I once had a nine-to-five job. A long time ago. It was the beginning of summer and I’d been hired by an eyewear company to do their marketing and communications. The paycheck wasn’t much but it allowed me to move to a beautiful flat that sat at the skirts of Collserola, the mountain that rises from Barcelona. The mountain I think of when I’m nostalgic for the city that was once mine.
To get to my workplace, I had to drive through those hills, drawing the serpentine paths of La Rabassada with my grey Opel Corsa. On my first day of work, though, I had to commute on my scooter, an old Honda painted in beige. I arrived early and sat while I waited for my superiors to arrive. I scrolled through Instagram, an app that had recently brought me a lot of joy: Instagram stories.
My boss was a white male in his late forties, although he looked like he was in his late fifties. He explained how his business worked and, more specifically, what they needed from me. Lists. He handed me lists with brand names, contacts, materials, stores, addresses, and manufacturers. “Why would I need to call these manufacturers?” I asked. “In case they only speak English.” I was the only one in the office who spoke the language. That’s when I realized it. They’d hired me as a translator.
Everyone had left and I was still familiarizing myself with the products I had to help sell. My boss came back. His wife, who also worked there, had left her wallet somewhere. He walked up to my desk with a chair. Placed it next to mine and sat down. His right thigh touched my left thigh. I had no room to scooch away from him. “I know you’re a great professional, Alejandra, I can already tell. I like you,” he said with his acid breath. I stood still, holding my breath, trying to look away. His right hand flew like an arrow across my desk and landed on my left hand. My first thought: Grab that pencil and pierce his eyeball.