other personal assistants on the floor. Brenda, for
example, liked to brag how her boss, Rhonda, spent most
of her time traveling and she barely had to deal with her.
She also liked to brag that she'd worked for Kely Printing
longer than that Jenny-come-lately Rhonda anyways, and
knew what she was doing, so why should she have to run
everything by someone else when she could get her work
done faster and better without interference?
I never told Brenda I found Paul's constant supervision
more comforting than annoying. After al, if he never
alowed me the autonomy to make decisions, I couldn't
exactly be held accountable for anything that went wrong.
Right? Even when Paul did his share of traveling, he never
left without making me a sheaf of notes and lists…lists.
I thought of the cards I'd found. Two, now. Two
misdelivered notes with explicit, mysterious (to me)
instructions. I could stil feel the sleek paper under my
fingertips. I regretted not taking the time to smel the ink.
fingertips. I regretted not taking the time to smel the ink.
With the coffee set to brewing, I turned to face Paul.
'Anything else?'
'Not right now, thanks.' Paul smiled and disappeared
back into his inner sanctum, leaving me with the cheery
burble of the coffeepot and a bunch of files to herd.
This is what I knew about Paul Johnson, my boss. He had
a chubby, pretty wife named Melissa who sometimes
forgot to pick up his dry cleaning on time and two
teenagers too busy with wholesome activities like sports
and youth group to get into trouble. I knew that because
I'd seen their photos and overheard his telephone
conversations. He had an older brother, the unfortunately
named Peter Johnson, with whom he played golf several
times a year but not often enough to be good. I knew that
because he'd asked me to make a reservation for him at
one of the local golf courses and to cal his brother to
confirm the date. The request was slightly out of the realm
of my professional duties, but I'd done it anyway. I also
knew Paul was forty-seven years old, had earned his
MBA from Wharton, attended church on Sundays with his
family and drove a black, but not brand-new, Mercedes
Benz.
Benz.
Those were things I knew.
This is what I thought about Paul Johnson, my boss. He
wasn't a tyrant. Just precise. He held himself to the same
level of perfection he expected from an assistant, and I
appreciated that. He could be funny, though not often, and
usualy unexpectedly. He gave every project his ful
attention and effort because it pained him to do anything
