I flash my badge, and the door to my office floor buzzes open, welcoming me with a charred plastic scent. The big clock in front of my desk tells me that it’s not even 8:15, yet some shithead has already burned popcorn and tainted up the office.
My feet grow heavier with each step. I just need to make it through another cursed day.
Rhonda’s removing the teal tissue paper she’d pinned to the backdrop of her cubicle and replacing it with purple. A tedious process, but she changes her “color scheme” on the first of each month, saying, “It’s only a couple of dollars to brighten up a place we spend our waking life in.”
This place could easily be a case study.
With Armin’s desk still sitting empty, Caitlin’s the only one who marks my entrance by locking eyes with me and then abruptly looking away. She’s poured her Tim Hortons coffee into a speckled artisan mug and is snapping no fewer than five pictures of the situation. Her backdrop is the corner of her cubicle with her open bullet journal. May Goals in fancy lettering. There’s also the creepy heart-shaped wooden box she keeps the Post-it notes her boyfriend puts in her lunch. It’ll make a beautiful, slightly motivational picture, that. To think, if her phone was angled slightly more to the left, she’d capture Larry Goodwin scratching his wrinkle-resistant khakis while struggling to bend over and refill his water bottle.
I log in, and just to be sure I wasn’t hallucinating yesterday, I click into my email to confirm I still have admin permissions. The only message actually addressed to me is the office-wide memo Rhonda sends monthly asking for more Morale Boosters volunteers, even though the lady hasn’t had a new recruit in years.
I click into Rhonda’s inbox before I can think too hard about it. It’s all boring stuff, confirmations for Gregory’s appointments and budget grids. There’s one odd thing sitting there, though:
From: Rhonda Staples
To: Rhonda Staples
Subject: Summary for Month
April 1: Late by 7 minutes
April 5: 12-minute phone conversation with Elite Sneakers
April 16: Returned from lunch 1:16 pm
April 17: 27-minute conversation in copy room: various people
April 20: Spent 17 mins staring at screensaver. Also 14 mins staring at his own hands.
April 25: Morning researching all-season tires
April 27: Detoured on way to bathroom to have 12-minute conversation with Larry Goodwin
Is she tracking someone’s schedule? As if on cue, she turns abruptly, sweeps her hands together, and declares, “There, so much fresher.” She riffles through the Rolodex she’s been using since Bob Barker was a baby, a dreadful indication that she’s about to make a loud phone call that most certainly should be an email. And of course, Rhonda yells into her receiver, “Hello, Marianne! How’s things?”
She cackles at whatever Marianne’s response was, then narrows her eyes as Armin stumbles to his desk. He’s all giant headphones, bass blaring, with hair still wet and some generic “fresh” men’s body wash scent stinking up the air around us. His eyes are red and puffy, like he just opened them from a sleepless night two seconds ago.
Rhonda looks him up and down, leans over her computer, and starts typing something.
And oh my shit, Rhonda’s tracking every time Armin dicks around. Unsettling, yet painfully on brand.
I sip my gas station coffee, which I’m sure tastes just the same as Caitlin’s even if it hasn’t been jazzed up by a mug or backdrop, when a DM pops up from Caitlin to Garret.
Caitlin: I’m going to commit murder—is it too early for that?
Garret: You’re asking the wrong guy for legal advice. Who’s the victim?
Caitlin: Larry Goodwin just refilled his water bottle, and when he realized the cooler needed changing, he walked away. Am I supposed to do a menial task to stay hydrated?
Garret: I see. Yes, you could murder him and see if that helps?
Caitlin: Haha. Btw, do you know what the deal is with the new HR guy? Larry told Armin he was some corporate spy.
Garret: TBH I don’t know too much at the moment, but Gregory said to “expect change.” And we might have meetings with him.
Caitlin: Meetings? For what?
Garret: Usually it’s to review roles and hear how people work as a team. Off the record: it’s a good time to bring up any interpersonal issues. That usually helps their . . . “process.”
I stare straight forward at the screen, but I physically feel Caitlin’s eyes draw to me, the heat of them burning against my cheek like lasers.
Caitlin: Well, that is good to know! I certainly have a long list.
