After a lunchtime spent eating a ham sammy while solo people-watching at Prince’s Island Park, clashing with the crowds of laughing families, ball-busting businessmen, and brightly colored runners, I return and confirm that Rhonda has officially shared my half of the inventory data grid with me, even though Caitlin received her piece yesterday evening. No matter, because I already finished it. Now I just have to wait a believable amount of time to return it.
Caitlin is throwing a plastic container, half full of browning Caesar salad, into the waste bin under her desk. Typical. There’s a whole recycling center in the lunchroom, yet she chooses to leave it up to the members of the cleaning service to properly dispose of her mess.
I log in to check if Caitlin’s already returned her part of the grid. Instead, I find another email from Cliff asking to schedule a meeting. Unlike Armin, Caitlin’s already responded and offered to see him tomorrow.
Fuck.
A DM appears from Caitlin to Garret.
Caitlin: I am so ready for this HR meeting. Have all my talking points prepped.
Caitlin: I don’t want to be too obvious, but I have plenty of examples of why I’m a better fit here than Jolene.
Garret: Yeah, be careful to not go overboard. What are you going to say?
Three dots bounce across the screen as Caitlin types. I lean in, my skin cooling, the goose bumps on the back of my wrist matching the ones continuously dancing on the screen.
Before any message appears, the accessible door beeps open, followed by a sleek stroller. “Helloooo!” calls the stroller pusher, also known as Celeste Laird, who is supposed to be on maternity leave for another six months. And unless that baby knows how to file, she must be bringing it to meet us.
Caitlin and Garret both instantly rise from their seats, leaving me in the dark.
The office is a blur of oohs and bright, tender faces, all rushing toward Celeste. I also notice a few stragglers, like Joy and Armin, who are hiding the screen guard and wrist support they each respectively looted from her desk as soon as she’d left.
I sit frozen, still staring at my screen. The three dots in the chat have disappeared. I was so close to knowing exactly what she had in store. Why can’t we normalize telling babies and the people who love them to fuck off in some polite way?
Rhonda leans over my cubicle wall and says, “Celeste brought her little guy in, isn’t that sweet?” She stares pointedly from me to the group of baby fans in case I’ve lost all six of my senses. Caitlin’s already at the stroller, front and center. I smile stiffly but make no move to stand and join them.
Then Gregory stomps out of his office, coffee in hand, rocking his chino fucking pants, and nods directly at me. “Let’s go see the baby!”
And it’s certain: not looking at this little asshole will cost me something.
So much of what I do here has nothing to do with my actual job, yet these little interactions matter so much. I trudge out of my seat and make my way toward the shit show. As soon as I reach the coffee-breathed group of people, I lock eyes with the baby and it, predictably, begins to wail.
Celeste picks it up and pats it on the back to soothe it while people continue to ask her boring questions about motherhood, her sleep schedule, and laundry. This little human doesn’t even realize the greatness of this: the only time in your life when people will simply ignore your public outbursts. The rest of us must cry without actually crying. This child, I learn as Celeste continues to soothe it, is named Thomas. I watch his little eyes dart around the room, taking it all in. Maybe Thomas is just now realizing that eventually he will grow up to spend all his daylight hours under fluorescent lights and water-stained ceiling tiles.
I don’t mean to chuckle at that depressing thought, and I stifle it as soon as I can, but that doesn’t stop a few eyes from drawing my way while I pretend I didn’t just cackle at a technically crying baby.
Then Thomas begins being passed around like a hot burrito. I curl my hands close against my chest and try to back away. When Caitlin takes said bundle, it stops crying in an instant, and her face softens in a way that makes me realize how hard it’s been lately. She inhales the top of the baby’s head—which is a choice—then smiles and says to Celeste, “So how is being a mom?”
Celeste starts describing things that sound dire as shit. Rhonda, who has taken up a position behind Celeste’s left shoulder, nods along while intermittently agreeing or interjecting about how it was with her sweet baby Carl.
Gregory randomly pokes the fucking baby in the belly, and the cries start again in a screeching pitch.
Has anyone ever punched him in the face?
“How was the birth?” Stu for some cursed reason has to ask. I take a step back in order to avoid sticking around for Celeste’s answer.
Rhonda flashes me a disapproving stare. Why is it so socially acceptable to discuss a human getting pushed or cut out of a body, yet somehow, it’s unprofessional for me to simply work rather than hold the tiny person I don’t even know, while it’s wearing something designed to catch any fecal matter that comes out of it?
I quietly take another step away. And another.
I pass Joey and am almost in the clear when Caitlin loudly says, “Don’t take that personally—it’s her. We need to catch up about that as well.”
I lower into my chair, and her fractured message chain greets me on my screen. Who does she think she is? Her cackle rattles with the flash of the burning-out fluorescent above her. It’s the cackle of someone who believes herself a goddess.
And that’s it!
I check to make sure nobody is around, and thankfully, they’re all still at the infant show. I flip to her document folder and type Iamagoddess19* when prompted. I try to stop myself from shaking as my heart pounds into my eardrums.
I click, and in an instant her inventory report covers my screen. It’s almost complete. I move a decimal, such a tiny thing. I change a 63 to 64, an easy typo to make if one’s not focusing.
My finger hesitates before clicking. I can’t actually sabotage—it’s a different line. Deniability, even to myself, won’t be an option.
But as she passes the baby to Garret, I realize there’s no telling what she’s going to say to manipulate Cliff tomorrow. And there’s no telling what else she’s done over the years—how much my reputation has been messed with in silent conversations and quiet sabotage.
This is the only thing I can control.
I save the changes and close out.