Page 4 of Man Flu

“I’ve never heard of a school nurse who can’t just put a Band-Aid on a paper cut or a hangnail!” I’m sure I came home from school with an ice pack after I broke my arm on the playground, and my parents had no clue what was going on until I told them. Now, this is the norm?

“When Caty was around that age, we got the same thing. Every single day. It’s like once the kids figure out they can just leave class and take a little break for a bit, they’ll find anything on their body that needs a Band-Aid and milk it for all its worth.”

I close my eyes and shake the frustration away. “I should just switch the phone number on record to Rick’s number, but then I’d be afraid something would actually be wrong with her and … well, it’s Rick, so …”

“Yeah, you might feel better keeping that control. Plus, you’d start to miss those sweet little calls,” he says. I’m not sure about that, but I suppose he’s right. I cannot trust Rick with that crap.

“So, your new temp is starting today?” he says.

“Yes, he is.”

“Good, good. Hopefully, this one will be better than the last few.”

“I hope so too. I could use the extra hand to prepare for next week’s event.”

“Right, yes, for sure. It’ll probably be good to take the temp with you onsite too if he works out this week.” He smiles and takes a sip of coffee from his “World’s Best Dad” mug.

“I’m not getting my hopes up yet, but we’ll see.” Brett’s one of the only decent men in this office. He’s been a work and life mentor to me since I started ten years ago, except I seem to have fallen off the path he led me on somewhere along the way. He’s got this great marriage to an amazing woman, and three grown kids. I look up to him, hoping I’ll be in his shoes someday, but it seems like I may have to travel to the moon and back before I figure my life out like he has.

I answer a few more emails, and somehow, it’s already ten o’clock. “Hannah,” Brielle pops her head in through the door. “The temp is here. I’m going to go escort him or her up.”

“Thanks, Brielle.”

I have enough work for three temps, but I’ll take what I can get. Granted, this person will likely have no tech or marketing skills because the temp agency despises this company for a reason I’m still unsure of.

During the five minutes Brielle is gone, I manage to buzz through five more emails, all filled with rejections to proposed sales meetings. Why can’t these people try the shit sandwich technique at least? (A shit sandwich is simply the process of layering the negative babble with a compliment at the beginning and the end. Then it’s like nothing bad ever happened.) I swear, I’d respond quicker if they did it that way.

I hear the front door open and close, assuming Brielle is dragging along our newest employee for the week. We’ve gone through a half dozen temps and interns in the past month, so I don’t have much hope for this one. The last woman our agency sent in didn’t know how to “turn on” her email. I kind of just stared at her for a good five minutes before I walked out of her cubicle, but at least I kept myself from asking if she attempted any foreplay. I couldn’t understand why the temp/intern agency would think to send an admin with no technical skills. I did have a little chat with the agency after that, and they promised to send only competent people to me from now on, so I guess we’ll see.

Brielle knocks on my door before walking in, not that she typically does that, but I appreciate her setting a decent example for this person—err—man. I look up from my screen, finding Brielle in the shadow of the new temp. Like, he’s a man’s man. He’s got to be at least six-foot-two, a lot of muscle going on there, salt and pepper scruff, but dark hair that isn’t receding. He has crow’s feet, but he’s working them. He’s not a recent grad. No way. He’s dressed professionally, without fold creases on the sleeves that scream, “I just took this out of a plastic wrapper an hour ago,” and his pants are hemmed to fit perfectly. I’ve been sizing him up for like thirty awkward seconds now, and Brielle is clearing her throat. “Hannah, this is Logan, our new intern,” she says.

Intern? I stand up from my desk, and as I do, a button from my blouse catches on my keyboard drawer and pops off. Shit! I grab my shirt to hide the gaping hole as I reach out to shake Logan’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Logan.”

“You, as well,” he says, politely. Okay then, that is one deep voice. It’s illegal to ask him how old he is, but interns are usually a little younger.

“You’re an intern?” I question.

“Well, if you ask the temp agency, I’m an intern because that’s what they were looking to place with you. In truth, though, I did go back to school for a bit a little over a year ago after I was relieved from my MLB contract because of an injury—and yeah, I don’t want to bore you with my history, but I am technically an intern. However, we can go with temp if it makes you more comfortable, though.”

Baseball player, tight pants, picturing him in them. I’m the boss, stop it. “Awesome, well it’s great to have you. Do you have a resume I can keep on file? The agency didn’t send me one.” Shocking, with how organized they are.

“Sure thing.” He opens his leather folder and pulls out a resume on actual resume paper, which I haven’t seen in about ten years. “I take it you’re proficient with email?” I ask for my personal, snarky reasons, but come on, who can’t open a freaking email in 2017?

He laughs because he thinks I’m funny. I am funny. “Of course. As you’ll see on my resume, I’m proficient with the Microsoft Suite, Adobe Creative Suite, and web development.” Can I just make him a full-time employee now? I’ve never had an intern or temp with these credentials before. For that little fact, I’ll let the agency off the hook for not sending his resume ahead of time. However, they could have sent me a headshot. That would have at least prepared me a little more for this interaction.

“Perfect! Brielle, will you get him set up in the cube outside of my office and have a tech team member come down and set up his email?”

“Of course,” she peeps. Brielle stands back, allowing Logan to pass by her, and she looks over at me with a look of shock.

“What the hell?” I mouth.

“I know, right?” she mouths back. That’s totally inappropriate of me, but he’s inappropriate for looking so good.

As he sits down at his desk, I realize I can see right into his cubicle from my open door. So, it looks like I’ll have to stare at him until the temp agency either steals him back or sells him to me.

I sit back down in my chair, glancing at my shirt bowed open in front of the roll on my stomach—the one I’ve tried so hard to get rid of with the four million crunches I’ve done this past year. I haven’t been able to get rid of the last of the roll, and now it’s taunting me.

Slouching into my chair, I grab the newbie’s resume and hold it in front of me. Major League Baseball player. No way, I’m not buying it.