The VSS

I was finally gonna leave this dump. I knew my boss Strang had approved my VSS (that's voluntary service separation for all you non-Malaysians who are wondering). And everyone knows, if your immediate boss approves it, your group editor will sign on the dotted line. I mean, he was way too important to know every stupid rookie in the place.

So when Strang called me into his office to give me "the letter" I was reasonably confident. I flashed him a sweet smile and he bared his teeth in return. Then he sighed.

"You didn't get it."

"What you talking about? I know you approved it. And that's all there is to it, right?"

"Yeah I approved it. I shouldn't have though. Arshad rejected it."

Arshad was our group editor. He existed in the rarefied regions of the fifth floor descending occasionally to take off in his chauffeur-driven seven series. He was not supposed to know me from a bar of soap.

"But why?" My face crumpled in disappointment. I had so wanted to leave this place. And this way I would be leaving it with heaps of money in the pocket.

"When he came to your form, he said, isn't this the one with the..." Strang paused delicately.

Now Arshad is about 100 years old. A tiny, dried-up old man with a face like the bark of a tree. So when I asked Strang to go on, I was genuinely not prepared for what he said.

"With the what? Come on Strang. Don't hold out on me."

"Well, you know how he is."

"No I don't know how he is. We had been taught in training to respect him as the god almighty group editor for crying out loud. What did he say?"

"Is this the one with the big boobs?"

"Ewwwwwww! The big what? He said that? He wouldn't sign my papers because of that? The bastard! And I don't have big boobs!"

Strang smiled. "Well no, it was not only that. He asked me why I approved your VSS and I opened my mouth to say you were unproductive. But then I shut it again. So I said, well you know we have to let some people go, and very few agreed to the VSS. And he said, brother, just because we have to let people go, doesn't mean we will let someone who is young, pretty and good at her job go. Not approved."

I felt surprisingly warm. My (admittedly pervy) 100-year old group editor actually knew who I was. And he thought I was good at my job. Months of walking around feeling isolated and unappreciated melted away.

I walked back to my desk and saw my colleague Mals eyeing me warily.

"Well?"

"Um, Arshad said no."

"Yay!" she broke into a spontaneous cheer. "I knew it, I knew it. Why?"

I stared at her for a while and then grinned mischiveously: "Apparently, he likes my boobs."