Garret: I wouldn’t bring up the Jolene email thing since it’s been dealt with. It may give off the wrong tone for what you want to present.
Caitlin: Ugh. I guess. We gotta convince Armin to talk. It’s crazy her DM wasn’t enough to sufficiently creep him out.
Garret: Oh, speaking of! That Cliff guy asked me where I was headed when I was leaving for Friday drinks. Was sort of sad looking—even mentioned having no plans that night.
Caitlin: YIKES!
Garret: Yeah, it’s like, dude, nobody’s drinking with you—you’re HR.
Caitlin: No, we need to invite him next time! Convince him to keep me on.
Garret: No! Sorry, babe. Not worth it.
Caitlin: Haha, can you imagine?
The problem is I can imagine. Cliff’s a nice enough guy, and Caitlin and Garret will probably spin their fake bullshit on him like they have everyone else.
Garret: I wouldn’t worry too much—just keep up the good work. Your evaluations are always decent. But I just peeped. Gregory is going to send out a multi-unit meeting request for next Wednesday.
Caitlin: Ugh, so that’s when I’ll murder Larry. Every meeting he holds us hostage with his parade of questions. During the last one, I wished for lightning to come through the roof and end it all. Like, my dude, some of us have things to live for, we can’t endure your sad man voice anymore.
A chuckle bubbles up from my chest, but I catch it before it can find its way out. I thought I was the only one wishing for death during that meeting.
Garret: Greg plans on doing one of those round tables at the end and asking for efficiency strategies.
Caitlin: Okay, that’s good to know . . .
Caitlin suddenly leans back in her chair, clicking her monitor to turn the screen off, and stands with a huff. As she marches off in the direction of the bathroom, my heartbeat pounds in time with the dull click-clacks of her heels against the carpet.
I think again about what Garret said about Cliff—about him looking sad. Instinctively, my mouse moves through the server folders in my mailbox list until it lands on his name: Redmond, Clifford. I admit, after he drove me home last night, I spent an unfortunate amount of time considering what his deal might be while in that fake-it-till-you-make-it phase of trying to fall asleep.
His emails are minimal, which is to be expected since he started only a week ago. But there is one notable exchange.
From: Gregory Hall
To: Clifford Redmond
Subject: Org Chart
Cliff,
Now that you’ve settled and gotten to know our team, I’d like to discuss the goals for your busy first month with us.
Head office would like your recommendations to go along with the new org chart they’ve prepared (attached) by June 1. That gives three weeks to assess each employee’s role here and one week to draft the report. I will schedule an employee conference within that time for you to better assess the group’s dynamic and their contributions. I believe the employee’s mandatory training will also be wrapped up by then, and their progress in that course (or lack thereof) could be used for a termination with cause.
Regards,
Greg
I scan the area for onlookers. So the gossip is true. Apparently, if you want information to travel at lightning speed, you better make it confidential.
And what kind of person acts all buddy-buddy with his coworkers when his first task for this company is eliminating long-term employees? I can’t believe I felt bad for him.
I click download on the org chart before I can overthink it.
Caitlin’s high-pitched laugh grates through the room behind me, and I nearly skyrocket out of my chair. She’s still leaning against Larry’s door and giggling far too loud. She needs to calm down—Larry’s about as amusing as a survey.
I jot down the date of the meeting on a blank piece of printer paper. Not that I’ll be speaking. Gregory’s meetings are designed for maximum intimidation: he makes us voice brainstorms in front of the whole group, and he accepts or rejects them on the spot. I’m sure he credits the ideas he likes as his own for the head office. Usually, my only goal is to move as little as possible so he can’t see me, but this time I’ll need to keep an eye on whatever Caitlin’s planning.
I realize I’m staring too hard into her back when I sense something to my right. I turn to catch Armin watching me watching Caitlin—shit. I jolt against my will, which makes me look guilty of something, so I try smiling at him, which probably only looks more manic—shit again! I focus on dulling the corners of my lips into a more neutral, innocent expression.
He raises an eyebrow at me as he slides his chair back toward his computer, disappearing behind the cube wall.
It shouldn’t be this hard to convey normalness to a person.
