Assistance

From the moment I walked through the door, he watched me. His eyes fixed on me. He never let me go.

The air left my body and I felt the earth stutter as it came to a halt when our eyes linked together. My world was suspended in time. He held me in his gaze and reality melted. There was no escaping -- I didn't want to. I was already owned.

"Annabelle MacLee?" he asked.

His voice brought the earth back into motion. He said my name with a steady rhythm I had never heard before. I swallowed hard. There should be some kind of warning label when you are about to be interviewed by someone like that. Magnetic, encompassing, and striking. All of this in addition to being good looking.

I gathered my breath and responded,

"Yes, that's me."

It was my best attempt at faux confidence. I'm sure it sounded fine but it felt mousy leaving my lips. I was terrified he would see right through me. I think he already had.

He rose from his seat and crossed to me, gliding across the black carpet. He was dressed well but practical. Dark pants with a simple button down and boots. Everything around him was stylish but practical. Dark floor, sleek grays with accent whites shining in the bright light from the floor to ceiling windows. There were no harsh lights, no fluorescents to be found. Lamps were strategically placed for the days where the sun did not shine, or, I imagined, his workload kept him there well past the sunset.

He stood in front of me. He wasn't tall but he felt larger than life. We were almost eye to eye but he somehow towered over me. I felt small in his presence. He could destroy me if he wanted to. He still had a youthful look about him but his eyes were careworn. His salt and pepepr beard showed the benchmarks of time progressing forward and his head was shaved close to the head. Everything about him screamed control and precision.

Don't be shy, don't be scared. Don't be shy, don't be scared. Exhaling is as important as inhaling. Inhaling is as important as exhaling.

I repeated these phrases over and over and over as he extended his hand out to me. I prayed that my new mantra would help me survive this interview.

"I'm Lawrence Sheffield."

I know. Oh, do I know.

Lawrence Sheffield has a reputation that precedes him. Talented, smart, savvy, and particular. Very particular. To the point of being...explosive. Lawrence Sheffield knew what he wanted, what he was willing to tolerate,and he had no issue making it known. At any volume. But when it came to innovating performance technology, there was no one who could out maneuver him. Video, sound, lights, all of it within his realm of expertise. It became a question of whether the artists were imagining these technical feats for the sake of their art, or to challenge the lengths of Lawrence Sheffield's genius.

He was also notably and incredibly illusive. Never posed for photos and never agreed to an interview, despite being one of the biggest innovators of the industry. There were better pictures of Big Foot to be found than of Lawrence Sheffield. Even the job posting was anonymous. It wasn't until I looked up the interview adress that I realized I would be interviewing with the Lawrence Sheffield.

I shook his hand. I kept my grip firm. I even managed eye contact. I may have even smiled. At least I remembered how to be a baseline professional. That's a start.

"Please, have a seat."

He pointed to the chair in front of his desk as he stepped out of my way. If he hadn't done that, I may have very well just sat down on the floor. It, somehow felt more appropriate.

The office was spacious and naturally well lit with large windows. There was a small seating area with a couch and table. There was a mini-bar set up to make coffee and tea with a mini fridge. His desk was against the back wall, facing the windows.

"Thank you, Mr. Sheffield," I said, walking towards the chair.

"Please," he said, taking a seat across from me,

"Call me Lawrence. No need for formalities."

My new mantra was the only thing keeping my feet on the ground.

As far as interviews went, it was typical. Frighteningly typical. Tell me about Your education. What achievement are you proud of? What is one mistake you regret? I resisted the urge to ask for the next question and answered something vague and diplomatic. Why did you apply for this job?

Lawrence monitored every movement and moment during the interview. His watchful eye learing at me throughout the entire process. I tried not to squirm. Why was there such a compelling urge for me to be on the floor? I felt as if at any minute Lawrence was going to say something to catch me off guard. Something that would manage to make me falter. Or highlight my uneasiness.

Lawrence leaned back in his chair. He bounced a bit. He was focused on me. Silent. He crossed his arms across his chest before wiping his mouth with his hand. I could hear his fingertips scratch against the bristle of his beard. He looked at my CV on his desk in front of him. He did not lean forward. I'm not even sure if he could read the words on the page, but still he stared. If he was quiet for one more moment I thought I was going to leap through the ceiling. At least I would give him a skylight for his office.

