Lizzie
Looking back, maybe I should've noticed the red flags.
The unusually large sign—on bonus, for example—payable only after I lasted thirty days on the job.
Who can't last in a job for thirty days? That was my thought when I applied for this position.
And then there were the strange looks my co—workers would give me when I went around introducing myself as Vossameer Inc.'s new social media manager. "I'm here to jazz up our online image," I'd explain.
In the elevator, on the communications floor, down in the sleek and elegant lobby, just these strange looks. Uncertain smiles. One woman's mouth formed into an alarmed "o" before she introduced herself back to me.
At first I chalked it up to company—wide cluelessness about social media. After all, Vossameer didn't even have a Facebook page when I started three weeks ago.
But now as I watch my boss Sasha fret and frown over the PowerPoint report I created to show how perfectly I nailed my assignment, I'm starting to think a little bit harder about those red flags.
She clicks to a page that shows examples of my successful, industry—appropriate posts and a graph of my stunning engagement numbers.
She sucks in a breath. Winces.
What?
Trust me, Facebook engagement was no easy feat; Vossameer's most exciting product is hemostatic gel for use in traumatic wound—care situations.
Another wince. A frown.
Was I the clueless one all along? Was I misreading the looks I was getting from my new co—workers?
Am I like the traveler in Transylvania who excitedly tells all the villagers about finding an awesome free castle to stay in? OMG, I have the whole place to myself because the owner only comes out at night. Isn't that wonderful? Score! High five!
I hold my breath as she clicks from page to page.
Sasha has a severe blonde bob, a love of nautical—looking outfits, and a Cruella De Vil makeup style, though to be fair, it might be a poorly lit home mirror.
"Mmm…" she says finally. And it's not a yum type of mmm. It's an uh—oh type of mmmm.
"Is there a problem?" I ask.
She just shakes her head. As though the problem goes beyond words. Like she asked for an interim report and I gave her a handful of peanut shells with the salt licked off.
She clicks to another graph of positive results and again she furrows her dark and dramatically arched brows—I see it in the reflection on the screen.
"The engagement numbers are already better than most of Vossameer's peers," I point out.
Crickets.
Actually, not even crickets. "Crickets" suggests little beings are happily chirping away in a field. What I hear is more like the silent gloom of stones in a forgotten parking lot.
She clicks to the next page. My website mock—up.
"You wanted our site to come up on the first page on Google," I remind her. "Now it does, but we'll do even better once the new site is up. I think people will stay longer."
Trust me, that's a nice way of putting it. The current Vossameer site looks like it was made by depressed robots in 1998.
Of course, when you're Vossameer, a billion—dollar unicorn of a company, you don't need a nice site. Vossameer could have no site at all, and giant health groups would still pay zillions of dollars for their lifesaving medical gel.
But now they're trying to partner with some high—profile charitable foundation—Locke Foundation, part of Locke Construction.
So they have to look shiny online.
Which is why they hired me. That was my assignment.
When you search Vossameer, the top hit is a Forbes article on mysterious CEO Theo Drummond that can be summed up in eight words: he's an asshole, but his products save lives.
And it's not the only one. Tons of articles paint Mr. Drummond as a reclusive genius. A gruff misanthrope. A surly asshole.
I've never met the notorious Mr. Drummond, but the asshole thing is not hard to believe. The evidence is all around.
The employees here are fearful, as though they're expecting to be fired at any moment, or maybe beheaded. The environment is sleek gray marble and steel, like an elegant and slightly futuristic prison. No outside decorations are allowed, not even in the deepest recesses of your cubicle.
Even the outside of the building is unforgiving—a mod gray concrete bunker with rectangular windows arranged in straight rows. A study in harsh geometry.
Mr. Drummond doesn't like decorations, Sasha told me once. Vossameer is about lifesaving solutions, not party streamers.
I'd brought a giant tub of home—baked frosted cookies to share my second day, and people nearly fell out of their chairs. It turns out we can't bring treats to share. Ever.
This is a workplace, not a potluck, Sasha said.
