Penelope:
Timothy was as good as his word. On Monday at work, no orchid came waltzing into my office in the hands of a delivery person. Instead, a very young, probably college boy, bowed to me, and began to sing: “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine . . .”
I’m afraid that totally stopped all work in the office. Everyone poured into my office, wanting to get in on this strange new happening.
I endured the full length of the song, thanked the man, and tried to tip him, but he wouldn’t accept my money. Once more, I heard the refrain, “I’ve already been splendidly tipped for this. Thank you. Goodbye.”
As he left, the ladies all clapped for him, so he took another bow.
Later in the afternoon, my boss asked me to step into his office. I knew exactly what he was going to say. All this work-stopping production due to Timothy’s manipulations needed to stop. I hoped I wouldn’t be fired for it. I’d be happy to promise my boss extra hours, if needed. I absolutely couldn’t afford to lose my job.
Mr. Sanders ordered me to sit down and then began to talk. His face didn’t look angry. In fact he was grinning! I was dumbfounded to hear something entirely different from what I’d imagined.
“I have decided that due to your excellent work,” my boss said, then went on to describe several accounts I’d worked on in the last few weeks. Because of that, I am giving you a raise. It is long overdue, and you deserve it.”
I was too stupefied to say much other than thank you, but as I left his office, the beating of my heart slowed down from its riotous terror about getting fired. Mr. Sanders hadn’t even mentioned the orchids and the singing. I breathed a sigh of relief, letting out the tension. Then, I began to smile.
In fact, I felt like doing the old kick in the air of great joy. I might have done so if I weren’t still in the office with a bunch of people working. (And, besides, I knew that if I tried to do such a bizarre stunt, I’d fall flat on my butt.) But I’m sure there was a new lightness to my step, or maybe it was the sudden buoyancy my body felt. I was almost sure I could fly.
When I met Timothy for dinner that night — where I paid — and berated him (softly) for the singing of Sunshine, or whatever the old piece was called, I explained. “It was really, really sweet, Timothy, but I thought it was going to get me fired. I can’t get fired. I need that job,” I told him.
“No more singing,” he agreed, sighing with a bit of a shady smile.