"This is a largely thoughtless position," he finally began,

"I just need someone who is organized. Someone who can take monotonous tasks off my plate."

He stopped. I knew the job description. It was the reason I applied. I had no way of knowing who he is or what I would be assisting with.

"But you have, let's see here,"

Lawrence leaned forward and picked up my CV,,

"Have three degrees, two of which you earned simultaneously. That's about, well, three degrees too many just to be a personal assistant. Why would someone with your,"

he paused again to look into my eyes.

I was captured, pinned by the power of his mind alone. I waited with desperation for Lawrence to finish his statement. With a sharp inhale, he continued,

"Potential, be interested in a menial position like this?"

Because the idea of one more complex thought makes me want to jump out the window.

Because I've been so depressed in the months since completing those degrees that the idea of just organizing files sounds like salvation.

Because I fucked up so bad at my last job that I'm lucky I didn't jump off a bridge.

All true reasons. None of which I couldn't say.

"Respectfully," I mustered up the strength to speak,

"I have spent the past several years obtaining those degrees. All while working. A somewhat menial job is what I need."

Lawrence shifted. Almost uncomfortably. His gaze burned into me, devouring me. Shit. Did I fuck this up too?

"Fair enough." he said finally.

I felt something in my chest release. It was as if I had somehow passed a gauntlet -- but I knew I wasn't out of the labyrinth yet.

"I want to do a paid test period. See how this works between us. Does two weeks seem fair to you?"

He was asking for my opinion? In my own hiring process? I wasn't aware that was something anyone would do.

"Uhm, yeah that's, yeah that's fair."

"For that period, though, I would not be paying you what your salary would be."

"Understandable."

I was shocked at how freely the word flowed out of my mouth -- considering I spent most of the interview reminding myself how to breathe.

"Yes," Lawrence stated. I think he was as taken aback, maybe even confused, as I was.

"You start on Monday. Be here at 11 AM."

That was surprisingly efficient. Easy. What if it was too easy?

"Thank you, Mr. Sheffield," I said out of polite habit as we rose to shake hands again.

Lawrence's handshake was firmer this time. He seemed to catch himself from stepping closer. He held my hand longer than customary. When I tried to retreat, he tightened his grip,

"Ms. MacLee, I have instructed you to call me Lawrence."

He gave in and stepped closer. Again, I felt two feet tall. Pinned under his presence, my hand still enveloped in his. With a gruff whisper, Lawrence finished,

"Do not make me correct you again."

****************************************************

Over the two week trial period, we eased into a rhythm. We gelled well. I followed his lead mostly -- a rarity for me. I had been independent since I could remember and that carried over into my professional life. I was not unfamiliar with making executive decisions for the greater good. But this was new territory.

Lawrence would check on me from his periphery. I could feel him in the other room. His essence pierced walls. His aura permeated the room. There were times I could sense him lurking around corners, monitoring me. Sometimes, I would avoid eye contact out of fear. Holding eye contact could relinquish control I could not afford to lose.

There were times he would walk by with my great briskness but seemingly no purpose. I sometimes wondered, or maybe yearned, that he was walking by just to get a jolt of my energy. A fleeting whiff of my scent. Or maybe, his motivation was to allow me to revel in his.

I kept my new job mostly a secret. Partially because I didn't want to hear anyone's opinions about my new employer, but mostly because I still wanted to hide from the world. My parents knew I started a new job. That was enough for them. I told my three closest friends the truth -- even if one of them was against my better judgment.

Of course, my friends asked me if his reputation was true. To an extent it was. I heard him scream behind closed doors. Seen remnants of outbursts. I saw glimpses of his explosive nature but had yet to face the full brunt of it. Lawrence built everything he had with his own hands -- he wanted things the way he wanted them and that was that.

At first, it very much was a thoughtless, organization job. Put this in the calendar. Answer the phone. File that. Go fetch the mail. But over time, Lawrence started asking for my opinion. He would find reasons to keep me engaged, inducing me to indulge in conversation. We developed a quiet respect for each other.

