Rhonda is picking at Joey Tribbiani, her fern. She named him that a few weeks after she adopted him. And she adopted him from my desk (without my consent) not long after I started here, because “somebody needed to water him.”
No matter how carefully she tends to him, his leaves continue to yellow and wither. As she crunches off the dead pieces, shaking her head, she announces, “I think it’s the negativity around here.” She sprays Joey and gently massages the mist into the soil. “Plants die when they sense their environment isn’t loving.”
She directs her gaze toward me as she says this, and I guess she doesn’t remember that I was his original mom. Makes sense. Rhonda’s also somehow missed the ten thousand eye rolls Caitlin has powered toward her over the years, choosing only to notice her random compliments. Rhonda thinks Caitlin is her little pet too.
Rhonda also doesn’t know that Armin is the one killing Joey. Just yesterday, I saw him pouring light blue Gatorade into the pot.
The timing works out: about a year ago, Rhonda took Armin’s joojeh kabob out of the fridge and threw it away. When he asked her, she said she thought it had gone bad because of the smell. Joey’s mysterious decline began soon after.
I thought I had these people figured out. I thought I knew their ticks, their habits, what bullshit made them laugh. Turns out I was making up stories about everyone around me in my head.
Now I know that, when given the opportunity to read shit that’s personal and that I have no business reading, I will absolutely do it. I’ve spent the past hour digging through all their inboxes.
And they’re all so much worse than they let on.
Every email is either a complaint about another person not doing their job right or a rebuttal to protect their own ass. Nobody actually does anything nice, or helpful, or even interesting.
It’s like opening a curtain. I’ve never known any of them, never seen the faces behind the masks, and there’s something super fragile about breaching this.
A new email for Caitlin appears as Rhonda goes to retrieve her flower-shaped watering can from the top of an ancient filing cabinet. It’s from an outside account: kyle@electriansplus.com. This is Caitlin’s Kyle! Based on the heart-shaped gifts he occasionally sends to her at the office, he’s also a potential serial killer. I’ve learned about a thousand useless facts about this mediocre man over the years—and now he emails!
I shouldn’t read it.
Hey hon,
Hope work isn’t too busy. Not sure if my messages are coming through so I’m trying you here. Just letting you know I can pick up dinner and wine. How bout your fave?
I also have a surprise for you.
Love you,
Kyle
Nice enough. A tad boring, really. An odd sensation swoops through me, like the earth isn’t quite below me. I knew I shouldn’t have read it. Caitlin’s retying her bun, focusing on a printout on her desk. She hasn’t even seen the email. Such a comfortably intimate email, probably the kind she receives daily.
She glances up to check the calendar pinned to her wall and I search her face. I need to see something recognizable inside her—something to help me understand what it’s like.
Finally, she turns back to her screen and clicks. She stares for a moment and, like a switch, her expression softens. She pulls out the silver pocket mirror that she keeps next to her lotion bin. She’s tacked up a bunch of pictures of her friends who look so similar to her behind it. It occurs to me there are no pictures of Kyle there. I guess a weird, distant part of me thought her life with him was fictional.
Her gaze crawls my way, and I jolt hard enough that my chair squeaks.
Damn it, I was staring way too hard.
She gives me a micro-glare for courtesy.
An instant message pops up. The sound rattles through my monitor. I quickly mute.
So, all jokes aside, it seems like Jolene didn’t get in shit for any of the stuff she did. They’re sending her to some harassment meetings with the new HR guy, but that’s nothing. What does one have to do to get in actual trouble here? Short of murder, can we just do whatever we want?
My skin cools.
Caitlin sent that message to Rhonda and Armin. I’m even getting instant messages. This is dangerous.
Armin’s reply comes first:
Armin: She got that sensitivity training, so it’s not like she got off scot-free.
Caitlin: That’s not a real punishment. All she has to do is sit there for a few sessions and then all’s forgiven. That’s only going to show her she can get away with anything. We’re essentially training her that she can do what she wants.
Armin: She’s our coworker, not our pet.
Rhonda: They also did something to her computer. Gregory had me note it down.
