A Different Sort Of Prejudice
It was of the greatest inconvenience that the man sporting the maroon waistcoat and matching trousers had left behind his cellphone charger that morning, and as such, resorted to checking the time with his pocket watch, an item that was usually a strictly decorative piece. Sighing, he flipped it open and glanced at the digital numerals flashing across the screen.
10:43.
He would be late. Again.
It was hardly surprising to the man. His valet had ripped one of his hand-sewn buttons from his overcoat that morning and stupidly creased his cravat until it would not hold a proper form. He'd caused such a to-do about the entire affair that the man was forced to send him away immediately and proceed to dress himself. An hour later, after struggling with the dress shirt and cufflinks and cravat and waistcoat and jacket and trousers and stockings and shoes, he was quite late and quite put-out about it.
He tapped his fingers impatiently on the ink-black leather seats of the Audi—a 2017, if he remembered correctly— and urged the driver to make haste. He hadn't spent a fortune on this vehicle to travel at a leisurely pace.
When, at last, he arrived at his company building, a monstrously audacious skyscraper in the center of the bustling city, he was greeted by his personal assistant. The young man bowed his head politely as he opened the door for his disgruntled superior.
"Good morning, milord," he murmured flatly, knowing full-well that the expression on the man's face bade every signs of this morning being rather poor indeed.
"Is it, Weathers? Somehow I must have missed the memo," the man grunted in response. He pushed past his assistant and marched for the tinted automatic doors leading into the building. Weathers tried valiantly to keep up with his determined stride.
"Speaking of memos, milord, an interdepartmental message was sent out this morning informing the staff that all members of the board will be present for this afternoon's meeting in the Central Hall Conference Room. The chairman was surprised to see no receipt informing him that you'd opened the message. Is there something wrong with your wireless system?"
The man waved a hand impatiently. "No, no. I merely forgot to charge my cellphone. Can't do a thing without it until you've synced your accounts with every single device, and I simply haven't the time."
"Might I offer to do so for you, while you are in your meeting?"
The man stopped at the door to his office, sighing at the sound of displeased voices inside. He turned a weary eye to his dutiful assistant. "Do what you like, Weatherby. Just take care not to make my life any more difficult than it already is."
He sauntered inside.
To his surprise, there was one more person than there ought to be in this room. In fact, there was one more person than there ought to be in his chair... and it was a woman.
He wasn't entirely sure how she'd made it past security, let alone the entire floor of men between the elevator and his office. He stared at her, perplexed.
"Ah, good of you to finally turn up, my good man. We have just been trying to reason with this—with this woman for the better part of an hour! She simply will not budge, no she will not. It is most vexing, indeed!" shouted a portly man by the name of Jones.
"I would suggest that you give it a go, but I am inclined to think that she is incapable of negotiating rationally," said the other man, a Lord Willoughby, in an acidic voice.
The man held up a hand to quell them and looked directly at the occupant of his rather fine, state-of-the-art office chair, who was currently rifling through the options on the screens of the armrests disinterestedly.
"Madame, I must insist you remove yourself from that chair at once."
She looked up for the first time at the man's calm command. She was no exceptional beauty, with eyes that were rather small and some fairly forgettable shade of some color that wasn't blue, hair the color of wet sand, and a build that was too full to be considered thin, but too flat to be considered curvy. The most remarkable thing about her was her sheer nerve in sitting, well, where she was sitting, in the first place.
She rose to her feet and brushed off the front of her dress. It, too, was unremarkable. Brown, conservative, cotton, it drew no attention and exhibited no finery whatsoever. Her petticoat must have been rather small, as the dress took up little more room than its wearer did, which was highly unfashionable as of late. Poor woman, thought the man, to have no obvious signs of wealth that might recommend her where her looks certainly will not.
She held out a gloved hand toward the man.
"Yes, very well, milord. I apologize for your starting this fine morning with a pair of howler monkeys screeching in your office. I did inform them that they lacked the authority to remove my person from wherever I choose to be, but I do recognize that the owner of this fine chair would indeed possess sufficient authority, do you not agree?" She said all of this awfully fast, not because of nerves, but because she seemed to possess a sort of restless energy that prompted her to speak quickly before the words got away from her.
