Today we have the privilege of reading the first page of “PHV.” My critique follows.
"I want out."
I squared my shoulders and said it louder, "I'm finished. I want out of the firm." I repeated it three times.
Silence. Then a loud honk from behind let me know the light had turned green. I hit the gas and made the short sprint to the next stoplight. Usually the downtown traffic made me crazy.
However, today I was in no hurry. Today, I planned on telling my dad that I quit. He and the firm could do their deals without me mopping up after billionaire clients and their obnoxious offspring. I was done being his cleaner.
I made a quick right turn the wrong way into an alley and pulled into a trash strewn vacant lot. The garage attached to our office building had been under construction for three months and I'd made a deal with the owner to park here. So far, all he had charged me was getting a nephew out of a marijuana jackpot. Given the price of parking in Dallas, that was cheap.
Practicing my speech one more time in the side view mirror, I grabbed my briefcase and picked my way through the beer bottles and burger wrappers to a hidden door leading to the garage elevator. I'd already ruined on pair of heels in this mess and had no desire to do it again.
Thankfully, the elevator was still running. The construction supervisor told me that until we were out of dutch with the city, it was technically closed down, but they used it anyway. He'd slipped me a maintenance key. The price? One DUI. Again, to avoid walking around the block to the front door, it was well worth a couple of phone calls. I was used to barter. It's what I did.
The elevator doors slid open at three where my office was located. Since I wasn't on the letterhead at dad's law firm; I insisted on being separate from the sixth floor suite. Plus, I didn't like it up there with the Texas hair and two-thousand dollar boots. I did my best work when I could blend into the background.
To my surprise, the upper floors of the garage were silent. I heard none of the usual jackhammers, concrete saws, and swearing that had greeted me since the building inspector had threatened to condemn the structure. What I did see was the ass end of a black Suburban parked by the landing and I heard voices coming down the stairwell. Something was wrong here. I hadn't seen a non-construction vehicle on my floor in weeks. Ducking under the plastic chain with the "Out of Order" sign dangling from it, I crossed the short hallway to a window overlooking the front of the building.
MY CRITIQUE FOLLOWS