I stare down the scratched-up door to our office floor, willing myself to open it. Each dent tells the story of someone knocking it with the paper cart on a different version of the same old day. My hand is heavy as I pull the handle and drag myself into the sterile air that hasn’t seen the light of day.
As I make my way to my desk, nobody looks up. The drone of the computer fans matches the blank stares the humans give the machines in return. I’m invisible, until Rhonda’s gaze drifts to me—it’s just a small nod, but that’s more than I usually get.
I give her a small grin in return.
Armin is zoning out, presumably still working on the same accounting grids he’s been staring at but hasn’t altered in a significant way for days. If you don’t look too closely, he appears to be the busiest unconscious guy around.
Caitlin marches out of the copy room to her desk. She’s in high-rise tailored pants with iron-pressed lines my mom would be impressed by. I suppose she wanted to look good for her big meeting with Cliff today.
I tried really hard on the drive in with him this morning, hoping to keep up our vibe from last night. I asked him about some trading cards he had in his car’s console, and it was like setting off a firework, how animated he got. I nodded in all the right places, enthusiastic as a clam this time. But the damage Caitlin will do today is out of my control. All I can do is deal with the shrapnel.
I conduct some quick email audits, but it’s clear nothing new or notable has happened. Rhonda doesn’t even have a single new match on her dating site.
I expand my reading into other departments. It’s kind of addicting to read work-related emails about tasks I know nothing about. It’s like a bizarro-world version of my department, a puzzle made of several different shapes. And it’s also mad how the same tasks get volleyed around departments, going nowhere or being repeated unnecessarily. If I ever suspected my work was pointless, I now can provide evidence.
The wildest part of it all is that it doesn’t have to be this way. I follow a trail into some supply chain memo and open some shared documents to track how it’s being implemented and—
“Quick question for you, my dear.”
A startled gasp escapes me as I register life away from my screen. Holy crap—I somehow missed Rhonda approaching my workspace from behind. I rush to click the window closed.
Her gaze jumps to my monitor, clumps of eyeshadow already gathering in the wrinkles of her eyelids.
She crouches closer. “Is now a good time?”
“Now is great!” I reply, while Caitlin’s posture perks toward us in my peripheral vision.
“Great.” Her voice lowers. “The digital grid . . . there are a few things I’m not sure how to . . .”
A pang tightens in my chest at her timid stance, her fiddling hands. “Let me come to your desk and we’ll go through it together.”
As we make our way to her workstation, Caitlin’s eyes bulge, somehow still on her screen yet watching us.
I walk Rhonda through navigating the document, and I can tell she’s really trying to learn. She asks good questions, does things twice to be sure she gets it. I’m going over the formatting tool when I feel it. Rhonda has rested her hand on my arm, warm and kind. Both our eyes dart to her hand as she says, “I think I have it from here, dear.” Her voice is quiet, like she’s afraid to really speak the words out loud. “Thank you.” It’s the faintest smile, barely even there, but every crumb of it genuine—enough to make me forget why I started helping her, for just a second.
“Of course,” I croak.
Predictably, as I sit down again, a new message from Caitlin pops up.
Caitlin: What’s happening? Is Jolene giving you computer lessons?
Rhonda: She’s helping with that project I’m doing for Gregory. Nothing exciting, dear, mostly account archiving.
Caitlin: If you’d like more help, don’t be afraid to ask me. I can even look things over for you—make sure Jolene’s leading you on the right track.
Rhonda: Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.
Rhonda: And if you’d like me to double-check your inventory reports before submitting to Gregory, I’d be happy to. Make sure no future errors.
The gasp I let out. The grin that stretches across my cheeks. I smack my hand over my mouth to hide it. I always knew Rhonda had sharp knives, but not these razors. I dare a peep at Caitlin; her eyes are locked hard on the screen, typing double speed. Caitlin continues to type furiously, but I don’t see any bouncing dots in the chat. I double-check her DM history; she’s not chatting with anyone else either. She must be crafting a new email. I can be patient.