I return to my computer as well. The org chart download link is sitting temptingly at the bottom of my browser, and my fingers are itching to open it, but I can hear Garret and Marla Singer gathering in the boardroom behind me, their voices far too animated for this place. The traffic around my desk is too high.
Armin pokes his head back over the cubicle divider toward Rhonda this time, peeling his headphones away from his ears to announce, “I’ve gotta grab a coffee. I’ll be back in ten.”
“No problem, dear.” Rhonda’s smile is as thick as syrup. As soon as his back turns, she glances at the wall clock, opens a document, and types.
Everyone here is so fake.
And that pang of anger is all it takes for my finger to tap twice on the org chart and hit print. Except as soon as I do it, I realize someone else might already be at the printer. What was I thinking?
I almost knock my chair over to stand. Rhonda looks up, mildly curious. I force myself to slow down as I head with purpose toward the copy room.
The burned popcorn smell is twice as pungent in this area, but at least it’s keeping people out. The incriminating evidence in question is just pushing itself out of the printer. I grab the still-warm page before it can land on the tray. There’s a box of maroon folders sitting on the supply table, so I grab one and stuff it inside.
As I round the corner back to my desk, I nearly collide headfirst with Marla. “Hey, Jolene, another day in paradise, eh?” Her smile pushes her cheeks into her glasses. I nod shakily, lowering the folder and casually half hiding it behind me as I pass.
Back at my desk, I assess my surroundings. The door to the conference room has closed, and no one’s at the watercooler. My heart is pounding against my ribs, my fingers tingling from where they pressed against the folder. This must be exactly what a spy feels like when committing espionage.
I carefully open the folder, keeping the cover propped to protect its contents from wandering eyes. There’s a simple grid listing our team’s names and job titles alongside any credentials and courses, and little symbols like x’s and check marks sit lifelessly on the page. Beneath it, there’s the usual corporate mumbo about desirable cuts to be made.
As I read through it, I realize what it is I’m looking at. They’re planning on folding certain roles together. Essentially, either Armin or Rhonda will be fired, and the one who remains will be promoted. Next to Rhonda’s name is a note: “potential to mandate early retirement, savings of $5–10k.”
This shouldn’t do anything to me. How many times have I silently cursed Rhonda out for not just retiring already? But when I glance her way and see her shuffling through her ancient Rolodex yet again, I wish the C-suite executive who designed this chart could see her brand-new purple tissue paper on the cubicle walls, or her Morale Booster emails she fills with actual clip art.
Then I find my own name, sitting just above Caitlin’s. Where do we fit into this master plan? Just like with Rhonda and Armin, there’s a mark indicating that our roles will be folded into one. The remaining employee’s title will be changed to “Document Lead,” whatever that means. Both our names have leadership course credit and years of working experience listed. But next to mine is a note that reads: “potential for dismissal with cause, should employee not pass course.”
I already knew this, but seeing it written there in Times New Roman sends a sharp bite through my ribs. I try to shake it off and focus on the silver lining this paper reaffirms: my dismissal isn’t guaranteed yet.
I close the folder and go back to my computer, heading to the Supershops employee portal. I search for the document lead position, and motherfucker, the salary range would be a minimum 15 percent increase in pay. It would mean I could move to an apartment that doesn’t require me to dodge mousetraps every time I do laundry. I scan the credentials and I’m surprisingly qualified. I could actually get this, so long as I don’t fuck up the course and get fired, of course.
It’s dangerous to dream. But getting a new job title that sounds like a job job—something that means I’m actually progressing. I could even mention it in the aunty group chat and be rewarded with a heart-eyed mouse GIF. I could take Mom to dinner and offer to pay the check, and she would look at me without that curl in her lip for once. Best of all, Caitlin would be gone, and I could come to work every day without worrying about her making fun of or sabotaging me.
But there’s only one problem with this fantasy: they’d have to pick me over Caitlin. Let’s be real. Next to her name, there’s no disclaimer about potential dismissal with cause.
A reply from Cliff appears in Gregory’s inbox. I click it open, my fingers rattling with the beat of my computer fan.