"I'm afraid I am disinclined to agree with anything, madame, until we are properly introduced," he replied, attempting to sound collected despite his confusion. He could not quite bring himself to bow his head, as society rules dictated that he need only do so when they were properly and officially introduced, but he did remove his fine top hat and held it under an arm gracefully.
The woman still had her hand extended, but lowered it with a slight flush of embarrassment when she realized that the man would not take it. She bobbed in a small, apologetic curtsy, and turned to the two "howler monkeys," clearly expecting them to make the introductions.
"Milord, this woman does not deserve a proper introduction. She has marched up here with the sole purpose of wreaking havoc upon this company, bringing naught but chaos and radicalism in her wake!" insisted Jones. "Why, I would not be surprised if she hiked up her skirts this very moment and revealed a pair of trousers under her—"
The woman unleashed a cry of outrage. "Good sir!" she said in a loudly and powerfully, "I believe that your insinuations of such improper behavior are both a degradation of my honor and of your own character! How dare you speak with such impropriety before a lady? I will not stand for it!"
Jones bristled like an aggravated peacock, but the man put a settling hand upon his shoulder. "Sir Jones, I'm afraid I must agree with her. It is highly inappropriate to discuss such things with a lady present."
Lord Willoughby scoffed. "We have yet to see any evidence that this woman is anything of the sort, milord."
She lifted her chin high into the air in proud indignation. "And I have yet to see any evidence of your being a gentleman!" She retorted.
"Excuse me, let us try to behave like civilized beings," interjected the man before things got out of hand. "Now then, madame, if you will kindly state your business?"
She sniffed. "It's miss, actually. I am unattached."
The men exchanged looks. The man asked firmly, "Yet you are unchaperoned? I must object, miss, to the impropriety of this situation. If this is a part of some husband-hunting plot, I really must—"
"Certainly not!" She snapped, eyes flashing angrily. "I am here on business."
"And what sort of business would you have with me?"
"The kind of business that involves the board meeting this afternoon concerning the new product launch. As an integral member of this project, I insist on being present for this meeting, and as you previously stated, it would not do to arrive unchaperoned. I wish for you to accompany me."
His eyebrows rose higher and higher with every ludicrous statement she made. He hardly knew where to start in his objections, but settled on saying, "You? You work for this company?"
She titled her head. "When it suits you, yes."
"When it suits me?"
"I meant the plural 'you', referring to the company as a whole."
He smiled skeptically, but replied diplomatically: "Ah, well, somehow I doubt that this company would ever hire a... delicate lady such as yourself in such a strenuous environment as the workforce tends to be."
Now she raised her brows. "Yes, because the life of a delicate lady is seldom strenuous as it is, what with our childrearing duties and so forth."
Jones sniffed. "Quite."
She looked at him incredulously, as though she could not believe that a man so dim-witted as this could possibly be real.
"Well, miss, unless you can prove your employment with this company and your involvement in this project, I cannot possibly take any sort of action regarding your accompanying me this afternoon," said the man.
She turned her pensive gaze to him for a moment, then pulled out a small calling card from the delicate coinpurse around her wrist. "If this is not sufficient evidence of my involvement, then I fear my efforts here will have been wasted."
The man took the card and looked it over, searching for whatever evidence he was meant to find. He was, unsurprisingly, unsuccessful. "Miss," he began gently, beginning to feel sorry for the woman who was surely unwell, "This card tells me nothing more than your name and address, and that you have a lovely signature." He looked up to see her shoulders droop ever so slightly.
"You do not see it, then?"
He shook his head. "What is it that I am meant to see?"
Dejected, the woman curtsied low with her eyes downcast. "I suppose it hardly matters now. I can recognize when I am fighting a losing battle. You are so quick to bow to the rules of society, to spend hours dressing as you ought to, saying that which you are expected to, but you have no time to acknowledge basic rules of human integrity and respect. No, I will take my leave and apologize for wasting your precious time, milord." She moved in a swishing of skirts toward the door, but paused before reaching for the handle. "I wonder," she said, "that your prejudice is so lacking in foundation that you are willing to overlook it from your place in the sky, but not from here, on the ground, where you and I stand together."
