“How about an extra $50 per hour?”

A couple hundred dollars would hardly do anything for my home improvement. My pride was worth at least double that.

“Ehhh,” I wavered. “I already have plans…”

“How about a flat $1,000? Plus I’ll cover your meal, of course.”

Now we were negotiating.

“Okay, I can cancel. But if you want me to dress up, you’ve got to purchase what you want me to wear.”

He thought for only a moment, bushy eyebrows wagging.

“Deal. Just pick out a dress you like and charge it to my American Express. Don’t come looking like a…what’s the word you people use? A ho. This is a classy affair.”

A ho.

“Oh, and make sure you do your hair to look extra Black. I want to make it clear we support colored folks.”

Colored folks.

“I’ll have my driver come pick you up at your house on Friday night at seven o’clock sharp. Although I dislike the idea of venturing into the ghetto at night. Only low-class people there. Barely human.”

The ghetto. Low-class people. Barely human.

I inhaled a calming breath. I bit my bottom lip. I counted to ten. But something snapped inside me. I couldn’t go on being a doormat for this demeaning prick. Job be damned. If I didn’t speak up for myself now, I never would.

“Mr. Randolph,” I began calmly, “I have something to say, and I would appreciate you not interrupting. First of all, I would never dream of showing up at the dinner wearing anything that might embarrass you, your prospective clients, or myself. Second, I suppose I should thank you for not using the N-word, but the term colored folks is just as offensive and ignorant. And third, yes, I live in Wilkinsburg in a modest house in a poor part of town, but it is far more of a home than this, this…shrine to your inflated ego!”

I felt a trickle of sweat running down my forehead and angrily flicked it off. Mortimer looked at me like I was a human oddity in a sideshow exhibit, more curious than angry at this point. I kept going.

“For years I’ve endured your ogling my goodies, making me feel less than human. And I’ve been your arm candy for more stodgy dinner parties than I care to remember, overhearing your pompous ass partners refer to me as ‘Morty’s brown sugar,’ and worse. I’m supposed to be your personal assistant, but you treat me like a glorified maid. You like to see me steppin’ and fetchin’ like some simple-minded slave out of Gone with the Wind, don’t you? Well, welcome to the twenty-first century, old man!”

Mortimer reared back in his chair and steepled his knobby fingers. He was smirking, enjoying the show, daring me to keep digging my own grave. I obliged the old bastard. There was no stopping me now.