Hi Gregory,
While that timeline is on the tighter end, I can make it work. I understand there was concern from HQ about my process, so I want to reiterate: I need to evaluate employee potential and personality for certain roles. I find the benefits of on-site evaluation and getting to know employees beyond their written reports far outweigh any other inconveniences these meetings may cause.
Also, as the head of the office, I trust that you’ll be able to provide a more comprehensive overview of the personnel and assist with suggestions one may not find on the page.
Best,
Clifford
And there it is. Cliff, the fucking doodler with his donut birthday gift who pretended not to be like other HR guys, colluding with Gregory, the guy who can’t even rotate PDFs so he instead twists his monitor. Of course these two will be deciding our fates. Typical.
I absently scroll Gregory’s email, judging his terrible grammar, offensive jokes, and boomer overuse of ellipses. Why do men like him always get so far? It should be impossible if the world were serious.
A new email at the top of his mailbox catches my eye because the subject line reads: “Is Papa Bear Hungry?”
I know it’s a bad idea even as I click it open, but it’s like I have some cursed reflex.
Papa Bear was so hungry for the honey pot last week. I’ll be sure to make him another helping tonight.
Leave work on time tonight.
Love,
Cutie Bear
I grab my coffee cup and hold it against my lips just to do something other than scream. The liquid makes its way down my throat with a burn. I wish I could pour it on my eyeballs. I spend several minutes staring blankly at my cubicle wall. Is there some sort of authority you call in situations like this to reset Earth from the beginning, just to stop the sequence of events that led to that email being written next time around?
Gregory’s office door clicks open and he barrels out, shaking me from my mental vortex of doom and back into this terrible reality. He passes my desk, still adjusting his dick, which is a form of harassment to us all, and I try my best not to look at him. He’s about to clear my area when he stops and turns abruptly toward me.
“Miss Smith, has your interpersonal training started?”
He says it loud enough for half the floor to hear, which means Caitlin and Larry, who are walking toward the pods, look my way—wide-eyed imbeciles.
“I have my first session today,” I mutter.
“That’s wonderful.” Gregory smiles like the proud Papa Bear he is. “We want you to do as well as possible. Soon this whole nonsense will be behind us.”
“Yes,” I reply, still staring straight ahead. I’ll never be able to look this man in the eye again.
He takes a few strides forward, then stops and says, “Have you seen that email?”
I stop breathing. My skin becomes ice. I shake my head way too hard, ready to shout every excuse I can possibly come up with, when it clicks that he’s actually talking to Rhonda. He continues, leaning over her shoulder: “We, um, won’t be able to send you another replacement credit card.”
“What?” Rhonda huffs. “But I use it for your—”
“I know you use it a lot. However”—he crouches even lower to whisper—“head office red-flagged that you lost three cards in one year. With this latest one being stolen and used—well, it’s unusual. Maybe they think you’re running some kind of embezzlement scheme.”
His chuckle doesn’t pair well with Rhonda’s sudden stiffness, the way her face goes pale white beneath her cakey makeup.
“But don’t worry, hon, I defended you. What is it, twenty-odd years you’ve been here? We’ll sort it out.” He claps his palms together, and Rhonda visibly jolts.
Three lost cards in one year? How does that happen? Other than arguing with employees at Jo-Ann fabrics, I can’t imagine Rhonda gets up to that much. She’s lived alone since her husband died of a heart attack over a decade ago, and she never seems to have plans aside from visiting her son on the weekends.
Armin makes his way back to his desk, a Starbucks coffee in hand, yet somehow looking even more tired than before. Gregory calls out, “Nice of you to come in, my guy. Lunch is in five minutes.”
Armin’s face drops, but he manages an even response. “I’m sorry, I had to step out briefly.” He drops his hoodie on the corner of his desk as he sits down.
“No sweat,” Gregory says, his pompous grin violating every bulletin on the board. “It can’t be easy being in estrogen alley all day.” He pauses for laughter. Nobody says a word. After a long beat, he raises his hands in protest to god knows what. “I kid, I kid. I know I’m not allowed to joke these days!”
He’s in that category of people who should be ashamed of themselves, yet he’s never had to confront guilt because the world always tells him that he’s the fucking papa bear.
