I had heard the rumors.
Whispers in the office elevator, warnings in the break room, and wide-eyed stories shared after late-night shifts—all about Mr. Denton, the regional manager who was flying in for a “surprise” inspection. No one had seen him in person before, but the legend had already reached mythical proportions.
“He once made an intern cry just by looking at them.”
“I heard he fired someone for using a blue pen instead of black.”
“I swear he carries around a stopwatch and times people’s bathroom breaks.”
I laughed nervously when I heard these things. I didn’t think much of it—until I found out I’d be his assigned assistant for the day.
It started at 8:00 a.m. sharp. I arrived at the office earlier than usual, dressed to impress, with a notepad, three pens (black only), and the kind of forced smile that masks pure anxiety. The elevator dinged, and out stepped Mr. Denton: tall, thin, and sharply dressed in a dark gray suit that looked like it had never known a wrinkle. His eyes scanned the room like a hawk searching for prey.
“You,” he said, pointing at me. “Are you the assistant?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m—”
“Don’t care. I have fifteen meetings, four reports to review, and a phone call with corporate at noon. Stay close, don’t speak unless spoken to, and for the love of profit margins, don’t waste my time.”
And so began my day of survival.
9:00 a.m. – The First Firestorm
We walked into the first meeting with the marketing team. Mr. Denton sat at the head of the table, arms crossed. As the marketing manager began presenting quarterly numbers, I noticed Mr. Denton’s right eyebrow twitching.
“Is this a joke?” he interrupted, tapping the screen where a chart showed a slight dip in customer engagement.
“N-no, sir,” the manager stammered. “We’re just seeing a temporary—”
“Temporary? So is your leadership, if this keeps up.”
I scribbled notes frantically. Every line he spoke was like a sword slash, precise and brutal. I thought I might be next, but he barely glanced at me. I was invisible—which, in this case, felt like a blessing.
10:30 a.m. – Coffee Catastrophe
“Coffee,” he barked as we left the meeting. “Black. Hot. Strong. No sugar. No cream. No nonsense.”
I sprinted to the break room and poured what I hoped was an acceptable cup of office brew. I handed it to him in a ceramic mug.
He took a sip, paused, and looked me dead in the eyes.
“This is decaf.”
“I—uh—it was the only pot brewed—”
“Fix it. I need caffeine to tolerate incompetence.”
I bolted back, found the proper pot, and returned within three minutes. He didn’t thank me, but he took a second sip and didn’t throw the cup across the room. I counted that as a small win.
11:15 a.m. – The Printer Incident
“Print the latest finance report. Thirty copies. Double-sided. Stapled.”
I rushed to the printer, only to find it jammed. My stomach dropped. I could hear Mr. Denton pacing in the hallway.
I opened every tray, cleared the jammed paper, restarted the job, and somehow managed to get all thirty copies ready in under ten minutes.
“You’re two minutes late,” he said as I handed him the stack.
“Yes, sir. Paper jam.”
“Life is a paper jam. The key is not to get stuck.”
It was the first remotely philosophical thing he’d said all day.
12:00 p.m. – The Corporate Call
We entered the conference room for the corporate Zoom call. Mr. Denton had a checklist and expected me to monitor every item.
As the call started, I stood quietly behind him, noting each point, tracking who said what, and handing him relevant documents as he snapped his fingers.
Halfway through the call, one executive joked, “Don’t work your assistant too hard, Denton.”
Mr. Denton turned to the screen, stone-faced. “I don’t work my assistant. I expect them to work themselves.”
I felt like a cog in a machine—but at least I was a functional one.
1:30 p.m. – Lunchtime (Kind Of)
“Do you eat?” he asked suddenly.
“Um, yes?”
He nodded. “Good. I don’t. Waste of time.”
He handed me a protein bar and a list of tasks to complete while he reviewed performance evaluations.
I chewed in silence and tackled the list: organizing files, updating spreadsheets, and responding to a dozen flagged emails. My stomach grumbled, but I didn’t dare complain.
3:00 p.m. – Surprise Audit
He decided, with no warning, to audit the customer service department. We walked in, and he asked each employee to explain their role, metrics, and weekly goals. People fumbled. Others sweated. I saw one poor guy knock over a cup of pens.
Mr. Denton said nothing. He just nodded and left.
Outside, he muttered, “At least they’re honest about being unprepared. That’s rare.”
4:30 p.m. – The Turning Point
He called me into his temporary office. I braced for criticism.
Instead, he said, “You handled today better than most.”
I blinked. “Really?”
“You listened, you moved fast, and you didn’t whine. Most people complain before they even do the work. You just did it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He nodded. “You’re not special. You’re competent. That’s better.”
Was that… praise? From the meanest boss alive?
5:00 p.m. – Clock Out
He packed his briefcase and turned to me. “Send me a summary of today. Bullet points. No fluff. And if you ever find yourself managing others, remember this: being feared is easy. Being respected takes work. Try both.”
With that, he walked out.
I slumped into my chair, exhausted but oddly proud. I had survived. No, I had thrived.
Epilogue
The next morning, I found a sticky note on my desk.
“Good work. Keep it up. – D.”
It wasn’t much, but it felt like a trophy.
Because if you can survive the meanest boss for a day, you can survive anything.
