It takes sipping a full glass of water and staring at the tiles in the copy room for an unknown amount of time before I’m ready to return to the pods. I’m not quite on solid ground as I make my way to my desk. And when I do, my inbox waits with a formally toned email from Cliff, with attached instructions to close out our session from today and a note that he’ll see me next week for the next one and promises that he’ll continue to support my successful completion of the course. I type: Sounds good, thanks, hit send, close out, and stare forward, willing my emotions down. Willing myself to be a desk bot.
I scan the other pods: Caitlin hasn’t returned, but Armin is already back to dozing off in his seat like nothing happened. I notice that Rhonda’s discreetly wiping her eyes with a tissue. We lock eyes only for a second before she averts my gaze and focuses on her screen.
Gregory marches up to the cubicle block and says to me, “Caitlin never came back up, did she? Her reports are due.”
I shrug in the politest way possible, I think.
Armin pipes in: “I saw her on her phone when I was coming back. Sounded like she was pissed at some wedding vendor or something. She was telling the guy to shut up.”
Gregory harumphs and stalks away toward the elevators, probably to find some intern to help him print something.
Out of nowhere, Rhonda stands up, grabbing her quilted coat and embroidered purse.
Armin looks up in surprise. “Hold up, you’re not leaving, are you?”
Rhonda looks at the floor, her chin wobbling. “I’m needed somewhere. I have to go.”
“Is that so? I’m not sure you’ve cleared this time off with anyone.” The corner of Armin’s mouth pulls up into a self-satisfied smirk, and I get what he’s doing, but I want to slap him because this is not the moment. “You haven’t even sent me the copy I need for Greg’s party yet. I’m heading to the print shop tonight.”
Rhonda rocks on her feet, her whole demeanor frail. “Right,” she says slowly. “Okay, give me a few minutes.” She starts to drop her bag again, and I catch moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes.
“I can do it,” I announce.
Rhonda turns to me, nearly slumping with relief. “Jolene, are you sure?”
I nod. “Of course. It’s a Morale Booster thing. I’m a Morale Booster.”
“Okay.” The corners of her lips flutter upward, barely a smile, but it’s there. “Jolene, thank you . . . for everything.”
I gesture toward the hallway. “Just go. Your appointment is more important than anything here.”
As Rhonda strides out, Caitlin returns, tapping furiously on her phone.
“Told that vendor where to shove it then?” Armin says. Caitlin looks up at him, confused. “Anyway, Gregory is looking for some report.”
“Oh my god, I’ll get it to him soon. He needs to calm down,” she mutters. She rubs at her eye, and I catch a smudge of mascara under her left tear duct. The state of emergency in this place post–fire drill is something else.
Armin looks toward me. “Jolene, if you’re really doing the write-up about Gregory, I need it by four.”
“The what?” Oh god, what did I sign myself up for?
Armin raises his eyebrows, a hint of amusement in his expression. “Rhonda wanted a written toast to sit on the tables for Gregory’s anniversary party. Like, a quick summary of his career and awards, a short thing about his family life, I guess.”
This task is my personal nightmare, actually, but as I look at Rhonda’s empty cube, I know of course I have to do it.
A good way to not be okay is to spend a whole afternoon internet-stalking a man who every time you see his face, a part of you wants to curse your own existence because it means having to witness his. But the faster I finish, the quicker I can go home and drink the horrible new knowledge of Gregory away.
The interesting slash depressing thing about working for a corporation that’s been around for as long as Supershops has is that a lot of things that are obvious wastes of time and money have most certainly happened. In my deep dive of the company database, I’ve learned that between the years 2004 and 2013, the office had a “newspaper.” It was literally a weekly periodical about the people here and the things they did. There’s a notice about the formation of the office Coffee Club (decades old, who would have thought!), an article about the office-wide switch to Windows Vista, and a write-up of a Bring Your Child to Work Day, featuring an old picture of Rhonda with a young child hugging her waist, who the caption confirms is Carl. I stare at their beaming smiles for several seconds, every muscle in my body as heavy as lead.
Gregory was featured in this newspaper three times.
The first was on January 4, 2005, when Gregory launched a new motivational contest for the office employees. I could’ve used this, but Larry D. Goodwin won, and the picture is of Gregory handing him a laminated certificate.
The second was on March 30, 2009, for winning a best tie contest. He’s pictured holding up the neckwear in question to display the rubber duckie pattern—such an asshole tie to buy.
The third mention is on July 13, 2013, featuring him flipping pancakes for the annual company breakfast. It’s an obvious photo-op moment: he’s posing with a spatula, serving up a bullshit smile to someone holding a plate requesting actual food. The death glare from the person waiting in line behind them is a thing of beauty. It’s nice to see like-minded people in the world.
All three of these mentions have to do with team-building programs he launched that eventually died out. Obviously, I’m not really supposed to embarrass him in his toast, but the temptation bites.
I do my best to pad the write-up with some vague sentences copied from the internet about things to say about great bosses, before moving on to the portion about his family life. I forgot his wife’s name; she’s that lady in the picture on his desk. But then it hits, the fastest way to find it: the Papa Bear email. I take some calming breaths before opening the message that knocks exactly six years off my life span every time I view it.
Thankfully, Gregory has the email address listed in his contacts. I finish my write-up with: “During his free time, Gregory loves to BBQ, golf, and spend time with his loving wife, Sheila.” I’ll play the odds that either he is a BBQ golf guy or, if he isn’t, he’ll be flattered that people think he is.
I shoot it off to Armin, and as I watch the email disappear from my screen, I wish that I could wipe this knowledge from my brain as easily.