Sunday night is my house’s Christmas dinner since it is my last night at home. So, while Dan cooks a chicken with numerous side dishes I go upstairs to call my boss. I have to use the house phone, which we keep unplugged in a cupboard upstairs, because my cell phone is out of credit.

So, Richard (the owner) answers the phone when I call. When I tell him it’s me he seems to know why I’m calling. This is a relief because it probably means he’s had time to figure out if he or anyone else can work. Unfortunately, this is not how it happened. I say, “Oh good, you’ve been informed” and he says “Ya, you’re flying out on Tuesday and have an early flight.” To which I say, “Uh, that’s true but I’m calling about my shift tomorrow because I’m feeling really unwell.” The he changes from the super friendly guy I had met twice before to a rude and immature school boy who’s not getting his way. He says, “Really? ‘Cause you seemed fine to me when you came to the shop today. You were laughing and joking and said hi to me” to which I reply, “Of course I said hi.” (This will be the last time during the conversation that I actually say what I was thinking. If I could have, I would have followed it up with “Was I not supposed to say hi to my boss just to prove that I am sick?”)

He says, “It’s very convenient, isn’t it, that you’re sick the day before your vacation time?”

(Actually, it’s really inconvenient to be sick on your vacation.) I say, “I’m calling you because I don’t know what to do.”

“Whatever, I’m used to people letting me down,” he says.

“That’s a little harsh…”

“I’ve had people working for me for 5 years, I’m used to it.” I explained that I was calling because I wanted to try to find a solution together.

“You might be well by tomorrow.”

“Ya, I could be but I’m still letting you know there’s the possibility that I won’t be.”

I list all the steps I went to through to try to get this covered; I got someone to switch from their closing shift to my opening shift because a closing shift is easier to cover (it requires no special training). I tried to be what I thought was helpful. All he did was make me feel guilty for sick.

I consider telling him the specifics of my cold, the whole coughing and spitting phlegm stuff but I also think at this point anything I do will just fuel his fire. (Listen, I know my body and I can tell you right now how I’ll feel tomorrow, and it’s far from better. It’s Stage 4, dammit!) Finally, he gives me the only phone number he can (after I specifically ask for it). The number is for Dean, the only guy with the day off, but if he works it will put him up to 6 days that week, more than full time.

I hang up with my boss, compose myself, and call Dean with my fingers crossed. Answering machine. Damn. I call my boss back to tell him. I want to tell him that I feel tricked. That I was led to believe that people can call in when they’re sick, and that bosses appreciate getting some warning (like the night before). And now that I am, on the advice of my manager, I’m being called a liar! I am very sad and mad at the same time, which of course, being me, results in my crying. (I want to scream: You don’t know anything about me! You met me once and went back to your house in Spain and now I’m coming to you with a problem, asking you how we can work it out together, and you’re trying to tell me how I feel! And you’re making assumptions about who I am. You don’t know me!) Instead, I start gasping for breath (the combination of crying and clogged nostrils makes breathing incredibly awkward).

Finally, we compromise. He asks me to work just during the lunch rush, from around 10-3. I feel this is the best I am going to get; at least I’ll get a couple more hours sleep. And it really isn’t about getting the day off. I am already packed and my train is already booked for 4:30, so it’s not like I can leave town any earlier, even if I did get the day off. Anyway, I agree mostly because I don’t want to be on the phone with him any more, and he agrees to work the rest of the shift (to close the shop) for which I am grateful.

After I hang up with him, I re-unplug the phone, shut the cabinet, and wipe the snot from my face. I walk to my room still gasping to breathe, made even harder still by trying to explain to my housemates what is wrong. The crying actually helps loosen up some of the congestion in my head. I briefly think of saving all my snotty tissues to present to my boss just to show him how not sick I really am. Then I remember I’m not in a sitcom and I can be fired.

For the rest of the night I eat dinner and open Christmas presents with my housemates. It is a lovely evening, however rough the start. That night, I go to bed with an alarm set to wake me up in time for work.