the office, but whoever ends up as his personal assistant for business trips of any duration comes back wanting to push him down several flights of stairs.

Never out of line, of course, just the worst micromanager you've ever seen. Didn't help that we couldn't change the hotel booking of one room with two twin beds. I wasn't supposed to be on this trip, but my coworker Lamar lucked his way out of this one because his wife very conveniently went into labor a week before. So now I don't get to see the baby, and I'm stuck catering to corporate America's baby shark.

"Jazzy."

"Yes." He's silent for several moments, and I look in his direction to find his eyes on me in front of the mirror, tucking his pinstriped shirt into his pants.

"Mr. Vasquez?" I stand, hopefully indifferently, while he contemplates me for a few more moments.

He blinks.

"Sorry about the room. I'd change it if I could." Oh. That's sweet. And a rare break from the subtle tyrant I'd gotten to know intimately the past couple of days.

I go back to scribbling conference times on my notepad. "I'm perfectly comfortable if you are, Mr. Vasquez."

I wonder if he's comfortable.

...

"Motherfucker thought 8% was a good offer," Vasquez hisses, loosening his tie and storming down the hallway towards the elevator. "For a sleazy itinerary in middle America and half the marketing we normally start out with. Who the fuck does he think I am?"

I nod and crease my forehead sympathetically, noting the fluctuation of his accent and dashing along behind him in the shoes he specifically asked me to wear. If he had even a dash of gray at his temples or the paunchy belly that all of the team leaders at the conference had, minus the ladies and theybies who looked like they took no shit, they probably would've approached him differently. As it was, he was near to cussing with almost every offer the PR houses made, save a few who knew exactly how long he'd been in the game.

Vasquez has been mentored in management and production under a few big-names since he was a kid in high school, reportedly because his dad happened to know some people. But being so good at what he did, he learned to keep his name out of people's mouths and instead sell the brand first. It's a real double-edged sword, as it turns out.

All this I found out from the older duo back at the office who cluck and waggle at me whenever I work late. Ruby and Wasan, both in their mid-sixties and ready to head out of the workforce in the next five years, let me know regularly how I should clock out on time and see a little more of the city, no matter what kind of chaos the leftover work will bring the next day.

I got this job after working as a digital media specialist - a librarian, basically - for the last eight years, and when I got sick enough of being paid for only half the work I did, one night I had the balls and the blood alcohol content to fill out and submit an application as a personal assistant for this company.

I figured I was completely unqualified, but apparently the position really just requires somebody competent who'll stay on for more than a month and a half. Perfect.

But what do I say now? Do I say anything? The irritation is rolling off of him in waves. The elevator doors close behind us, the silence crowding the space.

"Uh," I mutter, almost under my breath, but he looks towards me anyway. I'd want someone to intervene if I were about to lose my shit. "Bitches be trifling."

A beat, and then roarous laughter, from deep in his gut. I hadn't taken my eyes from the seam in the doors, but after the initial shock, I look at him and grin to myself, the echo of his dying laughter reverberating around the little box. He has tears in his eyes as we step off.

"They do, they really do, Jazzy. Trifling. Haven't heard anybody say that to me since I visited Ma for the holidays."

I shrug, smile a little as he walks ahead to open our door. I think I helped? "I don't see why not, it's a common workplace occurrence. Should I call for a taxi, sir?"

He looks over, rifling through his half-emptied closet. "I said lunch after the conference."

"Yes, but it's 1:45."

His mouth makes an 'o' of surprise. "Oh shit, yes, thank you," he says, grabbing the remaining blazers off the hangers and dumping them onto his bed. "We're clocking out at two, I hope you're-"

He watches as I roll my suitcase out from under my bed, setting my toiletry bag to fit perfectly over the handle. I fold my hands in front of me, attentive. "Yes?"

He grunts, attention back on his messy stack. And I hear, "Well, don't look so smug about it, Jazzy," as he stuffs his jackets onto the crowded pile in his suitcase.

"Of course not, sir," I say, phone in hand and failing mightily to withhold that exact expression from showing on my face. I leave the room to make the call, and standing in the hallway, I watch some other big bosses' assistants strolling down the carpet, looking harried.

I nod as they pass, but as I hang up, the taller of the two trudges back over to me, leisurely looking me up and down.

"You're working under Daft Studios, right?" He leans against the wall next to me, and the shorter man shuffles over, shifting his eyes and already looking uncomfortable. So I guess this is about to be some bullshit.

"Mmhmm." A hand on a cocked hip, eyes directly on his honey brown ones. I have time today.

"Never seen you before, and you're sharing a room? I saw him come out of here yesterday, sweet cheeks." He smirks, eyes on mine, and I scrunch my eyebrows down a bit, in mock confusion, and then back up in mock understanding.

I lean forward, almost conspiratorially. "Marcus."

He looks interested now, a sick, sort of excited surprise.

"Yes, I do know your name. Your boss was screaming it from across the lobby our first day here. Listen. It's been a long week, and I bet you're more tired than I am with the Pillsbury DoughBoy calling you all times of night to suck his dick because he can't reach it. So I'm going to give you a moment to walk away and find one of your little friends to play with, because I solemnly swear to you, I am not the one."

