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vivid detail. Yet something always manages to rob me of any satisfaction. Either the alarm goes off to begin another day, or I’m awakened by some noise in the neighborhood or have to get up and relieve my aching bladder—which I’ve played the biggest hand in filling by drinking copious glasses of wine before bed.
Misery breeds a burst of creativity I haven’t seen since college. I write a song or two almost every day, but the misery also brings with it a perpetual foul mood. Our staff begins to call me HBIC or “Head Bitch In Charge” behind my back because they already call Jada “The Bitch.”
Jada and Jorge drum up the nerve to tell me one afternoon.
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Am I that bad?”
They look at me with incredulity.
“Did your homeboy just win reelection?” Jada says, deadpan.
“Well, we’re not running a daycare center,” I say. “This is a business.”
“This is true,” Jorge says. “But you might want to tone down the bitchery, cuz. Some of your employees are... extremely sensitive right now.”
“They don’t know what a bitch-ass boss really is until they’ve worked for some of the scum I worked for before LaPerla.”
Jada gives it to me straight. “Keisha, they’re threatening to jump ship.”
That gets my attention. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah, if things don’t get any better. Look at it from their point of view. They’re used to me being a bitch, but you were the sweet, sensitive, nurturing artist who ‘got them.’  ” She does the air-quote thing, which bugs the shit out of me, and I look to Jorge, who saves me from saying something stupid and offensive to my best friend.
“Now you’ve flipped the script,” Jorge says. “And all they’re getting is double-barreled bitch with no break from the bitchery.”
Damn, it must undoubtedly be true because they’re agreeing for a change. Demonstrating solidarity so strong, all that’s left for them to do is to harmonize their own version of Kumba-fucking-yah.
Jada grabs my cell phone off my desk and hands it to me. “You might want to call Tristan up and—”
“Jada Rachelle Jameson!” I warn.
Jorge finishes her sentence. “—and let him dickmatize you for old time’s sake.”
Jada laughs. “It’ll improve your mood.”
“Word.” Jorge laughs and high-fives Jada.
“Oh, I see what this is,” I say, gesturing between the two of them. “It’s supposed to be some kind of intervention? Well, it’s not working.” I head for the door. “I’ll be in the studio if you either one of you need to have a real business conversation with me.”
As I leave them doubled over with laughter, I slam the door behind me. One of the sales staff witnesses me taking my anger out on the door and scurries back onto the showroom floor.
That settles it. I need to have a staff meeting to apologize for my behavior. I don’t want my staff afraid of me. I need them to feel appreciated so they can be productive. And I certainly don’t need to be scaring any clients away. One thing I’ve always prided myself on is my customer service. It’s something I tried to drum into my father’s hard head, to no avail. If my people-handling skills slip, we can say good-bye to my dream of being the success my father never was.
I stop in front of our receptionist’s desk. “Tracey, have the floor manager get everybody together for a huddle as soon as things slow down in the showroom.”
“Yes, Ms. Beale,” she says and scrambles for the phone. Tracey’s always been relaxed around me, but I get a vibe that even she’s a bit frazzled by my recent mood.
I wait until she’s given my directive to the staff. She looks back up at me tentatively as she sets the phone in its cradle. “Is there something else you need for me to do, Ms. Beale?”
“Yes, just listen for a minute,” I say. “I just want to let you know I’m sorry I’ve been such a witch of a boss the past few weeks.”
Tracey relaxes visibly. “I know you’ve been under a