But still, Lawrence had a reputation for a reason. Even without the screaming his reputation was known for, his words cut worse than a knife. In moments of overstimulation, nothing could ever be done fast enough nor correct enough. At times, I wish he would have hit me instead. The pain of disappointing him was worse than any physical hit. Being a gentleman, ultimately I knew he would never hit me. But still.

At one point, though, I was certain I was going to be fired. Not a day went by without multiple harsh corrections. A few times I spent my lunch crying in the bathroom. My friends asked me why I just didn't quit. I thought about it -- several times. I almost did. Once.

I looked at myself, puffy and misty eyed in the bathroom after Lawrence picked apart my work -- none of it wrong, just harsh and laced with hyperawareness that made me feel pinned under a microscope-- and thought it was the final straw. I was packing up and leaving. There couldn't possibly be anything of value that I add to Lawrence Sheffield's life. I headed back to my desk and sat down, trying to collect my thoughts. He approached me, white slip in hand.

"Oh boy," I thought, "He's cutting me to the chase. At least I get to claim unemployment."

He had an unfamiliar and strange distressed look on his face. After seven months, I had seen a variety of Lawrence's facial expressions. This one was novel. Maybe he was always this sad when he was about to fire someone.

"Ms. MacLee," he started. Ok, that's usual.

Then he sighed,

"Annabelle." Ok, not usual.

"Annabelle," he started again.

"Yes, Lawrence?"

"I must ask you to do something for me."

I contemplated sassing him with a comment about that being part of the job description but he looked genuinely distressed.

"Ok."

"Now, I understand that what I am about to ask of you is somewhat demeaning and I hate to do it."

I raise an eyebrow. He picked up quickly,

"I need you to pick up my drycleaning for me."

I looked down at the slip as he handed it to me. A few shirts, a pair of pants and a jacket. All treated like the next military operation.

"I-I apologize but I just don't have time right now. I know it's insulting."

"Why is it insulting? I'm your assistant."

Lawrence seemed floored that I was not offended. It was puzzling to him that I did not throw water in his face and call him a pig.

"Yes but this is something I wouldn't even ask an unpaid college intern to do, let alone someone of your caliber."

The sentiment hung between us, suspended in time. Like the moment we first met. It was trivial, something so small that I never would have thought to question it if he had just asked me to go do it. But he considered me in a way no one else ever had before.

Then I remembered the interview. I remembered how Lawrence asked me if I considered a two week trial period to be "fair." I thought of all the times he would physically get on my level when we were working together. The times he would gently lead and teach me. I thought of all the moments that kept me from quitting. It wasn't the promise of potential. It was something deeper. Not a need to prove something -- neither to myself nor to him. But I needed to understand him.

After each harsh correction there was a glimmer in his eyes. A flicker of fear that, maybe, this was the final straw. That this would be the time I turn heel and never return. He seemed to anticipate it, like he wanted to be the villain in the story. He wanted me to confirm some bias he had against himself. I refused.

I rose from my chair and stood face to face with Lawrence. I held the drycleaning slip in my hand. Lawrence and I regarded one another for a moment. I wished one of us was brave and leaned in, but I know now it's for the best that neither of us did.

"Would you like me to go now to pick it up?"

He nodded, holding the moment together with me.

"Yes, Ms. MacLee, that would be fantastic."

"Yes Lawrence."

I lingered. He lingered too. I broke first and stepped around him. As I walked away, I gathered a confidence to make a joke, to soothe the growing fire between us.

"Oh, and Lawrence,"

I looked over my shoulder at him. He turned to face me.

"Yes, Ms. MacLee?"

"Call me Annabelle."

For the first time, I witnessed Lawrence truly exhale.

"Don't make me correct you."

He laughed. Not a full bodied laugh. But a release, one that acknowledges that things are changing now, in a way we both want.

After that moment, Lawrence stopped being harsh with me. Or learned how to be corrected, at least. One look and he would change course because he learned what I would and would not tolerate. Lawrence learned that I did not believe him to be a monster, but I would not allow him to behave like one either.

Still, I always felt his gaze on me. An almost compulsory need to know my status and location at all times. I grew hypersensitive. I developed an acute awareness of his presence.

One day, he called me over to his desk. I sat down in the chair as had become custom.

