One Cocky Mistake

CHARLEE

There’ve been moments in my life when I’ve wished too hard for the floor to grow a crater and swallow me in one swift gulp, since it’s probably safer and less humiliating below surface level.

Today, I wished harder than ever.

Harder than that time in high school when Ken Williams told everyone I’d let him fondle my boobs in the music room and they were rock-hard, like big stones. We’d only just bumped into each other and his arm briefly grazed my chest, and that bastard knew my boobs were cushy soft.

Today, stinging tears scald the back of my eyes as I storm out of the Bridges, Inc. general meeting room, silently willing my legs to walk faster to the bathroom. People have already seen me disgrace myself today. There’s no need for anyone to see me bawling like a heartbroken cat in the hallway.

It’s my first day on the job and I’ve already blown it.

Why did I ever send that application in the first place? What on earth made me think I could deliver in such a high-tension environment? This place gives me vibes like a military head office–just a lot fancier since everything, including the golden door knobs, cost more than my entire net worth.

When I first arrived at the offices this morning, still reeling from the opulence of the architecture, I’d barely settled into my cubicle at the marketing general office before the manager walked up to me. Brief greetings exchanged, he handed me my first task. To create and upload a social media advertising campaign for one of their top clients. I was instantly given access to the Bridges, Inc. Instagram account and he left me with no further instructions.

It took a while but I finally got the hang of it and I was actually impressed with my work. The campaign sounded really good to me. I was still adding final touches when everyone in the general room started getting up from their desks, folding papers and clipping files like clockwork.

The manager turned to me. “Charlee, you’re up in ten minutes. Your campaign will be presented first. Mr. Bridges himself will be there, so brace up.”

My anxiety shot through the roof. Mr. Bridges? Bryce Bridges himself? I suddenly got a really bad feeling about everything.

Within the next half-hour, Mr. Bridges yelled at me and asked the manager of my division how they could have hired someone so green. He was a massively tall man, physically fit for his age, and his voice bellowed like an analog speaker. Apparently, I created the campaign with information that was supposed to be used in next week’s campaign, not today. I’d been looking at the wrong column. It didn’t matter that I did a great job with the post and infographic. I wasn’t commended for great expression and convincing communication. All they saw was that I couldn’t read dates correctly and had wasted their time.

I’ve dreamed for so long of leading my own marketing team, being head of a division, and someday, running my own advertising company. It’s amazing how you can convince thousands of people to trust your business with mere visual aids.

How am I supposed to gain experience and achieve my dreams if I’m not even allowed a little room for mistakes? No one ever gives newbies a chance, and somehow, we are expected to come fully formed.

I fled once we were dismissed, and now, I’m almost at the bathroom, swiping at the tears that are already flowing. A whimper of shock escapes from my throat at the sight of the empty space. It’s immaculately clean with the brightest white marble I’ve ever seen and hints of polished gold, and it makes me feel even smaller and more unworthy.