sever an employment contract due to embezzlement,” she said. “The kind of stuff a black man would have gone to jail over.”
“Why would you need to offer a settlement package for an employee who was stealing?” I asked.
“The company would have spent twice as much in attorney’s fees and court costs if he hadn’t accepted our offer to leave uneventfully. It’s white-folks’ – world stuff. Happens every day. What’s new with you?”
I filled her in on the latest details with the Donovans. “What do you think I should do?”
“Write her up,” Peaches said with a straight face, puffing air between strides. I gave her a puzzled look. “Trust me— write it up, leave it in her file for however long you have to leave it in there, and then discard it when it expires. If she does it again, you’ll have a paper trail of her patterns, and a leg to stand on when you get ready to fire her. If she doesn’t, there’ll be no additional harm done. Furthermore, she won’t be able to say that you knew she had this problem but didn’t inform her that it was inappropriate.”
“Do you think it’s that serious?” I asked Peaches. “That I could end up in court behind it?”
“Pulleaze! Girl, people go to court every day wishing they’d documented their evidence more carefully. If I were you, I’d get in touch with one of those union attorneys and cover your behind completely.”
The thought of having to call an attorney for legal defense frightened me. I’d never needed to call an attorney before. The only time I’d ever really mention the word “attorney” was when someone was joking about whiplash. I guess I always figured that if I did the right thing, I would never need counsel to defend me.
“You ready to jog now?” Peaches asked.
“You go ahead. I’m gonna walk today.” I was already panting from trying to keep up with her warm-up. She went ahead of me, her hood flapping in the breeze produced by her speed. Her “jogging” always looked like running to me.
After talking with Peaches, I knew I had a lot to do. Call the union. Write up Ms. Ashton. Pray.
Chapter 7
Peaches sat on the floor, and I sat behind her on my bed, brushing, pulling, and pinning her hair into a French roll. The style was far too elevated for my taste, but Peaches liked her French rolls as high as I could possibly get them. She said the higher it was, the skinnier she looked.
In a minute she’d take her turn behind me, sitting on the polish- stained bedspread beneath my poster of Michael Jackson. I liked my hair set with mousse so that my curls would dry quickly and I wouldn’t have to sleep with all that hard plastic in my head.
“Hold your head down,” I told her.
“Look—here’s an article about finding the right kind of guy for you,” she said as she thumbed through the pages of a Young Miss magazine.
“Find something else,” I mumbled through the bobby pins I’d carefully placed between my lips. I pulled one from my mouth and placed it at the base of the French roll, shoving it in as far as it would go.
“Here’s one about that guy in that movie Risky Business,” she said.
“Tom Cruise?” I asked, peeking past her shoulder.
“Yeah. Says that he is the number one heartthrob according to last month’s poll,” she summarized. “You want me to read it to you out loud?”
“Naw, he ain’t cute to me.” I realigned myself with her head and continued my work. “I think he’s kind of skinny, too.”
“Hmm. Let me see. . .“ Peaches sized him up, turning his centerfold picture vertically. “I don’t think he’s ugly.”
“He looks like he needs a haircut every time I see him on TV,” I said. “I don’t see what all those white girls see in him. Then again, white people are always sayin’ somebody is cute when they look just as plain-Jane as the rest of ‘ em.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that. To me, the only time a white person is really cute is when they’ve got
“Why would you need to offer a settlement package for an employee who was stealing?” I asked.
“The company would have spent twice as much in attorney’s fees and court costs if he hadn’t accepted our offer to leave uneventfully. It’s white-folks’ – world stuff. Happens every day. What’s new with you?”
I filled her in on the latest details with the Donovans. “What do you think I should do?”
“Write her up,” Peaches said with a straight face, puffing air between strides. I gave her a puzzled look. “Trust me— write it up, leave it in her file for however long you have to leave it in there, and then discard it when it expires. If she does it again, you’ll have a paper trail of her patterns, and a leg to stand on when you get ready to fire her. If she doesn’t, there’ll be no additional harm done. Furthermore, she won’t be able to say that you knew she had this problem but didn’t inform her that it was inappropriate.”
“Do you think it’s that serious?” I asked Peaches. “That I could end up in court behind it?”
“Pulleaze! Girl, people go to court every day wishing they’d documented their evidence more carefully. If I were you, I’d get in touch with one of those union attorneys and cover your behind completely.”
The thought of having to call an attorney for legal defense frightened me. I’d never needed to call an attorney before. The only time I’d ever really mention the word “attorney” was when someone was joking about whiplash. I guess I always figured that if I did the right thing, I would never need counsel to defend me.
“You ready to jog now?” Peaches asked.
“You go ahead. I’m gonna walk today.” I was already panting from trying to keep up with her warm-up. She went ahead of me, her hood flapping in the breeze produced by her speed. Her “jogging” always looked like running to me.
After talking with Peaches, I knew I had a lot to do. Call the union. Write up Ms. Ashton. Pray.
Chapter 7
Peaches sat on the floor, and I sat behind her on my bed, brushing, pulling, and pinning her hair into a French roll. The style was far too elevated for my taste, but Peaches liked her French rolls as high as I could possibly get them. She said the higher it was, the skinnier she looked.
In a minute she’d take her turn behind me, sitting on the polish- stained bedspread beneath my poster of Michael Jackson. I liked my hair set with mousse so that my curls would dry quickly and I wouldn’t have to sleep with all that hard plastic in my head.
“Hold your head down,” I told her.
“Look—here’s an article about finding the right kind of guy for you,” she said as she thumbed through the pages of a Young Miss magazine.
“Find something else,” I mumbled through the bobby pins I’d carefully placed between my lips. I pulled one from my mouth and placed it at the base of the French roll, shoving it in as far as it would go.
“Here’s one about that guy in that movie Risky Business,” she said.
“Tom Cruise?” I asked, peeking past her shoulder.
“Yeah. Says that he is the number one heartthrob according to last month’s poll,” she summarized. “You want me to read it to you out loud?”
“Naw, he ain’t cute to me.” I realigned myself with her head and continued my work. “I think he’s kind of skinny, too.”
“Hmm. Let me see. . .“ Peaches sized him up, turning his centerfold picture vertically. “I don’t think he’s ugly.”
“He looks like he needs a haircut every time I see him on TV,” I said. “I don’t see what all those white girls see in him. Then again, white people are always sayin’ somebody is cute when they look just as plain-Jane as the rest of ‘ em.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that. To me, the only time a white person is really cute is when they’ve got
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