Then she was gone.
"Pure codswallop. Mad as a hatter," huffed Jones.
"Poor woman," murmured Willoughby.
"Indeed," said the man.
Satisfied in their solidarity, the two men took their leave of the man, reminding him of the board meeting they would all be attending later that afternoon. He assured them he would be there and sent them away as he lowered himself into his chair.
The man heaved a heavy sigh. He tapped his finger on the surface of the desk to bring the screen to life. Displayed across the glass was a collection of images, all centered around the launch of the new product, a simple yet nearly indestructible accessory worn around the wrist that would access all digital files from any personal device activated by voice technology. It was a revolutionary product design, to say the least, and it was going to be the center of the board meeting that the man would attend in... 15 minutes, now. He sighed again and looked over the schematics, the mock-ups, the diagnostics, re-familiarizing himself with it before the pitch.
And then he noticed something. It was a single signature in the corner of a preliminary sketch, nearly indistinguishable amidst the data overload on his screen, but it was there nonetheless. He'd overlooked it many times before, but now he'd seen it, and it troubled him greatly. He held up the calling card the woman had left behind. He looked at the screen. He looked at the card. He rubbed his hand over his face, comprehension dawning.
She had designed their center product. Or, at least, she was involved enough in the process to warrant her own signature on each page of the preliminary documents. It was no wonder, then, that she'd been determined to go to the meeting. But that was absurd! She was a woman, and women were prohibited from board meetings, regardless of what they may or may not have contributed to any initial product designs.
He remembered her resentful expression. Truthfully, he did pity the woman a little, but any real sorrow he may have felt on her behalf was swiftly washed away by the indignation at her insolence and ingratitude. She ought to be grateful that he was going to this meeting instead! No board member would lend her half an ear once they laid eyes on her, and it didn't matter how brilliant the product was, if they knew a woman was behind it, they would instantly distrust it and refuse to buy. It was because of him that her work would be able to change the world.
Yet still, her words needled and nagged at him.
"I wonder that you are willing to overlook your foundationless prejudice from your place in the sky, where you may blindly benefit, but not from here, on the ground, where you and I stand together."
He scanned the schematics again, thoughtful. "Solar-powered..." he mused, then chuckled as he remembered his lifeless cellphone. "Very clever, that is..."
10:43.
He would be late. Again.
It was hardly surprising to the man. His valet had ripped one of his hand-sewn buttons from his overcoat that morning and stupidly creased his cravat until it would not hold a proper form. He'd caused such a to-do about the entire affair that the man was forced to send him away immediately and proceed to dress himself. An hour later, after struggling with the dress shirt and cufflinks and cravat and waistcoat and jacket and trousers and stockings and shoes, he was quite late and quite put-out about it.
He tapped his fingers impatiently on the ink-black leather seats of the Audi—a 2017, if he remembered correctly— and urged the driver to make haste. He hadn't spent a fortune on this vehicle to travel at a leisurely pace.
When, at last, he arrived at his company building, a monstrously audacious skyscraper in the center of the bustling city, he was greeted by his personal assistant. The young man bowed his head politely as he opened the door for his disgruntled superior.
"Good morning, milord," he murmured flatly, knowing full-well that the expression on the man's face bade every signs of this morning being rather poor indeed.
"Is it, Weathers? Somehow I must have missed the memo," the man grunted in response. He pushed past his assistant and marched for the tinted automatic doors leading into the building. Weathers tried valiantly to keep up with his determined stride.
"Speaking of memos, milord, an interdepartmental message was sent out this morning informing the staff that all members of the board will be present for this afternoon's meeting in the Central Hall Conference Room. The chairman was surprised to see no receipt informing him that you'd opened the message. Is there something wrong with your wireless system?"
The man waved a hand impatiently. "No, no. I merely forgot to charge my cellphone. Can't do a thing without it until you've synced your accounts with every single device, and I simply haven't the time."
"Might I offer to do so for you, while you are in your meeting?"
The man stopped at the door to his office, sighing at the sound of displeased voices inside. He turned a weary eye to his dutiful assistant. "Do what you like, Weatherby. Just take care not to make my life any more difficult than it already is."
He sauntered inside.