Caitlin: I know, but I guess I still don’t feel . . . comfortable. After that email to me, and the message she sent Armin, and all the other things she’s always doing, I just feel like she’s too unstable to work so near to us. Armin, I think you should report her message to HR—say it made you worried. We’re in these pods with her day in and day out, fully vulnerable. If we all went to Gregory and that new HR guy and stated our concerns, they’d have to at least move her.
Armin: I mean, the message she sent me was weird, but trying to get her in trouble again? Might be best to just leave it. Live and let live and all that.
Rhonda: I’ve sat next to Jolene for eight years. She’s rude, sometimes, but I can manage that myself.
Caitlin: I think you’ve both just gotten so used to her abuse that it doesn’t faze you. Armin, what did she say to you when you asked for pledges during your Bike for Cancer?
Armin: Ha, right. She said she didn’t understand why she’d pay for me to bike around in a circle a bunch.
Caitlin: See? Miserable.
I almost break my neutral expression as I peek at each of my colleagues. Their faces are all tilted toward the light of their screens like tropical plants to sunlight. When I asked Armin about the bike pledge, I simply wanted clarification on what I’d be getting for my dollars. I was broke, late on rent, and confused about how his biking would help anyone.
I lay a hand over my forehead like a visor. Sure, Caitlin and me have a bad thing going, but with the other two . . . I always got the sense I was giving off quiet vibes and nothing more.
I startle when Penny Johnson appears behind me. She’s looking at the communal bulletin board with the schedule for when the next blue jeans week is. She must have big plans to rock her perma-wedgie Wranglers for us all. I wheel back toward my screen just in time. A new message is flashing orange. I try to puff out my shoulders to hide my monitor.
Caitlin: And Rhonda, remember how she wouldn’t let you decorate for Christmas? She took down the tinsel that breached her cubicle. What is that?
Rhonda: Ridiculous. I was only trying to spread holiday cheer. She’s very unpleasant, but it’s common these days.
Caitlin: That’s what I’m saying. We’ve gotten conditioned to think it’s normal. She’s been warring with us for years.
I always knew they didn’t like me, but to see it summarized so concisely—it’s like being slapped from the inside. I blink and blink and blink some more. I couldn’t handle Rhonda’s tinsel because it was covered in some type of glitter that would fleck all over my desk and attach to my clothes. If I wanted to wear the same office pants two days in a row (or, being real, three), I needed to mitigate the mess, so I moved it to the other side of the wall.
I didn’t mean for everything to become a fight. Every petty thing I did was small, but they slowly compounded, and now it’s who I am to them. It’s my whole life here. The hollow feeling from before expands.
Another message from Caitlin appears. I don’t want to read it, but it’s like I don’t have a choice.
Caitlin: She doesn’t even have friends. Work people were the only ones she added when she started her Instagram.
Armin: Exactly, her life is sad enough. We don’t need to involve ourselves in making it worse. She’s got it covered lol.
The back of my throat hitches. Yeah, I’m a general mess, but I didn’t realize how much of a joke I am to them.
They don’t know that I did have a friend, once. At least.
Caitlin: The elephant in the room is there’s going to be layoffs. If she passes that HR course, it’s like, on paper, the bad actions didn’t even happen. Hopefully she’s not taking one of our spots when the layoffs come. Maybe then you’ll wish you’d said something earlier.
Armin: So what are you suggesting, getting her fired?
Caitlin: I’m saying you should at least consider going to HR about the message she sent—it made you uncomfortable, didn’t it? I think it’s almost sexist if you don’t. Us women have to fight harassment all the time. If they choose to terminate, it’ll be her fault. But if you don’t say anything and then something happens, what then?
Heat swoops over my cheeks. Armin shakes his head as he types.
Armin: Uncomfortable? Yes, a little. But not enough for me to go to HR about. If something else happens, I’ll start to consider. But if she has no friends, this shitty job is all she has. I can’t ruin her life over a likely harmless message.
Rhonda: With nothing left to lose, she could retaliate!!
Rhonda: She doesn’t seem violent, mind you. But she might steal a wheel from our chairs or destroy my singing Santa decoration.
Rhonda: I need to get a lock for my festive decor closet ASAP!
Armin: Well, this is getting unhinged, so I’m out. If all this is because you’re worried about our jobs, don’t be. Those rumors always happen, and they always stem from Larry Goodwin. He’s paranoid because of that new HR guy, but not exactly on the cutting edge of office news. Next week, he’ll be scared if the watercooler moves one inch away from his office. Besides, Rhonda and I are in accounting—a different department.
