The penultimate hour of work ticks along to the beat of the ancient wall clock. Stu Wilkins has been hunched over the printer in front of his pod for the past fifteen minutes, watching sheets of paper spit out in one-second intervals like some twisted form of corporate meditation.
All these people, with their thoughts floating so close, sitting beside one another in complete silence.
Nobody ever randomly screams during these moments—a phenomenon that should be studied.
Stu’s printer beeps, begging for more paper. He leans far too close, pulling on his reading glasses that hang from his neck, and rubs his head like he’s trying to interpret ancient scripture. Right, it’s time to call the time of death for the workday.
As if on cue, the main-floor door beeps and in walks Randal the security guard. Security personnel come to workspaces only for big issues or to let maintenance in to work on the mostly ornamental thermostats.
As Randal turns down the hall, Garret comes running across the floor. “Somebody’s locked themselves in an office! Somebody that was let go!” he shouts, sounding a little too delighted by this drama.
Rhonda snaps her gum. “Oh dear.”
Quiet murmurs move through the room, heads peeking up from cubicles like face cards from a Guess Who? board. A few bolder types storm toward the hallway where most of the offices are, but Randal holds up his hands and guides them to stand back. “Everyone, please stay in your workspaces until the situation has been resolved.”
Randal has a sheen of sweat on his forehead; this is the event of his career. Normally this is the type of chaos I have a soft spot for, but after today, I’m just not up for it. So I stay at my desk.
Then comes the email.
From: Larry Goodwin
To: All Staff—Supershops
Subject: Fuck You
Colleagues,
Today will be my last day at Supershops. Regrettably, reason and morale are at an all-time low and nobody cares about each other anymore.
A lot of you have made my life wonderful here. And you know who you are.
But this message is for the absolute twats who made my life hell. The individuals who participate in blatant patterns of disrespect. You know who you are too.
Nobody notices the things I do for this office. In a couple weeks, you bitches will all have watermarks on your glassware without me to refill the Jet-Dry, and you don’t care.
I may have been terminated, but I won’t be leaving until the end of the day, and I thank you all for letting me have that.
Don’t fear for me. Fear for you.
Larry Goodwin
The laughter comes in a stilted wave, uncertain and mumbled at first, until it takes over the floor. Olivia Espinoza, the do-gooder fire marshal, throws on her fire vest in the panic. Caitlin and Joy run over to Garret’s desk even as Randal shouts at everyone to remain seated. He pulls a radio from his belt and mutters some codes into the speaker. Some staticky mess of noise comes back, and he holds it up to his ear before giving up and pulling out his cell phone.
For five minutes nothing happens, and the energy on the floor begins to lull with the anticlimax. Then a yell comes from the hallway: “No! I at least get to express myself!”
Larry D. Goodwin comes pounding out, rapidly panting, red-faced, his collar rumpled. Cliff and Gregory trail him. Randal blocks him, trying to cut him off from walking into the desk area.
Larry’s expression shifts—like he’s in shock as he takes in all of us silent onlookers—but then his features pinch resolutely. “This is all your faults!”
His audience watches in rapt silence.
Cliff’s eyes search across the floor. They land on me and hold.
The HR emergency—it was real. He wasn’t just avoiding me.
“You people manipulate each other all day,” Larry announces.
Everyone looks at one another, each of them innocent in their hearts.
“Is this really the life you want?” he tries again.
Again, blank stares.
Except, alone in my cubicle, his question presses into me.
He gestures behind him at Cliff. “He’s just here to fire us, piece by piece.”
Cliff rolls his jaw, arms stiff. But I catch the way his eyes flash. He hates the truth of it.
Larry’s face has gone the color of an eggplant. “Gregory’s a fucking tool that only got scones for the cool kids!”
Gregory’s eyebrows shoot up at the same rate my stomach drops. “What?”
Beside me, Armin coughs.