To his surprise, there was one more person than there ought to be in this room. In fact, there was one more person than there ought to be in his chair... and it was a woman.
He wasn't entirely sure how she'd made it past security, let alone the entire floor of men between the elevator and his office. He stared at her, perplexed.
"Ah, good of you to finally turn up, my good man. We have just been trying to reason with this—with this woman for the better part of an hour! She simply will not budge, no she will not. It is most vexing, indeed!" shouted a portly man by the name of Jones.
"I would suggest that you give it a go, but I am inclined to think that she is incapable of negotiating rationally," said the other man, a Lord Willoughby, in an acidic voice.
The man held up a hand to quell them and looked directly at the occupant of his rather fine, state-of-the-art office chair, who was currently rifling through the options on the screens of the armrests disinterestedly.
"Madame, I must insist you remove yourself from that chair at once."
She looked up for the first time at the man's calm command. She was no exceptional beauty, with eyes that were rather small and some fairly forgettable shade of some color that wasn't blue, hair the color of wet sand, and a build that was too full to be considered thin, but too flat to be considered curvy. The most remarkable thing about her was her sheer nerve in sitting, well, where she was sitting, in the first place.
She rose to her feet and brushed off the front of her dress. It, too, was unremarkable. Brown, conservative, cotton, it drew no attention and exhibited no finery whatsoever. Her petticoat must have been rather small, as the dress took up little more room than its wearer did, which was highly unfashionable as of late. Poor woman, thought the man, to have no obvious signs of wealth that might recommend her where her looks certainly will not.
She held out a gloved hand toward the man.
"Yes, very well, milord. I apologize for your starting this fine morning with a pair of howler monkeys screeching in your office. I did inform them that they lacked the authority to remove my person from wherever I choose to be, but I do recognize that the owner of this fine chair would indeed possess sufficient authority, do you not agree?" She said all of this awfully fast, not because of nerves, but because she seemed to possess a sort of restless energy that prompted her to speak quickly before the words got away from her.
"I'm afraid I am disinclined to agree with anything, madame, until we are properly introduced," he replied, attempting to sound collected despite his confusion. He could not quite bring himself to bow his head, as society rules dictated that he need only do so when they were properly and officially introduced, but he did remove his fine top hat and held it under an arm gracefully.
The woman still had her hand extended, but lowered it with a slight flush of embarrassment when she realized that the man would not take it. She bobbed in a small, apologetic curtsy, and turned to the two "howler monkeys," clearly expecting them to make the introductions.
"Milord, this woman does not deserve a proper introduction. She has marched up here with the sole purpose of wreaking havoc upon this company, bringing naught but chaos and radicalism in her wake!" insisted Jones. "Why, I would not be surprised if she hiked up her skirts this very moment and revealed a pair of trousers under her—"
The woman unleashed a cry of outrage. "Good sir!" she said in a loudly and powerfully, "I believe that your insinuations of such improper behavior are both a degradation of my honor and of your own character! How dare you speak with such impropriety before a lady? I will not stand for it!"
Jones bristled like an aggravated peacock, but the man put a settling hand upon his shoulder. "Sir Jones, I'm afraid I must agree with her. It is highly inappropriate to discuss such things with a lady present."
Lord Willoughby scoffed. "We have yet to see any evidence that this woman is anything of the sort, milord."
She lifted her chin high into the air in proud indignation. "And I have yet to see any evidence of your being a gentleman!" She retorted.
"Excuse me, let us try to behave like civilized beings," interjected the man before things got out of hand. "Now then, madame, if you will kindly state your business?"
She sniffed. "It's miss, actually. I am unattached."
The men exchanged looks. The man asked firmly, "Yet you are unchaperoned? I must object, miss, to the impropriety of this situation. If this is a part of some husband-hunting plot, I really must—"
"Certainly not!" She snapped, eyes flashing angrily. "I am here on business."
"And what sort of business would you have with me?"
"The kind of business that involves the board meeting this afternoon concerning the new product launch. As an integral member of this project, I insist on being present for this meeting, and as you previously stated, it would not do to arrive unchaperoned. I wish for you to accompany me."
His eyebrows rose higher and higher with every ludicrous statement she made. He hardly knew where to start in his objections, but settled on saying, "You? You work for this company?"
