In Good Hands

“Charlie!,” Anna called out. “Can you come here?”

You walked hastily, each step of your snappy leather soles clicking against the tile. You relished in how it echoed in the corridors: clack, clack, clack. You threw your foot down with purpose in every step, just so your footsteps could be heard.

You didn’t do it for Anna. You did it for you and your loathing.

“Purpose” goes out of the window when Anna calls for you. Because the one job you are paid to do — to make sure no harm comes to “daddy’s little girl” or some shit — is the least of your daily routine.

Your shoes click right outside Anna’s door. You make a sharp, decisively grumped exhale, and open the door with the restraint of grenade pin.

“Yes, ma’am,” you replied.

“Can you pick up my dinner delivery at the ground floor?,” said Anna, eyes still focused and flitting between her desktop screens.

“Right away, ma’am.”

You closed the door with the same restraint, and marched your way to the elevator. And when its metal doors clunked shut, you let out a guttural, exasperated groan. It shook the walls of the metal box, and felt like every expelled ounce of frustration clung to its stainless aluminum walls.

30, 29, 28. The floors whizzed by as your ears popped. Your shoulders loosened up, you stretched your neck. You felt a weight on your chest left behind back at floor 16, 15, 14. You held your breath at 3, 2, 1.

When the elevator dinged at the ground floor, you smiled. “Fancy seeing you here,” the concierge girl winked at you. You pumped your eyebrows at her, beaming with energy.

You waved hi to a janitor. A young lady dropped a pen, and you grabbed it for her before she could balance the tray of coffee in her other hand. This was your element: the people that made this soulless machine churn day in and day out.

And when you got to the door, you were greeted by a greater, bigger smile.

“Hey,” the boy raised his hand, calling you by your real name.

“My brother, good to see you again,” you dapped him up, and bumped shoulders.

“It’s got the usual,” he remarked. “Hey, the restaurant asked to pass on their apologies for the delay. They still had to rush buy some cod for her order or something.”

“I’ll try,” you chuckled, giving him a brief hug. “Hey, I’ll see you around okay? Thanks again.”

You waved past the concierge again, snuck into a service elevator at the back, and enjoyed as the creaky, rumbling hunk-of-junk took double the time to struggle its way up.

And then, the joy left your face.

Anna was not a horrible boss. The five other guys in her security detail — evidently, Alpha, Bravo, Delta, Echo, and Foxtrot — would harp on you continuing to defend that hill. Her actual secretary, Louise, only now signing away at her third ream of documentation, might scream at you for remarking such insensitivities. But really, she wasn’t as nightmarish as your collective grumblings would communicate at a glance.

What Anna was was ruthless. Late report from a regional manager? Leadership transition plan due by the end of the month. Coffee stain on a financial report from sales? Espresso machine replaced with traditional plastic coffee pot. Her punishment may be calculatedly gentle, but a hammer is a hammer whether it’s made of steel or rubber, and Anna put it down at the drop of a feather. And being the young, lowkey nepotistic CEO she was, it wasn’t any doubt she commanded both fear and resentment.

While you yourself feared her wrath, the pressure was most frustrating on you because you were, of the six of you, assigned to “tail” Anna. Originally you six were on rotation, but at her request you were assigned to her alone. Her reason? “Charlie” was most human and easiest to remember after Alpha tried introducing himself with his hard-to-pronounce Turkish name. 

That meant you were her errands boy. Not her secretary Louise, busy at her own clerical work, not any of the maids she had in her gigantic suite unit, but you. Food deliveries, purchases, short courier work — at least she had sense not to make you do things that kept you away for long, but these things are never included in a job order in the first place.

So no, Anna was not a terror. But she was so closed off to compromise she might have done a better job as an immigration officer. Lo and behold, daddy’s media enterprise needed new top-level management, and she was its new monarch. Here you were.

You knocked on the door and brought in the plastic bag to her office, dropping it at the tiny round table in the corner and preparing it for her to eat.

She typed away, still looking left, then right, then left at her desktop. Clicking, clacking, and nothing else filled the room.

“You may leave, Charlie,” she replied coldly.

“Ma’am, your—”

“I’m not hungry right now. They took so long I’ve lost my appetite,” she continued. “Whose fault was it? Was it the delivery boy?”

“No. The restaurant extended their apologies.”

“Louise,” she clicked on an intercom, “please look for new seafood restaurants nearby, 20 minutes away max. We’re blacklisting this one.”

She clicked a few more times on her computer, and then a bit more, then stood up to move to the table. When she sat down and took her first bite, you could feel the weight on her shoulders slam into the floor below yours.

Anna was ruthlessly demanding, and frustratingly stubborn, but a child of complacency she was not. She worked hard, perhaps a bit too hard in her own eyes that everyone was obligated to work as hard as her. The only ill of her manners was her uncaring bluntness, and that you were on its receiving end nine requests out of ten.

“You may leave, Charlie,” she urged, more annoyance her voice and fish in her mouth.

You left immediately, stood outside the door, and sighed.

Just another day at the office.

“But dad, I have that week-long coverage with the Asia-Pacific office in Singapore,” she whined.

“And last I checked, Singapore’s crime rate was lower than Johannesburg,” the older man replied sternly. “Look, you can survive a week in Singapore with… who was it? Charlie? Because we really need the rest of your detail.”

“Please, dad, at least one more,” she begged.

“Anna, we’re speaking about me and your mother,” he emphasized. “I won’t take any further comments on this. Good luck in Singapore, okay? You’ll do great.”

“I know I will,” she scoffed, “but if I get mugged, it’s on you, dad.”

“Anna, don’t—”

A beep and an angry click. Anna threw the landline phone down with a thud, and groaned into her hands. And you stood there, quietly processing just how fucked you were.

Solo detail for Anna? Again, not a nightmare, but an inconvenience of inconceivable proportions. She was right: Singapore may have its iron fist laws, but Singapore was statistically more densely populated. Foreseeable crime is a lot easier to handle than unpredictable crowds.

But the real risk here was Anna herself. Part of the uncompromising attitude was a refusal to blend in. Louboutin shoes, Maison Margiela perfume, Issey Miyake bags — her insistence on aesthetic meant she practically waved around a flag that read out “old money” across its field.

And on commerce-heavy trips like these, Anna’s shopping runs were unbearable. Add that all together and this was going to be the hardest job you’ve done in her name — again, not for her.

She rested her head on the table, quietly taking it in with you, stood with your back to her door. You were stuck there since you walked in the conversation.

“What do you want, Charlie?,” Anna groaned.

“Nothing, ma’am.”

“Then get out,” she sighed, softly throwing in a “please” at the end.