But after forever, or eleven minutes, her email to whomever still isn’t complete. What is she even writing?
I stand up and grab my coffee cup to fill it at the watercooler. As I pass, I tilt just enough to catch her screen open to a giant email filled with a messy clump of text.
“Well,” Caitlin finally says, “I’m off to speak with the HR guy.”
As she walks away, I immediately go into the server and search her sent folder. But whatever she was writing, she didn’t send it.
Time ticks onward. I try not to think about Caitlin and Cliff sitting in his trinket-filled office, discussing how horrible I am. Right now, I am being slandered beneath the gaze of several plastic Marios and Storm Troopers. I contemplate pulling a fire alarm.
I stare at their messenger icons. Both of their circles are red and their statuses read in a meeting like a threat. I should’ve hidden a camera inside Cliff’s office. It would’ve been such a simple move and not that creepy if you don’t think too hard about it.
Because not being able to listen in on conversations is actually terrible, now that I’ve seen behind the veil.
I attempt to distract myself by focusing on emails again. A new message appears in Rhonda’s outbox.
From: Rhonda Staples
To: carl.staples@livemail.ca
Subject: Where in the heckin heck are you?
Honey,
I know it’s not always easy, but could you please reach out here if you can?
When you were little, I used to wake up to check on you, just to see if you were still breathing even though I knew you were perfectly safe. I can’t do that now. I thought you’d be my baby forever and I can’t stop feeling like a mom no matter what.
Maybe it’s because your birthday is coming up that I’m hoping extra hard to see you. I’ve been looking at cake recipes and would love to have a small party. You could spend a few nights in your bedroom too and I’ll cook a bunch. Remember the R2D2 one I made when you were five?
My work is busy busy—we’re making all my documents digital!
Email me here if you can get to a library. Call me, message me on Facebook.
I love you,
Mom
Shit, Rhonda’s situation with her son is more dire than I thought. I search other messages to Carl’s email address. There’s like an email a month, going back for years—some of them begging to know if he’s okay. Other times it’s recipes.
If I make this tonight, will you come?
She’s got more exotic Rachael Ray recipes than my mom . . .
I click my monitor off, the weight of the stack of unanswered emails drawing into my bones. I open my phone. Several messages from my mom are queued up in my texts, shamefully unread.
Mom: I’m watching a show where this ugly man is trying to put his kir in so many sister wives each week. He’s not even nice guy.
Mom: During your lunch hour, you should still work so your bosses know you’re serious.
Mom: I should make ashe reshteh
I should respond. But then I know she’d only use it as an invitation to ask for more—a phone call, a visit, and always the pressure to move back in with her. Exhaustion sweeps over me at just the sight of them.
So I toss the phone back where it came from. I have enough problems to take care of right now.
When Caitlin returns, I watch her closely, searching for any indication of what went down during her meeting with Cliff. She doesn’t immediately do cartwheels around my cube to celebrate my termination or even so much as smirk at me, which might be an encouraging sign, but her behavior is too indecipherable to be assured. She just spends the next half hour continuing to furiously type her giant email. Yet nothing appears in her sent folder.
I riffle through the emails of everyone she works with for good measure too, and still nothing.
Cliff’s emails remain untouched too. What is he doing? Maybe he’s working on a termination form for me right now. I think of DMing something random to him—I don’t even know what—just to see if he’ll respond. But that might be suspicious, so I stare blankly at my cubicle wall and wait for death.
Finally, lunch hour comes, and people begin to trickle away from their desks, marinara-stained Tupperwares in hand. Rhonda gets up and grabs her keys, declaring to no one in particular that she’s going to buy a sandwich.
I stare at nothing as I break off pieces of my pathetic homemade PB and J. Normally this would be an ideal lunch hour, but I can’t relax.
It feels like no time has passed when people begin to return to their desks. Armin is one of the last to come back, dragging himself toward our pod with a cloud hanging over him. Rhonda tilts her head toward the clock. “You’re over twenty minutes late.”
