I didn’t ask to be born a telepath, but I’m not going to deny that it has its perks. Every day I see people around me struggle with not knowing what to say to each other. Miscommunication (or lack of communication) are all around me, and honestly, it looks exhausting. I’m so glad I don’t have to try to figure out what people want from me. I just have to read their minds.
I know what you’re thinking (literally). You’re thinking it’s a huge invasion of privacy, people have a right to their own thoughts, blah, blah, blah, but hear me out. How much easier would your life be if you never had to ask for anything? If you didn’t have to turn a situation over and over in your mind to find the least offensive way to tell someone they need to back off and give you some space? What if other people just knew what you wanted and gave it to you?
You think it sounds too good to be true. That’s what my boss thought, too. Then she met me.
“One caramel macchiato with an extra shot of espresso,” I say, handing my boss, Ms. Priestly, the Styrofoam cup full of piping hot milk, sugar, and coffee.
“Thank you, Ann. How did you know I needed an extra shot of espresso this morning?”
I shrugged. “I just had a hunch.” I have to be careful here. If I said she looked tired (which she does), I could end up offending her. “Something about the way you were dragging your feet into work this morning made me think you could use an extra pick-me-up.”
She rolled her eyes. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to an astute observer like myself. I’m sure no one else noticed anything.” A quick check of the other minds in the room assures me I was right. Everyone else looked more closely at Ms. Priestly to see what they had missed when she walked into the office. Everyone except her other assistant, Emma, who scrutinized me. She knows I’m telepathic, but she can’t prove it, and it’s driving her nuts. It’s so much fun!
“Right,” says Ms. Priestly. “Where were we?”
“I believe you were just about to go over the Mills account,” I say, pulling out the blue folder that contains the details of the account and handing it over to her. “Emma and I finished up some preliminary drafts of images we think would be great for their next social media campaign,” I say without waiting for Ms. Priestly to confirm what I already know. “Emma had some really great ideas. I put them on top.”
I’m always careful to praise Emma when I’m in a room with both her and Ms. Priestly. It gives Ms. Priestly the impression that we work well together, and it ensures that Emma can’t complain that I’m trying to undermine her. It also happens to be true. Emma really does do great work. It’s not her fault she’s not telepathic.
“Let me see,” Ms. Priestly said as she took the folder and starts flipping through the images.
The client work is one thing that is not made easier by being a telepath. In fact, my particular gift probably makes it more difficult because I know what Ms. Priestly wants and I know what the client wants and they’re rarely the same thing. It’s not so bad when the client doesn’t really know what they want, because then I can just do what Ms. Priestly wants and the client is usually happy with whatever we put in front of them. It’s when the client thinks they know what they want that things get tricky, especially when what they think they want is different from what Ms. Priestly wants for them.
That’s the case with the Mills account. The client thinks they know what they want, but I know it’s not something Ms. Priestly would feel comfortable giving them – mostly because it’s really bad. I don’t understand why people hire Ms. Priestly and then try to get in her way. They hired her to do a job (a job she’s really good at by the way). They should just tell her to make something amazing and then back off and let her work her magic.
This time around I let Emma do what Ms. Priestly said to do while I tried to create something in line with what the Mills people wanted that was not terrible. Ms. Priestly will point them towards Emma’s work, and if they have any sense, they’ll go with that. If they’re stubborn, they’ll choose my work. I wouldn’t recommend it, but then I’m not the one who has to meet with them. That’s Ms. Priestly’s job, and it’s not one I envy.
“Very nice work, Emma,” Ms. Priestly says as she looks over the first few graphics. “I’m not sure about these, though.”
“Those are Ann’s,” Emma volunteers quickly. My instinct is to resent her willingness to throw me under the bus, but a) she’s not wrong, and b) I have nothing to lose. Telepathic, remember?
“They’re based on the client’s original ideas. I agree they’re not as good as Emma’s works, but I figured we should at least give them the option.”
Emma narrows her eyes at me. She’s trying to see if I’m trying to undermine her. I’m not, and why would I when watching her squirm is so much fun? I’ll never understand why people say they hate office politics. They’re the only reason I come to work at all.
“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” Ms. Priestly says as she flips the folder closed, “Just remember.”
“The client is not always right,” we all chant along with her. It’s one of her favorite sayings. We all love it because we enjoy that her motto is the opposite of every other service provider’s motto, but we also love it because it’s true. Like I said with the Mills account – they think they know what they want, but they should really just pay us to do our thing and get out of our way.
The recitation of Ms. Priestly’s motto is also our cue that we’re dismissed, so we all get up and scatter to our respective desks. As we’re leaving, I hear someone thinking very loudly behind me, “Ms. Priestly wants the roses changed from white to yellow. Ms. Priestly wants the roses changed from white to yellow. Ms. Priestly wants the roses changed from white to yellow.”
I look over my shoulder to see Emma staring at me intently as she follows me out of Ms. Priestly’s office to the alcove just outside that holds both our desks. Emma doesn’t stop staring as she sees me turn to look at her. If anything, she stares more intently and thinks even more loudly, “Ms. Priestly wants the roses changed from white to yellow. Ms. Priestly wants the roses changed from white to yellow.”
I roll my eyes and continue walking back to my desk. If Emma thinks she can use my telepathic powers to undermine me and force me to make changes to party decorations that Ms. Priestly would never approve, she’s going to have to try a lot harder than that.
The end.