Before work even starts, the morning is already going decently. I got in early with Cliff, and during the ride I managed to get him to explain the history of Warhammer and how measuring tape is somehow involved. He was focused enough on driving that he didn’t even notice my eyes glazing over.
In the office I made the coffee without burning it. It didn’t smell great, but it worked, and both Jean Adler and Joy Chan, the other early birds, have already enjoyed a cup, or at least consumed a cup.
More important, I’ve prepared three documents to share with Rhonda. With the morning ready, I move on to my private audits. I check Caitlin’s emails first, but nothing notable appears. Armin has a note from Cliff asking him to schedule a check-in. Shit, I hope Caitlin hasn’t actually convinced him to turn on me.
Next, I check on Rhonda. There’s a new note from Gregory, requesting that she make a virtual logbook for the quarterly reports—or, to be more accurate, a follow-up on the request he sent last month. I double-check and find the original note sitting in her Things to Figure Out folder.
At this rate, there might be no saving her in time.
One other new message in her inbox pops out:
Congratulations Rhondabear1960,
You’re ready to start meeting people in the area. Welcome to Silver Timings.
We’ve added some exciting profiles for you to explore.
I close out immediately upon seeing three of the same type of red-faced man in a too close/low profile. One of them has his knee on a canoe to show he’s outdoorsy, but his shorts sit tucked around his junk to show he’s violating as well.
Enough of that, I tell myself. But I am a masochist, I guess, because less than two seconds later, I head to the website and search for Rhondabear1960.
Her profile picture shows her with a big golden brooch on her blouse, pink blush smeared like sharp lines on her cheeks, and her hair curled out with even more bounce than usual. The background looks familiar, and I flash back to the work conference three years ago where the photo must’ve been taken. There was a banquet and a dance floor. I ended up at a table with people from Ontario whom I didn’t know, since I didn’t get invited to sit with others from our office. When the DJ played a Drake song and way too many office-panted men with tucked-in shirts started toward the dance floor, I got the fuck out of there and retreated to my hotel room with the two queen beds: a drinking bed and a sleeping bed. That’s where Rhonda’s profile photo is from.
Her caption reads: I’m the self-sufficient single mom of one very busy adult son. Looking for someone to fill my evenings and weekends with. I like to converse, sew, and plan parties. No sex freaks! I want someone to spend time with me for me. The sex will come after.
Whoa. Rhonda said the quiet part of dating profiles out loud. I stifle a giggle, even though the office is still pretty much empty. But just below it reads:
Companionship is all I want. Looking for someone willing to spend time with me. We can shop, go to movies, and all the other things life has to offer. Would be able to spend the holidays with you and your family. Grandkids very welcome. I would love to cook a big meal for them or do crafts together! I’m serious! Last Christmas I had too much food and no mouths.
Last Christmas, all I recall is Rhonda’s relentless bragging about her festive plans. She said Carl had booked her and him a week in Banff, where he took her to the fancy fondue restaurant on Main Street. At the time, it sounded a little American Psycho, but did she actually make it up?
I almost miss Rhonda pounding into the room behind me with her giant embroidered bag while her profile’s papering my screen. I snap the page shut just in time.
“Good morning,” I say, way too brightly.
For a moment she hesitates, odd expression on, before a smile forms on her face and she replies, “Good morning.” She takes a folder and heads to the copy room.
The manual clock strikes 8:15. Caitlin and Armin trickle in and settle into their desks, giving my turned-on monitor and nearly empty coffee mug a double take as they pass me, like me being early is some marvel.
Rhonda returns holding a stack of freshly photocopied papers. She goes over to Armin and proffers them.
“Morning, dear. I’ve finished the Q2 forms for you.”
Armin frowns as he takes the pages. “Rhonda, we talked about this. Can’t you just send me this grid in an email? When you give it to me like this, I have to retype everything and it takes twice as long.”
“It’s easier for me to work on a hard copy,” Rhonda says, nonplussed.
“Easier for you, maybe. Is it easier for all of us, though?” Armin splays out his hands toward Caitlin like he’s garnering support.
No support comes.
His gaze crawls toward me. I hunch lower in my chair, glad that I have my earphones on even though I’m not playing anything, and do my best impression of a focusing-on-work worker.
When I peep at him next, he’s riffling through another stack. “Why are you printing so much anyway? Why did you need to carbon copy this email from Marsha in finance, when we already have the digital version? Can’t you see this madness? The environment suffers when you don’t stop yourself from printing.”
“Oh, stop.” Rhonda squares her shoulders. “You young people talk about saving the environment but then don’t do anything but send a tweet that’s all for show.”
Caitlin nods way too hard. “That’s such a good point.”
Rhonda’s chest puffs up. “Thank you, dear.” She returns her focus to Armin. “You kids today spend more time trying to make people miserable online than making yourselves happy in real life. My son’s your generation, but he hardly ever touches his phone.”
Every time Rhonda and Armin disagree, it always devolves into a debate about generational differences. We then hear about how great Rhonda’s son is.
And we all suffer.
I pretend to stare at my screen, stone-faced.
Armin grates his bottom lip with his teeth. “But seriously, why are you printing so much?” He gestures at the many, many stacks of papers on her desk. “All this information exists online, and it would be easier for everyone if it stayed that way.”
“Not for me. Everything came printed before. That’s what I’m used to,” she mutters as she twists her erasable pen between her palms.
“If you aren’t able to keep up with the office, maybe it’s time to consider—”
“Retiring? Is that what you want?” And oh shit, now Armin has done it. Rhonda splays her hands out on the desk, the five pounds of costume jewelry rings clinking on her fingers as she pushes herself into a standing position—her jaw set, eyes wide as she can make them.