He presses his palms to his temples. “Okay” is all he says.
Rhonda squints at the ground. “Are those your new sneakers?”
Armin lets out a slow sigh. “I don’t know how that’s relevant.”
“Is that why you were late? Did you go to the mall? Young people spend so much money on silly things. At your age, my Carl was saving for a down payment on his house.”
Armin sits down hard in his chair and slides his feet pointedly out of Rhonda’s sight. “First of all, I had an appointment. It was cleared by Gregory, and you were cc’d—did you forget?”
Her body tenses, clearly caught off guard by the undisguised heat in Armin’s reply. I mentally take stock of all the times Armin has barbed her—but it’s normally more emphasis on the passive than the aggressive.
“You have too many appointments during work hours. It’s not good for—”
“Hey, it’s my PTO,” he cuts in. “So why don’t you save your stellar mom advice for Carl this weekend.”
Yikes. I’ve never seen him bite back this hard.
Rhonda presses her lips together and backs away. “Well, Larry is in his HR appointment this afternoon. So if EAE inquiries come, you’ll have to cover for him.”
Armin rubs his temples again. I wonder if the vein in his head is finally going to explode. “Why do I have to cover?” His gaze flicks to me pointedly.
Fuck. I realize I’ve been staring between him and Rhonda intensely, and the earphones I have on are not disguising it. Sweat gathers on my skin beneath my shirt despite the cool air they blast to keep us alive.
“Jolene and I are working on a special project.” Rhonda gives me a little insider grin. “This is a busy time, so we need everyone here to pull their own weight.”
Armin raises his eyebrow at me, clearly imploring me to interject. But defending him would mean going against Rhonda, who is finally coming around to liking me. So I look down at my keyboard.
I feel his stare linger, before he throws on his headphones and hunches over his computer. “’Kay.”
It shouldn’t be this hard to remain neutral with people. But trust Supershops Incorporated to turn a desk job into an air-conditioned version of Survivor, complete with alliances and betrayals.
Rhonda shakes her head and turns to her own screen.
I take a single sip of tepid coffee to calm me, and then nearly spit it out when I see the message from Caitlin to Armin pop up on my screen.
Caitlin: BTW the HR guy said it’s important to have multiple testimonies if there’s a problem with a colleague. So I was thinking if you wanted me to also vouch for you and the creepy situation with Jolene, I’d be happy to join your meeting. Just throwing it out there that you have my support, friend. 🙂
Caitlin: Also, he’s really nice, so don’t be afraid to be open.
Heat rushes up my neck. Caitlin has no right to call anyone “nice.” She can’t recognize that trait.
My head whips toward Armin. He’s drooping lifelessly against his desk. He doesn’t make a move to type a response.
I glance at Rhonda again, and she notices and gives me a little secretive smile, like we’re in on this together. I curdle back beneath the half wall of my cube. This lady will not make things easy for me.
I glance at Armin, trying to decipher what he’s thinking, when a DM from Cliff flashes on my screen.
Cliff: Hey, I’m really so sorry. Something came up, and I won’t be able to give you a ride tonight. I can pick you up Monday same time?
My chest drops. Maybe it doesn’t matter what Armin thinks anymore. Caitlin could’ve already gotten what she wanted, and my time here might be as good as done.
I will myself to hold my face steady as I type. As my insides crumble.
Jolene: That’s totally fine!
Cliff: Thanks so much for understanding.
What a cold fucking message. Not even an exclamation mark.
A few moments later, a new email appears in Cliff’s inbox.
From: Armin Habib
To: Clifford Redmond
Subject: Re: Employee Role Meeting with HR
Hello Cliff,
I’d be happy to meet. I’ve attached my availability. Also, I understand this meeting is primarily to go over our roles, but I also have something that veers sort of personal/interpersonal to discuss as it’s starting to affect me at work/my ability to stay focused. Just in case we need to book a longer slot.
Thanks,
Armin
My stomach drops like a clump of lead. At this rate, I’ll be packing up my empty desk by next week.