I've gotten good at sensing the assholey DNA of Mr. Drummond's statements, and I'm pretty sure that was one of them. Same with the party streamers comment. It's something about the sheer jerkiness of it, and also, how Sasha changes her voice to sound breathless and intense.
Everyone here is obsessed with Mr. Drummond. They seem to regard him the way the ancients regarded the gods that controlled the weather and plagues. Angry and vengeful, yet glorious. Never to be spoken ill of.
Also, nobody talks about Mr. Drummond without using the word "amazing" at least once. Maybe that's in the employee manual somewhere.
Sasha's obsession goes way further—more into awestruck love territory.
She speaks his name like she's whispering hallowed secrets to the Greek oracles atop Mount Olympus—Mr. Drummond this, Mr. Drummond that. Amazing Mr. Drummond.
"Mr. Drummond is not the most sociable person in the world," Sasha breathlessly informed me the day I started. "He has extremely high standards—for himself and for his employees—but his amazing breakthroughs save lives every day. The work we do to support him makes that possible." And then she'd looked me deeply in the eyes and said, This is the most important job you'll ever have.
I'd just nodded while making a mental note to stay away from any brightly colored liquid.
I cross my arms. Wait for Sasha to click on through my doomed PowerPoint.
"On the next page are the website hits that come from Facebook," I say nervously.
Sasha doesn't want to see the next page. She levels a long red fingernail at the screen, like a blood—red rocket, and taps on the image of an old man holding hands with a baby. She then taps the faces of happy newlyweds. "Why am I seeing these people?"
"Well, our marketing materials tend to concentrate on the medical effects of our hemostatic gel, but that's not what we're selling, is it?" I say. "We're selling more time with loved ones. We're selling health providers the ability to grant more time to wounded patients. That's our true product."
She actually cranes her head around and looks up at me, like I'm saying something really radical. And not Marketing 101.
"Look at any hospital or pharma website," I continue. "Right now, let's go look. You'll see pictures of happy people living life together. "
Sasha pulls out her phone and enters the name of a large local hospital. Does she not believe me? I'm hugely relieved to see an image of a woman leaping in the air, trailing a silky scarf behind her.
Sasha looked surprised.
This place.
That jerk Mr. Drummond runs these people so hard, they have no life. Poor Sasha seems to be up to her neck in press releases and case studies. But seriously, do they not watch TV? Do they not mess around online?
"After all," I say, "it's not as if hospitals are going to fill their sites with pictures of bloody scalpels and ugly surgical scars. Right?" I try a smile.
Sasha doesn't.
She's back at my PowerPoint. A family at a picnic. Old people doing a puzzle. At one point, she sucks in a breath, like the images literally agonize her. "Mr. Drummond won't like seeing all this," she says in the most ominous tone possible. "He won't like it at all."
As if I've spent my three weeks filling people's drawers with Ping—Pong balls instead of nailing my assignment.
"Why won't he like it?" I hate how small my voice sounds.
She just shakes her head.
"The thing is, my assignment was to modernize and humanize Vossameer's online presence…and people relate to people," I say.
Cue the crushing gloom of stones.
If I were more mercenary, I'd give them the boring site they want and a sad Facebook feed shunned by all. I'd be long gone by the time they realized I screwed them over. But that's not me. I may only be here for the bonus, but I intend to do a good job for them.
"No, you probably have a point. About the people," she says. "It's social media, after all."
"Yeah, right?" I agree hopefully.
"Mr. Drummond does want this foundation partnership. But…" She gestures at a picture of a happy family. Makes a tiny little sound. A tiny little frightened sound.
Does Mr. Drummond just hate happy families? Will he start throwing chairs if he sees a little boy and his grandfather working on a train set?
And if so, why bother to invent lifesaving solutions?
"Welp!" Sasha straightens up. "Who knows, maybe he'll like it." Her tone is weird. Far too bright. "Mr. Drummond sees things we don't, does things for reasons we don't always understand. It's amazing he's as patient with us as he is."
"Sure, okay," I say.
"I'll have you present with me," she says. "We'll head up after lunch."
"Wait—what?" I nearly swallow my tongue.
I'm going up to the top? To the tyrant's lair?
