𝐂𝐎𝐆𝐍𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐍𝐓 |𝟏𝟖+

𝘧𝘪𝘷𝘦 |

CHAPTER 05
ZAHRA ARIEL SIMPSON
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Three days.

Three days I've been working here, and I hate it.

I hate the work. I hate the pay. I hate the faux positiveness. I hate the leadership, especially.

The overarching goal was to help lower-income communities with a focus on mental health through grassroots efforts and even then, it felt like I couldn't accomplish anything with this group of people. It's even worse when the board and executive directors walk through the doors of this building in designer from head to toe with an air of superiority and narcissism around them.

It's been three days and I feel this unfulfilled, imagine the people who have been here for ages watching the paint dry and change on the walls.

The pay is abysmal for the amount of work I've done in the last three days. It's unrealistic of these people to ask that I get fifty different things spread across three different departments done with the best output they desire.

Yes, I took the job because I wanted to help communities who couldn't for themselves; yes, I also knew what I would be paid but being here and doing it – I can see why I was hired on the spot. It's not livable by any means, especially for New York.

It's obvious that the management here is inexperienced and only got the job through connections with rich people willing to donate money that will never be appropriately funded to the right departments. We had meetings every morning that outlined agendas for the week, and goals we hoped to accomplish as a team, and in three days, every part of it has been changed somehow.

There is no fucking clarity and it's driving me up the wall.

Even with obvious madness behind the screen, all these people seem happy and overly positive it's uncomfortable.

I want to go home and drown myself in a bottle of wine.

In three days, I've aged a decade.

The computer fans on my work-issued MacBook were working overtime and so were my fingers from typing up documents, emails, and spreadsheets. "Hey, you not taking lunch?"

I raise my eyes from the bright screen to focus on the heart-shaped face in front of my desk. Nadira, an obvious fellow plant mom simply seen through the way she dressed all the time looked at me. Her afro framed her face like a flower, her dark skin smooth and moisturized and her natural nails short and painted a powder pink. She was a plant mom whose closet consisted of whites, greens, neutrals, and a shit ton of overalls, corduroy jeans, cardigans, Doc Martens, and loafers as is her style and aesthetic. Today, Nadira wore a white lace-trim cami, green cargo skirt, white socks, and black loafers.

She was one of those people with an essence of real optimism, kindness, and love and it was evident as you saw her. Bottom-line she was great – and the sole reason I haven't starved to death since working here.

"Shit, I didn't notice the time. Give me a minute." My fingers finish typing the paragraph before I shut my computer down and grab my bag and phone. My hands fiddle a bit with the white dress I wore today before I turn to her, "Ready. Where are we going today?"

"I'm thinking that little pink café about ten minutes away." She says as she stands and leads us out of the building, and I nod in agreement.

"How has your day been?"

"Girl, you know I have to be out of here before I start talking shit about these people." She says as we enter the surprisingly empty elevator. I manage a chuckle; my head down admiring my white pedicured feet in the platform strappy wedge sandals. The interior of the elevator showed reflections of us both from head to toe and I watched as she snapped a picture, tagged me, and posted it on her Instagram story. The notification comes through almost immediately and the doors to the elevator open.