Jenny Craig is the manager. Not a manager, the manager, the one who appears the instant somebody asks to speak to a supervisor and immediately makes them regret it.
She is in her fifties, heavy set, hair piled into a giant bun, and permanently attached to a cigarette. The voice does the rest: deep and gravelled at the bottom but loud and animated on top, climbing and swelling until everyone in earshot has been told how the situation actually is. A decades deep cough cuts in after the loudest lines, and she has never once acknowledged it.
Whatever the setting, she is the one above the people doing the work. Her last posting was supervisor at Post OP running a crew of delivery drivers, a job that produced a police pursuit that escalated a long way past anything the officers wanted. She was in the middle of it and did not back down from any of it.
Her threats have a flavor all their own. She can find things on the dark web, she says. Anything about you. A couple of clicks and your life is over. She never says what she would find or what she would do with it, and she has never once demonstrated any of it, which is exactly why nobody can be sure.
She drives a Tesla with a plate that reads NO METH. No explanation has ever been offered. When she gets pulled over she climbs out of the car uninvited and explains to the officer why this is their fault. It never was. The skill is that she rides right up to the edge of arrestable and parks there, every time.
And if you notice the name and say so, she has one answer ready: “You calling me fat?”
