I stood in the pool house kitchen for a few minutes relishing the quiet and relieved at not having set myself on fire. Yes, carrying a lit grill was very stupid, but I was desperate for something—anything—to go right that day. And I just wanted one less problem to worry about.
‘…you must pull this together…’
After a minute or so, I walked out of the pool house aimed forthe house. Mrs. K. appeared and matched my bustle until she said “young man!”, which made me stop.
“Young man!” she repeated herself. “How do you expect to feed this many people on that small grill?! Did you not take that into account?”
And then she added emphatically, “you must pull this together; you need to get this under control!”
Fortunately, one of the guests—an employee of the Foundation—overheard her, walked over to us and said, “we’ll make it work. We came expecting something very casual. We’ll be fine.”
Finally, a little relief. I remember noticing the sun had begun to set, so it must have been between 7:30 and 8 p.m.
‘I am not your man.’
By about 10 p.m. the guests had left and Mrs. K. began wrapping up her day.
She had gone into the kitchen to thank the cook for another day of great meals and to thank the remaining maid for a good day of work. I was running around tidying things up delaying the thing I had anxiously anticipated and had rehearsed repeatedly in my head since leaving the message for Lynden hours earlier: to quit.
But I was nervous. Very, very nervous.
As she mounted the stairs I steeled myself. “If you don’t do it now,” I said to myself, “you have to come back tomorrow.” So I met her at the bottom of the stairs.
“Ironic,” I thought. “It ends where it began just 14 hours ago.”
She started to say something, but I interrupted her knowing that if she had the first word, I would lose my nerve.
“Mrs. K.,” I said, “I am incredibly honored that you saw enough experience and talent in me to be your personal assistant. I do not believe—even remotely—that I lived up to that expectation today and I truly believe that I would not be doing you a service by continuing in this position. I am not your man.”
She looked directly in to my eyes and paused for a brief moment.
“Oh no,” she said, “you just had a rough day. Come in a little late tomorrow. It’ll be fine, Brett.”
And with that, she turned around, walked up the stairs and retired to her bedroom.
I Can’t Even Quit Right
Flumboozled.
That’s the only accurate way to describe my reaction: an invented (by me!) compound word combining flummoxed and bamboozled.
Most likely with my mouth hanging open, I watched her walk up the stairs. This day had been an unmitigated disaster. I had done nothing right. And even this—even quitting—I couldn’t do correctly.
“Okay,” I sighed to the empty dining room. “At least I get to go home now.”
And with that, I walked through the kitchen, thanked the cook, said good night, walked to my car and began my drive home.
It was about 10:30 p.m.