Cold fury? Hot rage? Both? I peer into the very center of his eyes, looking past the reflection of myself and imagining the back of the spheres themselves.

"Fucking slut has a mouth, but I'm not surprised, Oliver, it's probably how she got this far." he leers. His friend looks incredibly uncomfortable and is turning to leave, and he should be. I'm about to spit fire.

"Why are you harassing my assistant, Marcus Neuman?" A voice from behind me, and I know the look on my face is pure delight and malicious intent. I hope he didn't hear what I whispered moments ago about his compatriot, but I can't stop the glee from spreading like hot butter this time. Marcus straightens up.

"Sir, my apologies."

"No, no, it seems you didn't hear her the first time. Is it just because I have an asshole you wanna kiss that you're showing me respect?"

"My sincerest apologies, it was most certainly all fun-"

"And games? We'll see what HR and your director have to say about these games. And you," he muses, at the other assistant. "This was a bad friend to make. You're both dismissed."

His partner looks furiously over at Marcus, and Marcus looks... distressed. A glance back to me, and finally the residue of haughtiness has bled from my face and back into my heart, hopefully leaving the hard shell I've been working on since I got this job. Leisurely looking up and down the horrible man's body, from the fuckboy fade to the basic-ass Banana Republic loafers.

"Yes, sir." I hear Vasquez slip back into the room, but I watch the two men rush down the hall and on their way, the shorter man whispering furiously up at Neuman, who's cursing profusely.

"Come on, champ, we're gonna miss our flight," Vasquez says, reappearing behind me with his bag straining at the zipper, passing mine over to me.

"Yes, sir. My apologies for the delay."

"No apologies necessary, although I don't think you had to call Billy Farrow the Pillsbury Doughboy."

I wince, and he chuckles. "Um. I di... I did say that." I follow him back into the elevator, and I wonder if I'm in trouble. I shouldn't be, You never know in places like this. "Should I file something with HR when I get back?" I'm back to watching the closed doors in front of me, the descent disorienting me a little.

He stares a hole into the side of my head until I look back at him. "Jazz. The day I let one of mines get dragged by the shitshow that is this industry is the day I book a tour stop in Klan country."

I snort, and he seems satisfied.

...

"Baby, if you're not gonna do anything you need to come on, it feels like the inside of somebody's mouth out here."

June looks back at me and goes back to sniffing the hedges, checking for traces of deer that don't even bother to run when she barks at this point. Even when the gate to the courtyard is wide open, she stays behind the fence, flipping out and otherwise seeming for all the world like she could actually do some damage.

"Alright, I'm moving on," I finally say. I feel the leash give after some resistance as I walk on, followed by the sound of stubborn panting. June must be getting tired and hot, or she'd throw a fit about ending our walk. I was so happy to be back home that I didn't think anything of dragging her out here as soon as I woke up, which turned out to be closer to the afternoon. My poor old girl.

At the last corner before our place, I see the cute college grad who always does his laundry every other Saturday morning. Trendy wolfcut, probably colored contacts in, and I'm here for the baggy jeans and muscle tee too.

"Hey sweetheart," I say, heaving June up under my arm as we get closer, before she can knock him and his laundry down.

Bisaam looks over, the plastic hamper in his arms lined with cracks and holding neatly folded clothes that I don't look at too closely, out of decency. "Jazz, June. You both still out in ninety degree weather?"

"Is it ninety? I better get inside then." I hesitate, and June wriggles, drool rolling down my forearm. "Do uh, do you want a new hamper? They had a sale at Marshall's, I got an extra."

"A new- oh nah, I'm good! This one will last for a bit, I got a habit of running all my stuff into the ground anyways."

"Yeah?" I can't stop the smile on my face, and he can't stop the body of his laundry basket from cracking under the pressure of expectations and departing from the handles he's holding. The stack of clothes remains inside as it hits the ground, but the whole thing starts teetering over until he stops it, flinging the defeated handles to the sidewalk in the process.

"Aw fuck," he murmurs, looking mournfully down at his basket, then up at me, squinting in the sun.

"...I'll be right back with that hamper," I laugh.

A while later he walks me to my door, his new basket with his clothes hastily stacked inside waiting in front of his own apartment. June waddles beside me, sometimes stopping to scratch herself, and I wonder about whether I should make another appointment to get her a steroid shot again while we talk about nothing in particular.

"So, Jazz," Bisaam says when we reach my door.

"Hmm?"

"I was wondering," and on this line I look over at him, opening my door for June to walk herself in- "when you'd let me take you out. I think we'd have fun together."

Ohhhh. Okay. And "Oh," I say. "Well, about eight years and a Wednesday ago, I woulda taken you up on that."

Bisaam laughs. "What, I'm too young? Age is more than a number?"

"Yes it is, baby boy," I smile. "And you should entertain somebody who lives farther away, as well."

"Doesn't look like a bad idea to me. But, if you change your mind, here I am, twenty feet away."

I grin up at him. "Bye sweetheart.".

