Let him know what’s what.

You let Bernie know what’s what.

“Call them again,” he insists, his jowls shaking. “Look, Bella, you have to know how to handle people. Go up the chain of command. Bug a VP if you have to. I told you, we have a 24-hour SLA with these people. I haven’t been able to print my email in two goddamn days!”

Duffer-Moore does not, in fact, have a Service Level Agreement with these people. A copy of the agreement had been filed two years ago, but Larry, Duffer-Moore’s lawyer and resident layabout, had never actually gotten around to finalizing or signing it. You learned that just this morning.

Your carefully-considered reply is drowned out by loud thumps from the office on the floor above, followed by an unholy screech. The walls shudder. The tennant upstairs has been doing what sounds like heavy construction ever since you arrived. It has triggered a creeping migraine.

Bernie glares at you expectantly, eyes wide with intensity. The momentary silence from upstairs is punctuated by a series of insistently loud pops, each one driving a metaphorical electric ice pick into the space behind your eyes.

Something has to give.