“All right,” says Cliff. “Larry, it’s time to—”
Larry grabs for his belt and it happens so fast: he turns and flashes his butt cheeks. Randal throws out his arms to shield the innocents, and Larry takes the opportunity to bend right under them like he’s playing a game of limbo and starts running around the desks, still squatting. There’s no doubt that it’s a drive-by mooning. He makes a point to give every person on the floor a full view of the pale, freckled horror that is one man’s ass. Then he picks up the Yoda plushie from Jean Adler’s desk and sticks it in his pants. Randal is racing behind him and manages to pull the stuffed toy free from Larry’s grasp, before whipping it to the ground in disgust.
This kind of moment is so unreal that a small chuckle escapes me. As much as a breakdown is terrible, it is also a wondrous thing to behold.
Larry straightens up, looking right at me. “Jolene, what are you laughing at?”
“I . . . nothing.” I shake my head, pushing my chair closer to my desk.
“You’re supposed to be on my team!” he spits. “We all see when Joy gives everyone but us a damn key chain from Mexico. Us office losers know who we are.” That word—another bullet knocking me into myself. “We can tell when we’re not wanted, right?”
I stay completely still, not daring to so much as flinch. I’m all too aware of Caitlin’s smirk, Rhonda’s jowls shaking with worry, and Armin’s wince. But worst of all, I can see Cliff from behind Larry’s shoulders. He’s approaching with that same look of concern in his eyes, like I’m broken.
Larry breaks my gaze to stare at my desk. There’s nothing here, save for Miley’s zebra. The one thing.
We both go for it at the same time, but he’s faster. He snatches it and holds it high. His forehead shines, and his clammy hands stick to the loose eyeballs.
“Drop it!” Cliff yells. He’s come to stand between Larry and me, getting in his face.
Larry snorts and tightens his red sausage fingers around it. Just before he manages to get it into his pants, and right when I’m deciding I really don’t love this toy enough to wrestle it back from Larry’s privates, Cliff manages to grab it free, holding it high out of his reach.
Larry closes his hand into a fist and swings at Cliff, who manages to pull back enough that it only clips the edge of his jaw. Still, it makes a sound, and everyone winces in unison. Larry loses his balance and tumbles to the ground. In an instant, he’s gone from office agitator to feeble old man groaning on the floor.
As he’s struggling to get up—face blue, pants still at his knees—the real police arrive to relieve Randal of his duties. They manage Larry out of the vicinity with quick efficiency. Still, on his way out, he manages to advise us that a good majority of us are cocksuckers.
Not a second after they round the corner, Stu calls, “Dibs on Larry’s chair! You all heard it.”
As everyone races around the floor to trade commentary about the wildness that just happened, Cliff comes to my desk and hands me back my zebra. As I take it, we lock eyes.
“That was one of the scariest moments. Are you okay?” he asks, searching my face.
“Yeah.” I nod, cupping the zebra gently. “And so is Mr. Barcode, thanks to your heroics.”
Cliff’s lips twitch. “You named it Mr. Barcode?”
“Just now. Figured he deserved a name after all he’s been through.”
Cliff huffs a laugh, then winces and rubs a palm against his jaw.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Oh, this is nothing,” he says. Then he looks up at me through hooded lids. “Hey, uh . . . I know you’re starting a new gym routine—but maybe you can start tomorrow? Can I drive you home?”
When I lock eyes with him, he smiles, shy and hopeful. It centers me, like coming back home. “Okay,” I croak.
“Okay,” Cliff echoes. “Meet you in the parkade after work.”
He heads back into the hall, where the procession of Larry handlers just were. Stu is already wheeling Larry’s chair across the floor.
The energy in the room is a vibrant hum. Everyone is still whispering to each other, but the excitement that was previously peppering their voices has faded into insecurity. Larry’s display wasn’t just about him. Nobody is immune to thinking they might be wasting their only life on a place that can toss you out without a second thought. This will be a reminder to anyone who ever suspected a company gave a shit about them. Even though we all tease that we’ll quit, we know this company can more easily part with us.
I sit down at my desk and keep readjusting where Miley’s zebra goes. Somehow the dire blankness of the beige and grey metal brackets has become more draining to my soul. Shouldn’t I have wanted to personalize my desk before?
Larry’s words echo inside me: Don’t fear for me. Fear for you.