Lawrence was pacing, restless. I knew better than to ask questions when he was in that state. So I waited. With a growl he stated,

"I have a meeting Thursday."

"I know. With the Wrights."

Lawrence was silent. His back was turned to me. I had no way of knowing what he was thinking. I continued,

"It- it's at 2. At their office in the city center."

"I know."

Silence again. I felt a feeling like battery acid rising into my mouth. What was next?

"I want you to accompany me."

The shock was immediate and flowed out of my mouth like a burst dam,

"You what?"

Lawrence turned to look at me. His gaze cut me like a knife. It had been months at this point. How could a man still have that much control over me.

"Yes. Does that surprise you, Annabelle?"

"I mean, a little. You always go alone."

He pursed his lips. I saw his mind turning. He didn't know what to do with me at that moment.

"Well," he continued, "That's changing."

I was only tasked with taking notes. I was not to speak - only observe. To be seen and not heard. It seemed simple enough. What I didn't expect was my face to do the talking for me.

My first meeting's attendance with the Wrights, though, was not well received. What my tongue failed to say, my face made up for tenfold. His ire burned into me with every unwitting reaction. He was not pleased. I dreaded the car ride back to the office. I was certain this was the end.

After the meeting, he was calmer. Calmer than I had imagined him being. We walked to the car in silence. When we arrived, he reached to open my car door for me. As I stepped forward, he stared into my eyes. I froze. I was a prey animal caught in his cross-hairs. I dared not move.

"When I say you are not to speak," he said in a sassy vibrato,

"That includes any form of non-verbal communication."

He stepped towards me. I was stuck in place. Pinned by his gaze. He leaned in and whispered,

"I read you like the Sunday Times. If you are to continue accompanying me, this cannot be a conversation we have again. Fix. Your. Face."

Lawrence released me and I was able to exhale. Why did it feel like there was a fire within me? Lawrence opened the passenger door with a swift motion and stepped out of my way. I slid in. He closed the door and circled around to the driver's side. He got in, closed the door gently, and started the car. We never had that conversation again.

Once I successfully proved that I could hold my own through a few rounds of poker, Lawrence began to ask me to accompany him to larger events. At first, he would introduce me simply as his assistant. No name -- just assistant. I would then be boxed out of the conversation. As if introducing me was a maintenance protocol to minimize the blow of being ignored. It stung. This happened for three events.

My face must have failed me at some point during the fourth event. I felt like a tiny dog in the purse of a Hollywood socialite. There for show and no substance. Did he just want a younger woman in tow to prove some kind of point?

As we waited at the coat check, Lawrence asked me,

"Are you learning from your observations?"

I turned to look at him. He didn't flinch. He stared forward and repeated,

"Are you learning from your observations?"

I didn't know how to respond.

"Well?"

Lawrence turned to look at me. My breath spontaneously expelled from my lungs. His gaze pierced me.

"Are you, Annabelle?"

I stuttered as our coats were brought to the desk. He reached out and thanked the clerk. He placed his coat on the counter and grabbed my coat by the shoulders.

"Turn around," he commanded.

Without thought, I obeyed. My arms instinctually reached into their sleeves as he stepped closer to me. As I became enveloped, he took a half step closer, barely grazing my back.

I felt his breath in my right ear as he whispered,

"Silence isn't always a punishment."

He walked away, leaving me standing alone. He stopped after a few steps, taking a beat before turning to look at me.

"Come."

I did.

Lawrence began to include me more after that. He would work in conversations he and I previously had, to allow me some room for discussion. As time went on, he allowed me more freedom from my leash.

I started attending every event with him; sometimes even providing a convenient excuse out of them when necessary. In spite of our differences and occasional disagreements, we always had a baseline respect for one another. But I couldn't help but feel our mutual respect transforming into something else. It began to feel something like admiration.

I may be career oriented but I'm not a robot. But, being career oriented, also meant I was not in the market for a scandal. I already had enough of that. In addition to being my boss, he was 23 years older than me - although no one would believe it. I was convinced Lawrence was in his early 40s. When he smirked and told me he was 54, I could feel myself dripping a bit. But I couldn't give in. Not again. No amount of handsomeness was worth risking my security.