“Goodness, no,” Caitlin chimes in, a sickly-sweet smile on her face. “No one wants that.”
Armin winces. “Rhonda, I didn’t mean—”
“I’d love to,” Rhonda interrupts. “My Carl’s been begging me to. He wants me to have more time to travel and help him when he starts a family. But just because I prefer working on a printout, that doesn’t mean I need to be put to pasture. Besides, the tires would fall off this place without me.”
Rhonda pushes back her shoulders and takes a heavy breath. Her gaze flows to Caitlin, who still has that fake grin plastered on her face, then to my area. My first impulse is to cower from her attention. Work shouldn’t involve the constant danger of other people noticing us.
Then I look down at my desk—at the drawer where my secret list sits inside.
Two of the goals:
An idea jangles through my nerves. This could be a good two-birds-with-one-stone situation.
I bolt out of my seat and rip my headphones off. “I can retype the grid for you,” I squeal.
Everyone stops. Armin’s and Rhonda’s wide eyes draw to me at the same speed. Caitlin’s smirk slides right off her face.
My pulse pounds as the room blurs. Only their stares glom to me perfectly clear.
“Pardon me, dear?” Rhonda’s brows narrow.
Heat rushes through me. Why did I have to do that? “Just . . . I’m sort of caught up with work, so I could retype the grid and Armin can work off that, if it’s helpful,” I croak. My hands ball into fists as my pulse pounds.
Caitlin inserts, “Yeah, that’s a good point. Jolene doesn’t have anything going on, really.”
I blink as I force my face to remain neutral. My knees feel like Jell-O as I stand pathetically, pinned by their shocked expressions.
“That’s very nice of you,” Rhonda begins slowly.
Armin shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have to do more work, Jolene.” He won’t quite look at me as he speaks. “Updating the grid is my task.”
“It’s no trouble! I was actually thinking about archiving all the quarterly reports virtually anyway.”
Rhonda’s eyebrows dart together. “Did Greg ask you to do this?”
I shake my head. “No, in fact, I was hoping you’d bring up the change to digital logbooks to Greg since he trusts you so much. Why?”
I struggle not to flinch as she searches my face. I have a theory that when you get to be her age, you can smell bullshit better than a fly.
“I just wanted to make sure you’d be on board,” I continue quickly. “And if you want, we could make the schedules like that too. Everything, eventually.”
She stiffens as my words land. “But how would I ever use them?”
“Well, if you wanted, I could sit down with you and go through it? Like during a quiet time—or I could email you step-by-step instructions.” Again, she stiffens, her fingers clenching into little bony fists at the bottom of her blouse. “I’m not trying to overstep. I was already doing it with some of the docs Caitlin and I use, and it just seemed like a good moment to bring it up.”
“That would work for me.” A tiny threat of a smile creeps into the corners of her lips. “Thank you, Jolene.”
“Glad we could find a resolution,” Caitlin says, narrowing her eyes at me. With the match officially declared over, we all lower back into our seats. I practically fall into my chair, my skin still flushed.
The DM to Rhonda and Armin appears in an instant.
Caitlin: So tell me that wasn’t creepy??
I can’t breathe.
Rhonda: Jolene? She’s trying to help.
Caitlin: Yeah, maybe.
Caitlin: But when has she ever offered to help, or even joined a conversation? I feel like she’s been watching our every move lately.
I feel Armin’s eyes tick toward me and my skin goes taut. Admittedly, the creepy factor wasn’t something I considered when I tried to enact my plan, and the optics were unfortunate in that sense.
His reply finally flashes across my screen.
Armin: She was just being nice.
Caitlin: Yep. Anyway, I’ve got lots of work. Best of luck with the nice stalker. You should probably report her before you end up tied up in her apartment, though.
Caitlin clicks the chat closed and starts toward the copy room.
I should log in to her email now and send a message to herself that reads: You are a goddess. It would be the only time getting fired might be worth it.
But at least I’ve achieved one small victory here. Armin hasn’t totally been swayed by Caitlin to join the firing squad against me. I don’t think.
Yet, even as the office returns to its normal beat, I still jitter from it all. I do a quick scan of Armin’s emails. He still hasn’t replied to Cliff’s meeting request, but I’ll have to keep an eye on that. I’ve bought myself some time, but not much.
I check Rhonda’s again next. She’s pulled one email out of the Things to Figure Out file and responded to Gregory: Will have this ready by the end of the week :)
When I glance at her, I expect her to look pleased. But instead, she’s slouching, staring at the inspirational sayings pinned along the border of her cubicle. After a beat, she picks up her phone. I silently hiss through my teeth. What if she’s calling Gregory, or even Cliff in HR, because she believes Caitlin and thinks I’m plotting something?
I quickly click into her phone log and check the number. It’s not internal; it’s that same number again. This is it: the Ghost Call.
A few moments pass; presumably she is listening to a ringtone. I hold my breath and wait. Only it’s like a balloon deflating. Just as her phone records predicted, every time she calls this number it goes unanswered. I hear her receiver placed down with a solemn click.
The curiosity is too much. So before thinking too hard, I grab my desk phone and dial the number from her log.
I make sure my earbuds are plugged into the phone about twenty times, my heartbeat picking up with every drawn-out ring. I check behind me for no good reason. After four rings, the automated voicemail lady voice comes in: You’ve reached the mailbox for: Carl Staples. Mailbox is full.
My heart plummets, matching the drone of the punishing dial tone.
I put down the receiver.