Caitlin practically leaps into her cube at the sight of Gregory and gives him a big-eyed smile. “Happy first of May, boss.”
Gregory nods as he walks off. I watch Caitlin turn to her computer and innocently run her hands across the keyboard.
A DM pops up to Garret:
WTF, he wants Jolene to pass now? This is mad. I’m going to talk to Rhonda again. She can say something to Gregory about how awful Jolene is.
I knew these people were fake and cruel, but I didn’t realize they’re all playing a game. If I hadn’t read their emails and DMs, I never would’ve understood the rules. Now I see where I truly sit on the chessboard.
I should probably be freaking out, but instead a weird lightness takes over. A tiny spark of new possibilities.
If this is a game, I can play just like everyone else. Except now I have the cheat codes. Thank Zeus Cliff didn’t understand his mistake with my emails. Now I have a candid view of their weak spots, their insecurities, and everything they’ll try to hide and exploit about me, themselves, and one another.
Rhonda stands up to reach for the tea box on her shelf. “Unpleasant,” she called me in her DMs. Well, I can prove her wrong.
I lift myself up and say, “Hey, Rhonda, how are you?”
She glances over at me, and I let myself smile, nice and casual.
Her eyes widen. “I’m fine. How are you, dear?” she asks, her voice hesitant. Across from us, Caitlin and Armin have fallen completely silent at their desks.
“I saw your email about the Morale Boosters. I’d be happy to help.”
For a second she just stares, like I’m the Sphinx and just offered her a riddle. Her shimmery eyeshadow glints beneath the fluorescent lights as she blinks. Finally, she says, “Of course, dear, that would be great! I’ll email you the details. We have Gregory’s twentieth work anniversary party in just about three weeks.”
I focus all my energy into not letting my grin falter. One doesn’t simply plan a party for Gregory out of want or desire. One plans one out of a specific need to hurt themself and others. This is the kind of evidence that convinces me Rhonda is part evil.
But I manage to hold my head high because I can feel Caitlin’s eyes boring holes into me. Her keyboard is clattering, just like I’d hoped. “By the way,” I say to Rhonda, “I love the new purple theme you have here.” Though I wonder if Rhonda will be around next month to change the tissue paper again.
This time her smile is genuine. “Oh, thank you.”
Caitlin’s DMs are waiting for me as I lower myself back into my seat.
Caitlin: What even was that?
Armin: Jolene wants to join the Morale Boosters.
Caitlin: Yes, I can see that, but be careful. She’s obviously up to something.
Armin: Right. Okay, thanks for the warning, detective.
It’s like walking into a room and worrying everyone was just talking about you; the real power is knowing that they were.
They can’t bully me when I have the power this time. After everything they’ve put me through, I deserve this promotion. I deserve to move on. I, at least, deserve to be here.
I open the maroon folder and flip over the org chart to the blank side.
My plan crystalizes and I write it all out, like goals for this quarter:
The list stares back at me, simple and tidy. This is doable. I could actually do this.
I glance at Caitlin, who is blotting her maroon lipstick with a tissue, one eye on me. When she notices me looking back, her lips curl around the paper into a sneer.
And then I almost smile at her, because I realize there is one more piece on the chessboard I can take control of, and she dropped the idea right into my lap.
I open a new email.
Hey Cliff,
If you were serious about carpooling, I’d actually love to take you up on that. Although I would want to pitch in on gas.
Thank you,
Jolene
I hit send, the tips of my fingers crackling with anxious energy. His response comes too fast.
Of course! I can’t tonight, but how about you meet me after work tomorrow and we’ll go from there? P.S. nonsense with your gas money—I’ll be driving anyway and you’re helping me into the carpool lane, which is more than money can buy lol.
See you later for meeting.
Caitlin accused me of using my extra time with Cliff to get ahead, so it might as well be true.
I pick up my pen again and add one more item to my list:
It’s weird, this power I’ve tapped into—what nobody counted on, what even I didn’t expect. I’m willing to fight to keep my job, and they don’t realize how much. I’ve eaten enough poison that it can’t kill me anymore, and now I’m here to win.
This might even be fun.