As I make my way down the lone and darker corridor that leads to Cliff’s office, my mind races. I have a bit of heavy lifting to do today, since my first few impressions weren’t great.
Entering Cliff’s office is like emerging from a cave. The blinds are pulled back to let in the sun, which twinkles against all his plastic action figures. Something in my peripheral vision catches me: a cardboard cutout of Bob from Bob’s Burgers is leaning against the back wall. It wasn’t here when I came to talk about my email problem yesterday, which means, between then and now, he put it in his car, walked it through the parkade and up the elevator, unfolded it, and set it up.
What is wrong with this man?
I find the maniac in question leaned over his desk, scribbling on a notepad. His gaze pulls up as I cross the threshold. “Hey, it’s my carpool buddy.” He follows my gaze toward the new decoration. “I see you’re interested in Bob?” He grins, and I notice that the shades of brown in his eyes catch in the light like a kaleidoscope.
Get Cliff to like me, my list said. I gotta relate on this guy’s level. I nod enthusiastically. “Oh, yeah,” I reply. “Super interesting cartoon. One of my all-time faves.”
He’s still smiling, but his eyes narrow suspiciously. Shit, how can he see through me so fast? “I’m going to choose to believe that and not ask anything specific about it.”
“Probably for the best.” I smile back and scan for something better, something I actually like, but hardly anything in his office, despite the clutter, is something I recognize. It’s like we’re from different realities. He’s the pampered HR rep with millions’ worth of fandom crap, and I’m the admin who loves reality shows and early 2000s repeats where I’ve memorized all the plotlines.
He clears his throat and gestures to a box of Timbits. “Please, help yourself.”
I take a tentative step toward his desk. “Are any of those jelly filled?”
He shakes his head aggressively. “Why would I ever get jelly filled?”
I try not to let my pleasure at his correct answer show. “Because, Cliff, some people are just born evil.”
“Too right.” He grins, and I can’t help it when my mouth twitches too. And as I take the first bite of the chocolate donut, the sugary glaze cracking against my lips, my gaze draws to a framed poster of some Star Wars thing. Cliff notices and nods pointedly at it. “That’s a remake, but still really limited.”
I nod as if those words make sense to me and take a step closer. “That frame is huge. It must’ve cost a fortune.”
Cliff crosses his arms, a bit bashful. “Yeah, I like the . . .” He provides some explanation about “novelty” and “community,” but all I can think about is the amount of effort it must have taken to get a framed poster that heavy hung on these paper-thin walls.
Maybe this whole office arrangement is some psychological move on his behalf. Everyone who comes here will think he’s relatable and just like you or me with these irreverent vibes. This could be a whole operation from head office to get people to think of him as a normal guy.
“It’s so nice.” I try to sound more convincing this time, but the words feel weird and loose on my lips.
“Right.” His hands smack together and pull a plastic chair from the corner of the room, wheels squeaking and resisting their journey. “Have a seat there. It’s time for you to watch a video.”
“And what will you be doing while I watch the video?” I ask.
“I have to watch you watch the video.” His wince is the only clue he’s actually serious.
As I sit down, he goes to adjust the blinds, cutting off the sunlight and plunging the room back into the drabby greige shadows that should really be the Supershops brand colors. My palms start to sweat. “But who is going to watch you watch me?”
His eyelids droop to half-mast. “Nobody.”
“So they’re just going to take your word for it then? Must be nice.”
“I have taken an oath.” His smirk suggests otherwise, but he walks over to his office door and pushes it shut. This whole lights-off, door-closed thing feels a little too covert. “This video can touch on some sensitive and intimate topics,” he says, “so please let me know if you’re feeling uncomfortable at any point.”
“Sorry, but my doctor says I’m not allowed to watch any more porn at work.” I laugh at my joke, but the way his body goes still stops me. Shit. Why oh why would that be the thing I say?
“Excuse me, Jolene?” His head shakes once. My stomach drops. Why did I not practice before I interacted with another human today? “That doesn’t sound like medical advice at all. I think your doctor should stay in their lane.”
I have severely underestimated him.
Every time he quips back, it’s like we’re in on something together. Like we could be friends . . .
Except we can’t be. Not really.
He pulls up his chair beside me, and I pick up his soft bar soap scent. I try not to picture him using the soap as a professional courtesy to us both.
He clicks on a remote, and the bulky ’90s television monitor crackles to life. The video begins with dreary music as the title flashes across the screen, likely made by an early version of PowerPoint: HARASSMENT AT WORK: DON’T BE PART OF THE PROBLEM.
Next plays a scene where a manager slaps an employee on the butt. I can’t help but chuckle. “This is what they’re still peddling over at the old HR mill?”
Cliff gives a curt nod without looking at me. “There’s no need to comment on the video. There will be a quiz.”
I shrug. “Let me take it now, then. Contrary to popular belief, I’m actually fantastic at not being a harasser. I mostly keep to myself while I’m out there.” I nod pointedly toward the hallway.
