The name of this woman eludes me, but I want to say it was Lily, or Rosa, some beautiful and delicate flower name that completely contradicted the true nature of her undelightful personality. I think I 'll call her Hortensia for now.
Hortensia was of Cuban descent - a robust woman built like a tank who carried herself like a general from Castro's elite army. At a glance, one could tell who truly ran the post production studio where she spent her days helping run the business owned by her son (whom I shall refer to as The Mama's Boy). She was a tough old lady, ripe with tradition and probably a little mad with power. I wouldn't be surprised if she knew how to operate a side arm - she certainly knew how to maneuver a can of hairspray. There was never a strand out of place and her bracelets hung on her thick wrists like bells on a cat, ever warning us of the clear and present danger she represented.
She was always there before me and the other girl who worked there arrived, ever vigilante of our arriving late. It would have given her another excuse to despise us. She would glide out of the back office, respectable shoes and off color nylons perfectly complimenting her rayon flowered office dress, glance at the clock and give us a "good morning" that was neither heartfelt or remotely friendly. More like "You have escaped my wrath for the moment, but the day is still young" sort of look. We would go hang our coats and pray for lunchtime to come quickly.
I knew she was unhappy person, though. On a very uncomfortable car ride to pick up lunch for some clients, she confessed to me her humble beginnings, her arranged marriage and the things she had to endure coming to America with a man she neither loved or admired. I listened with sympathy, and thought that perhaps after this bonding experience she might treat me differently and actually like me. This never happened. Shortly after, I discovered an ad in the paper in the employment section advertising my position, prompting me to quit with absolutely no notice. I knew it had been her decision, and regardless of my rapport with the clients and the various musicians I was on friendly terms with, The Mama's Boy didn't have the testicles to stand up to his mother, and so planned to let me go at some point.
And that was the last I saw of Hortensia. I know I should try and think of something good I saw in her, but it's truly difficult. Her misery was impenetrable, and she saturated the studio with her absolute need to control. But I suppose despite all of that, she wasn't a terrible person. As I said, she was just unhappy, and unhappiness can be a destructive thing in anyone's life.
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