The Life List (The List Trilogy) by Chrissy Anderson Page B

daydream about Leo all day, I’ve got to put thoughts of him aside for a couple of hours and focus on my job. I have a company to run. Lord knows the owner can’t do it. For the first time in a long time I’m grateful for my stress-filled job. The busier I am these days, the better.
    Today started off with a 7am conference call with a pissed off distribution manager from the East Coast. That was fun; nothing like being called a bitch and a liar before I’ve had my morning coffee. I hung up the phone just in time for the 9am production meeting where I had to break up a fight between the head designer and the production manager. Thank God I got there in time because the New York Jewish American Princess designer was about to get her ass handed to her by the short-tempered Hong King Kong production manager. A typical conversation between the two of them goes something like this:
    J.A.P.: Why can’t you get my fabwik samples hea by next week?
    H.K.K.: I tell you million times HELLS NO! They come from China! It not happen on such short notice.
    J.A.P.: Well din it’s yoa fuggin’ fault I can’t meet my deadline!
    H.K.K.: HELLS NO it not my fault! It your own damn fault you not give me request on time!
    J.A.P.: Chrissy, can’t you do somedin bout’ this?!
    I want to say hell’s no, but I can’t because it’s my job to do something about everything . I instruct H.K.K. to overnight the samples so that we can get the fall line done in time for March market, but not before I scare the crap out of J.A.P. by telling her I’m deducting the cost of the air shipment from her next paycheck. I end the production meeting just in time to grab a non-fat vanilla latte before my drive out to the most disgusting part of San Francisco. I have an 11am meeting with one of our factory owners. I love Mr. Yee, but I can only understand every other word that comes out of his mouth.
    “Ahhhhhh Kwissy, so good meeting today! We always do good wuk fo you, yes?”
    It’s so hard to not stare at the long wire like hairs protruding out of the mole on his right cheek. Don’t even get me started on the long pinky fingernails either. Nasty! Mr. Yee is a sweet man, and I hate to be so critical of him, but doesn’t he see what the rest of us see?
    “Yeah, yeah, but remember, you have to get those cartons on the truck by 5pm or the shipment’s gonna be late…AGAIN! I’m sick and tired of driving over the Bay Bridge to make sure your people are meeting the deadlines. Got that?”
    “Yes, yes, yes, Kwissy. You woowy too much! Why you leave so fast? You wan stay fo lun?”
    Oh Lordy, I’m gonna take a stab at this and guess it’s an invitation for lunch…
    “Not today Mr. Yee.”
    Not EVER, for that matter! The sewing ladies are taking a break from their machines, but they don’t spend their down time buying mochas at Starbucks or running over to Tower Records to pick up the new Matchbox 20 CD. Noooooooo , they’re ripping the feathers off of a dead chicken and preparing to plop it into the thousand-year-old pot that’s boiling away in the make-shift kitchen crammed into the back of the factory. It’s like this in every factory I’ve been in, all the way from here to Hong Kong. It’s a wonder to me that most articles of clothing hanging in department stores don’t smell more like poultry.
    “Heh! Heh! Heh! Kwissy you na no what you miss! Do’h woowy bout chipmen. We get on twuck soopa fas!”
    I have no fucking idea what he just said, but he’s smiling, so I’m smiling. Seriously, I can only say “What?” to this guy so many times.
    I hop on the freight elevator and say my usual “Hi, how’s it going?” to the sick fuck whose injecting God knows what into his arm. For a brief second I want to ask him what he thinks is worse, drugs or adultery? But I’m pretty sure I know the answer, plus I don’t want to die, so I pass on the opportunity and run out to my car, which thankfully is not stolen and still has all of its windows