He clicks the remote to pause the video and turns to me, resting his hand on the arm of his chair. “I haven’t actually had the opportunity to observe any form of reservation from you.” He raises a teasing eyebrow, then becomes more serious. “But ignoring your colleagues can cause issues too.”
“Fair.” I nod and stare straight ahead. “I’m working on that too.”
He restarts the video. We spend about eight minutes facing the monitor, but all I can hear is the hum of the VCR and the sound of his every breath.
Kissing ass shouldn’t be this difficult. I need to focus on the goal here.
But then the video shifts to a scene of two colleagues pointing at someone who spilled coffee on themselves. And it’s funny the things that seem like they should be nothing. It’s just a subpar production with bad acting. But all the air in the room turns heavy. Then my hands close in on themselves and I realize I’m not breathing. It’s their laughter—when it’s at someone’s expense, it always sounds the same. The fuzzy outline of another scene, one I’ve replayed a million times in my mind, takes shape: Ellie, running farther into the woods, stumbling and angry.
This room is too small and much too hot.
“Stop,” I croak. I grab the remote from the arm of Cliff’s chair and jab at the pause button.
Cliff’s eyebrows draw together. “Everything okay?”
“Sorry,” I mutter, immediately aware that I am not being normal. But the intensity of his stare is not helping me control the heartbeat pounding against my eardrums. “I just—it’s fine—sorry.” The second apology feels like too much.
Cliff creaks out of his seat and makes his way to an actual minifridge I hadn’t noticed before. From it he pulls a Supershops brand water.
I crack the cap and let the liquid flow into me and cool me from within before resting the bottle on my overheating forehead. I shouldn’t have actually focused. I should have just zoned out and not have been thinking thoughts and feeling things all the time. That’s the life hack everyone else has tapped in to.
“Was it something in the video?” His eyes are still darting across my face with concern.
This can’t be how this is going. I’m trying to get him to like me, not pity me. I shake my head too hard. “I’d like to challenge the test now. As fun as it is to see this company’s productions, I have quite a bit of work I’d like to get to.”
“It doesn’t work that way. I have to sign off on you watching the video.” He smiles sheepishly. “This isn’t high school.”
And those words hit something deep inside me too. I don’t think I physically respond to it, but somehow he must sense my reaction, because he stops what he’s writing—literally puts down his pen—and leans closer to me.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” His voice is soft. It makes me feel like I’m one of those butterflies museums pin under glass.
“Yes,” I tell him. “I think I’m just . . . This week is not me at my best, and I’m feeling guilty about everything. I just want to do well.” I can’t quite look him in the eye.
Cliff’s mouth forms a line. Then he goes to his desk and shuffles some papers until he produces a pamphlet. He holds it out for me so I can read the title: Anxiety and the Workplace.
I cross my arms so the pamphlet has no place to land. “I don’t need that.”
“I’m just trying to help.” His voice is gentle. I remind myself that this is fake corporate concern, which can so easily be turned against me.
“If you’re implying I have some masked issues, everyone in this office does. I mean, you have a pretty high toy-to-adult ratio going on in your office here, but I was polite enough not to point it out.”
“Until now.” He raises a brow, but a smirk starts at the corner of his mouth. It gives me hope that we can brush this off as a joke.
“Right. I’m just saying, one might think you have a Peter Pan issue or something, but I doubt you have any pamphlets about that.”
Redness spreads from under Cliff’s beard, moving to his temples, and his gaze falls to the floor.
It’s so odd to regret words the moment you’ve spoken them. There’s just something he brings out in me. It feels too comfortable.
“Sorry,” I say, and I try to convey just how sincere I am. “I didn’t mean that. I just meant . . . Let me put it this way: If you were seeking mental health advice, would you really source that information from Supershops Incorporated? I mean, would any employee want their employer helping them with their mental health when they’ve done so much to harm it?”
A single chuckle escapes him. “As a representative of Supershops Incorporated, of course I believe this is the best company in the world. But let’s say, theoretically, I agreed with you that it’s not the greatest with benefits.” He’s still trying to meet my eyes, but I avoid him by staring at the Lego Bowser on his desk. “I get it if Supershops has let you down in the past, but you’ve never worked with me before.”
His words hang between us, simple and true. He’s asking me to trust him.
Trust can be dangerous.
But, I remind myself, it will only be for four weeks. For now, I need to focus on doing whatever it takes to keep my job.
“That’s fair,” I say. And then I force a smile. “Thanks. Could you, uh, not tell anyone about this—”
“Not tell anyone what?” He winks. “And since none of this happened, I guess we should finish the movie. If you’re up for it?”
I nod, so he leans over me to grab the remote back. The warmth of his body radiates toward me for a brief second, before he’s back in his seat and the light of the TV flashes on once more.
I try to watch with full concentration, but my fingers keep jittering against my leg and I keep peeking his way. Next time I encounter Cliff, I need to be more careful. Most important, I need to stay in control.
Because with him, it’s too easy.