She titled her head. "When it suits you, yes."
"When it suits me?"
"I meant the plural 'you', referring to the company as a whole."
He smiled skeptically, but replied diplomatically: "Ah, well, somehow I doubt that this company would ever hire a... delicate lady such as yourself in such a strenuous environment as the workforce tends to be."
Now she raised her brows. "Yes, because the life of a delicate lady is seldom strenuous as it is, what with our childrearing duties and so forth."
Jones sniffed. "Quite."
She looked at him incredulously, as though she could not believe that a man so dim-witted as this could possibly be real.
"Well, miss, unless you can prove your employment with this company and your involvement in this project, I cannot possibly take any sort of action regarding your accompanying me this afternoon," said the man.
She turned her pensive gaze to him for a moment, then pulled out a small calling card from the delicate coinpurse around her wrist. "If this is not sufficient evidence of my involvement, then I fear my efforts here will have been wasted."
The man took the card and looked it over, searching for whatever evidence he was meant to find. He was, unsurprisingly, unsuccessful. "Miss," he began gently, beginning to feel sorry for the woman who was surely unwell, "This card tells me nothing more than your name and address, and that you have a lovely signature." He looked up to see her shoulders droop ever so slightly.
"You do not see it, then?"
He shook his head. "What is it that I am meant to see?"
Dejected, the woman curtsied low with her eyes downcast. "I suppose it hardly matters now. I can recognize when I am fighting a losing battle. You are so quick to bow to the rules of society, to spend hours dressing as you ought to, saying that which you are expected to, but you have no time to acknowledge basic rules of human integrity and respect. No, I will take my leave and apologize for wasting your precious time, milord." She moved in a swishing of skirts toward the door, but paused before reaching for the handle. "I wonder," she said, "that your prejudice is so lacking in foundation that you are willing to overlook it from your place in the sky, but not from here, on the ground, where you and I stand together."
Then she was gone.
"Pure codswallop. Mad as a hatter," huffed Jones.
"Poor woman," murmured Willoughby.
"Indeed," said the man.
Satisfied in their solidarity, the two men took their leave of the man, reminding him of the board meeting they would all be attending later that afternoon. He assured them he would be there and sent them away as he lowered himself into his chair.
The man heaved a heavy sigh. He tapped his finger on the surface of the desk to bring the screen to life. Displayed across the glass was a collection of images, all centered around the launch of the new product, a simple yet nearly indestructible accessory worn around the wrist that would access all digital files from any personal device activated by voice technology. It was a revolutionary product design, to say the least, and it was going to be the center of the board meeting that the man would attend in... 15 minutes, now. He sighed again and looked over the schematics, the mock-ups, the diagnostics, re-familiarizing himself with it before the pitch.
And then he noticed something. It was a single signature in the corner of a preliminary sketch, nearly indistinguishable amidst the data overload on his screen, but it was there nonetheless. He'd overlooked it many times before, but now he'd seen it, and it troubled him greatly. He held up the calling card the woman had left behind. He looked at the screen. He looked at the card. He rubbed his hand over his face, comprehension dawning.
She had designed their center product. Or, at least, she was involved enough in the process to warrant her own signature on each page of the preliminary documents. It was no wonder, then, that she'd been determined to go to the meeting. But that was absurd! She was a woman, and women were prohibited from board meetings, regardless of what they may or may not have contributed to any initial product designs.
He remembered her resentful expression. Truthfully, he did pity the woman a little, but any real sorrow he may have felt on her behalf was swiftly washed away by the indignation at her insolence and ingratitude. She ought to be grateful that he was going to this meeting instead! No board member would lend her half an ear once they laid eyes on her, and it didn't matter how brilliant the product was, if they knew a woman was behind it, they would instantly distrust it and refuse to buy. It was because of him that her work would be able to change the world.
Yet still, her words needled and nagged at him."I wonder that you are willing to overlook your foundationless prejudice from your place in the sky, where you may blindly benefit, but not from here, on the ground, where you and I stand together."
He scanned the schematics again, thoughtful. "Solar-powered..." he mused, then chuckled as he remembered his lifeless cellphone. "Very clever, that is..."
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