Armin Habib has left the conversation.
Caitlin and Rhonda exchange a look. I do my best to freeze my expression as my insides implode.
Armin’s chair squeaks. He stretches up and grabs his hoodie from the back. He catches me peeping before I can divert my gaze. His eyes flash with something that might be anger for a quick second, before they glaze over with an unreadable expression.
Shit.
I duck behind my cubicle wall, heart beating into my temples as I stare at my dusty keyboard. All I had to do was keep him from thinking I’m unstable. A herculean feat.
After a beat, I peep at my screen. Another message awaits.
Rhonda: Don’t tell Armin, but the rumors are true. I saw a memo on Gregory’s desk. They may be reorganizing.
Caitlin: See! Why couldn’t they have fired her yesterday then?! Jolene gets out of jail free if she passes the course, and I still have to worry about my job security when she’s the clear choice.
Rhonda: I know it’s hard for us nice people to work with some of the less friendly folks, but don’t worry, I’m sure if they have to let one of you go, they’ll pick her. I’ve been around long enough to see all the bad eggs get taken out.
Caitlin: I’m not sure. She’s been here for years longer than me. She’d be the easier one to keep. Plus, not to give too much credit to Larry Goodwin, but what if he’s onto something with the new HR guy? Like now Jolene gets to work closely with the guy who might be helping with the firing choices?
Rhonda: You took all those leadership courses a few years back. Gregory knows you see a future here.
Caitlin: Jolene took them too. She only did them to get out of regular work, I’m sure. But I remember because she stole my pen.
I stifle a groan. Yes, I did take the leadership courses to get out of regular work. And I passed—but so did everyone who attended. Larry’s certificate is currently framed in his office; he’s essentially advertising that he sat in a room and possibly stayed conscious for three days. And when Caitlin lost her pen during the lunch break, she asked me if I’d accidentally taken it. I shook my head, and she said it was so weird because hers looked just like mine. As she walked away after yet another accusatory stare, I muttered, “Maybe the company decided to manufacture more than one pen to increase profits.” She glared at me, which made me realize I didn’t mutter low enough, and that was our first petty party.
Another message from Caitlin pops up.
Caitlin: Maybe you could put in a good word for me with Gregory? Also can you give me the leg up again this month? That way I can stay hanging with you and still help with the Morale Boosters.
Rhonda: Of course, dear.
A chime sounds from Caitlin’s desk phone. It’s that double ring that means the call is coming from inside the office. She hauls the receiver to her cheek. “What’s up, Ron? Nope, sent them yesterday.”
Her head tilts my way out of nowhere and she catches me staring again. I quickly frown at my screen, but I’m a second too late. I’m sure my face is flaming red; I’m about to combust. What in the world is the “leg up”? And how long has Rhonda been giving it to her?
Caitlin rolls her shoulders as another message pops up.
Caitlin: Ugh, I have to track something down for Ron that’s probably right in front of his face. Can we talk more at lunch?
Rhonda: Sure :)
As Caitlin marches off, I’m left with nothing but Rhonda’s horrible little smiley face staring at me. Who knew that, while we all sat in our cubicles, lifeless as depressed zoo animals, these messages were being flung through the cages like invisible crap, tainting it all?
Across the pods, Caitlin’s all giggles and plastic smile as she enters Ron’s office. It’s so easy for her, yet nobody sees through it.
I can’t just sit here while they conspire against me. Those fuckers are colluding, and I need any advantage I can to stay afloat. I can’t afford to lose this job, but I won’t lose it because of Caitlin. I’m clicking through her folders, looking for something, anything useful. Her sent folder has a new email from ten minutes ago.
From: Caitlin Joffrey
To: kyle@electriciansplus.com
Subject: Re: Hello my love
That sounds good. I’ll text when I leave.
Her cackle sounds from Ron’s office. Every day Caitlin leaves this place and has dinner and wine with someone who loves her.
My throat is thick, and that hollow feeling in my chest won’t subside. I’m sure it’s only because I’m worried about getting fired and not because it’s recently come to my attention that this shitty admin job is truly all I have.