Inside, I throw my keys on the counter. Then I grab them and place them on the hook by the door so I don't lose them in plain sight for the thousandth time. When my phone rings, I don't hesitate to pick it up, and I groan silently as I realize too late that it's work.

"Jazzy, real quick, where's the notes from our last staff meeting?" No greeting.

"In your inbox, sir, I sent them right after we dismissed." I shouldn't be taking work calls, especially for stuff as easily solved as this. I make a mental note to pay more attention to caller ID.

"I don't see it."

"I can double check right now for you, give me one second." Damn it Jazz, you could just direct him to look in his spam folder or something. You are not a salaried employee for him to be calling on the weekend. I open up my email app anyway, click over to my work account. Maybe I should take my work email off of my phone. "2:38pm on Friday?"

"Nope."

I refrain from sighing. He apparently has very good ears. "How about your spam or junk folder? Or maybe already in your 'read' emails?"

"I've checked, Jazzy, geez, how old do you think I am?"

I snort. "Same age as me, sir, but I can resend them, just give me a moment."

He laughs and I hear papers shuffle. "Sure. What, are you an old soul like all these 20-something vinyl record store owners keep saying?"

I lean my hip against my counter, putting him on speaker while I search for the document. "Sir, you are 36, correct?"

"Last time I checked."

"So am I."

"No you're not."

I raise my eyebrows. "Alright then, I'm not."

"Jazzy you look fresh out of university, we can't be the same age."

"No, I look like a regular 36 year old who doesn't have to deal with the stress of running a studio with 97 employees, unlike some people I know."

A chair creaks; I'm assuming he's leaning back. "Uncalled for."

"Probably. I've sent the document, it should be in your inbox in a few seconds."

"Just got it. And hey, Jazzy, thank you for picking up on the weekend, I know it's your personal time. For bar hopping, your part-time job, whatever it is you young people do these days."

"Sir you just have to look at my job application on file for my date of birth, I don't know how it got past you."

"Well stop calling me sir, it makes no sense now." I imagine him rubbing his hand across his face. He still has energy in his face and actually looks his age as well, but the stress of this job is probably going to make him age like cow milk.

"Uh. I'll try." I won't, but I don't say that. Don't need to strike up another debate when I've already been on this work-related call for far too long.

"Have a good weekend, Jazzy."

"You too."

...

Another month and another conference, this one farther away than the last, in a hot and swampy Florida resort. I can't wait until this fucking season is over. I can't wait until Lamar gets off of fucking paternity leave. I can't wait to get out of the fucking car.

"At least we've got separate rooms this week," Vasquez sighs. "Although, because I can't keep an eye on you this time, keep the unprofessionalism to a minimum, Jazzy," he drolls.

I huff from the passenger seat in the rental car. "I'll try, sir."

He laughs for a second, and I smile. He stops at a light and turns to me. "Although, you are the best assistant I've had here, I've gotta admit. We're going on four months now, right?"

I look at my watch. "Yeah, to the day actually." The time really has flown, although I don't think I can stay in this job as long as I did the last one. Eight years of people underestimating and disrespecting me while I run around after this man sounds like hell on earth.

"Well, happy four-month anniversary, Jazzy."

"To you too, sir."

He nods, gruffly, like a contented old man. I can imagine him now, seventy with thick gray hair thinning at the temples. He doesn't seem like the type to go bald. Hemming and hawing over some plot of earth around his ranch-style house. It makes me smile.

"Why are you always doing that smug little grin? You know something I don't?"

I know the boss should keep his eyes on the road, but in the effort to keep professionalism at the forefront, I don't say exactly that.

"No, sir, just uh, thinking about the week ahead."

"Bullshit, Jazzy."

"Yes it is, sir."

He laughs as we pull up to the hotel. I grab my bag and purse, and he gets his duffel bag, which is looking considerably less stressed with its contents than our last trip. He notices me looking. "Not that it matters, but I put more effort into packing this time," he informs me.

"Congratulations, sir." A little bit of sarcasm seeps through.

He looks at me speculatively as we pass through the doors. "You said that like you were asking if I want a gold sticker for being the best behaved kid in class." And he slides his bag over his shoulder, handing his keys to the valet who appears at his shoulder like a phantom. "Sometimes I wish you would just make whatever smartass comment you have behind that smile, Jazzy, it's killing me."

"Sounds like a 'you' problem, sir, I'm keeping the unprofessionalism to a minimum this week."

He laughs loud next to me, and a large pale man at the front desk turns his head, then his entire body. "Vasquez! How you doing, you son of a bitch?"

"Billy motherfucking Farrow, everything was going good until I saw you!" The two men clasp hands, and I let my suitcase rest on the floor, taking my clipboard from under my arm. Sounds like a regular conversation, but they schedule entire conference days based off of these little introductory meet and greets.

"I'll bet, with my last PA hounding yours the way he did! Is this the little lady?" Little lady? "I'm so sorry about that man, Ms. Lowe, I try to nip that kind of thing in the bud but some of the creeps get through. You finding yourself alright?"

A customer service smile to address the crowd, Jazz. "Yes sir, and thank you so much for the kind words. I'm quite pleased with the way everything was handled."