Dat Coffee

This was actually a writing assignment I had to do for one of my classes. Sorry if it's kind of blunt and boring >.< The instructions were to write about gender role switches...

“Marcel, get me my coffee.” I bark into the phone. I wait a few seconds for it, then I pick up the phone again, “I said, get me my coffee!” I demand; louder this time.

“Yes, ma’am,” my PA squeaks back. I clamp it down into the receiver and resume my work. Lately, the Grey Publishing Company has been flooded with new submissions. I just can’t seem to read them quickly enough. I ruffle through the latest pile of manuscripts and frown. I can already tell from the titles that they’re boring. Just to make sure, I scan through a few random synopses. These are terrible! I can’t publish this crap.

There’s a knock at the door. “Your coffee, ma’am,” says Marcel. I ignore him. He knows what to do with it. I vaguely notice him set it down on my desk on top of my favorite coffee coaster. “Will you be needing anything else, ma’am?”

“Mhm…” I murmur absently while typing into my computer. The sound of my fingers slamming into the keyboard is all you can hear as Marcel waits patiently for me. 

“Will that be it for you, ma’am?” he repeats tentatively.

“NO,” I stop typing and glare at him. “First of all, why is there a pile of crap sitting on my desk?” I stare him down impassively. 

“Sorry?” he asks, cocking his head to the side.

“I said,” I huff angrily, do I always have to repeat myself? 

“Why is there a PILE OF CRAPPY MANUSCRIPTS SITTING ON MY DESK?” I bellow. He was really starting to tick me off. The only reason why I haven’t fired him yet is because I know no one else is going to take the job. I am fully well aware of how commanding I can be at times, but it’s all part of the job description. I’m not paying these people just so I can be nice to them. They need to learn how to grow up; especially men. They’re hopeless.

Marcel is saying something, “…not that bad. I’ve read through them at least a hundred times and I can see that there’s talent in these�'”

“Marcel,” I interrupt him. “I don’t care if the authors have talent. These manuscripts are one of the worst ones I’ve ever read and I feel as if I have wasted my precious time.” I narrow my eyes at him.

“I-I understand,” he stutters. “I’ll get rid of them immediately.” He practically bows his head as he grabs the pile of rubbish and quickly backs out of my office. I don’t wait for him to leave as I continue with my work. 

After an hour of answering important emails, I couldn’t help but notice that they were all sent by female CEOs from various companies. I almost laugh to myself. Even the world naturally agrees with me about women being better than men. 

I glance at the clock. It’s time for my lunch break. As I head out of my office I notice that Marcel’s head is bent low, so I peek over the wall of his cubicle. I can’t believe it. He’s texting! On the job too! 

“Hello Marcel, how are my new manuscripts coming along? Oh wait, you’re texting! You couldn’t possibly know.” I dart my eyes to his phone and then back to his face, frowning. 

The words are out of his mouth before he knows it, “I was letting my girlfriend know that I’m going to be here late because of work,” he’s talking very fast at this point, “But she’s angry that I have been staying at work late every day lately and she’s asking if I’m seeing another woman and I said no but she doesn’t believe me and now she’s going to come over here to check and if I’m not telling the truth then she’s going to yell�'”

“Enough. I don’t care what the reason is. Just get off your phone or I’m trashing it.” I take a sip of my coffee. It tastes horrible. “And get me a new coffee, this one is disgusting.” On that note, I march away on my heels and have my lunch break. 

On the way back to the office I can hear someone yelling. “…YOU’RE THE ONLY GUY ON THIS FLOOR?” a woman shouts. “WHY ARE THERE SO MANY WOMEN ANYWAY? ARE YOU CHEATING ON ME? ANSWER ME YOU FOOL.” 

I step into the office and study my surroundings. There’s an unfamiliar woman in an expensive looking business suit yelling at Marcel. That must be his girlfriend. I casually approach her from behind and say in a level voice,

“Excuse me. You are disrupting the work environment. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” 

“And who are you?” she sneers. 

I gesture toward Marcel, “His boss. And if you don’t leave, I might have to fire him.” 

The woman crosses her arms and faces me, “So you’re the reason why he’s staying here so late all the time�'”

I hold a finger to silence her and say, “No. The reason why he’s staying here so late is because he can’t do his job right and I make him work over time to fix his mistakes. So as you can see, he’s in a very tight situation here.” I glance at Marcel. He looks like he’s about to cry. His girlfriend’s jaw drops. 

“Go ahead and fire him,” she responds after recovering herself. “I have a better job anyways, and I get paid so much more�'”

“No one cares. Now, enough is enough, please leave now or I’ll call security. You’re wasting my precious time.” I watch her coolly and stare her down. She blinks once at me; then storms out of the building. “Marcel.” He straightens up. “Get me some coffee.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he responds and hastily goes to fetch it. I hide a smile. Yes, this is how it it’s supposed to be: men are like dogs, and they’re meant to be slaves.