I follow Gregory like a scorned child. Clifford strolls behind me, whispering chipper hellos to the tilting heads we pass.
Eight years of doing everything I could to remain invisible here, and this is what it comes to. There were days when not one person said a word to me. I’d come in, put on my headphones, have a lunch-hour cry alone in the bathroom, then clock out.
Eight years, and now it’s like I’ve lost a layer of skin.
As my desk pod comes into view, Garret crouches over Caitlin’s cubicle wall and mouths something that draws Caitlin’s stare toward me. I focus on my breathing, on my footing.
Garret is Caitlin’s best friend, and not by coincidence. As the head of business development, he’s Gregory’s second-in-command, and he is always sharing insider information with Caitlin. As a person, he’s like the human embodiment of an internet comments section. Caitlin can’t suppress her grin when she spots our parade. I get it; this situation is her big break. I live for this from the other side of it. But right now, I’d love to remind her about the time she got drunk at our Christmas party two years ago and rubbed against the guy who was cutting ham slices at the buffet. Also, the party took place here in the office at three p.m. The highlight of the event was the secret Santa. Some legend, in a brazenly genius move, took a piece of crappy office stock art off the wall outside of Gregory’s office and wrapped it up for him. Nobody knows who it was, but I’d have paid a month’s rent to see Gregory’s face when he opened it again.
Gregory halts and loudly proclaims, “Everyone, this is our new HR analyst, Cliff. He’ll be shadowing some of our processes to learn more about what we do here.” Then he nudges Cliff in the side, who doesn’t hide his flinch. “Don’t worry. He won’t be spying on everyone that much.”
Cliff’s eyelids droop to half-mast, which I appreciate, as whispers creep over the cubicle walls. He clenches his jaw before saying, “I’m here for any concerns you might have, so please feel free to come by and say hello.”
And I don’t know if I want to hug him for diverting some of the attention away from me or jab him in the kidney for drawing more looks in our general direction.
When we’re finally at my cubicle, Gregory huddles closer. “I’m not needed for this part.” He places his hand on my shoulder—I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve been touched against my will by this man—and nudges Cliff once more. “You’ll take it from here? She can wait there.” He points at a spot right next to my garbage bin.
Blinking eyes are peering over all the cube walls like owls. The new HR guy. My computer. It’s too much for these people.
Clifford sends me another apologetic smile. Pointless. I stare at some unknown beige stain on the seat of my chair that I never much minded until now.
Then Gregory’s gone, and Cliff, who seems to dwarf my entire desk area, covers the mouse with his hand.
After thirty seconds or twelve hours, Cliff says, “So, any big plans for the birthday weekend?”
No. Not the questions. Not from this HR analyst. I try to keep any emotion from my voice as I reply, “Can we not?”
“Sure.” He nods as his grin evaporates. I force my attention on a loose plasticky thread pulling up from a seam in the grey office carpet. Guilt is pointless right now.
The office drifts back into silence, aside from a few throats clearing and chairs shuffling and too-rhythmic clacking on keyboards, all the noises someone makes when they’re fake working. Eventually Cliff lifts himself from my chair and says, “You’re all set. Would you like to see what I’ve done?”
Because I know everything, I mutter, “I’m good,” and shrink further into the collar of my sweater.
“Okay. I feel like I need to warn you that if your emails contain certain words, they’ll be flagged and sent to management—so tread lightly.” His smile curls up, all cheeky, as he leans in conspiringly. “Also, your browser will block certain searches and websites.”
His fresh-linen scent lingers past his words. He’s speaking in low tones, but still, he needs to keep his voice down. I cannot physically crouch further into myself, and all the stares are churning my stomach.
I don’t respond. Instead I focus on some random child’s demented art that a magnet holds to a filing cabinet behind Rhonda. This place really is in a sad state. The first red flag should have been during my interview, when Gregory said the company was “like family.”
Cliff lingers. “For what it’s worth,” he whispers, “I will try and work with you where you’re at, to make this as painless as possible. It’ll just be constructive ways to get along with people.” He grins again, like he’s already laughing at the joke he’s about to make. “I gotta change the rep us HR guys have.”
My smile isn’t that forced. “Thanks.”
Finally, he walks away, leaving me alone with an hour of work still to go and a dozen eyes burning against my back.
I need to plot my revenge on everyone.
Because this has sparked joy in their hearts. The thing about working in a regional office for a big-box retailer that sells corn by-products, camping things, and cream for various types of rashes and boils is that not one of us is living our dream. They’ll talk about starting a sandwich truck, even though they aren’t even qualified to roast a marshmallow, or fleeing to Belize to teach surfing lessons. But every one of them shows up on Monday, until the weeks turn into a life sentence.
My situation is the only beauty left in life for them.
The suggestion that I need to get along with people here is actually bonkers. Because that was exactly what I wanted when I first joined this so-called family eight years ago. I was so optimistic that this job would be a fresh start and I’d make friends, move up the ladder, and do what any person would do while working at a place like this. Even when Rhonda showed me to my new pod—the stained chair, while hers was brand new—I didn’t take the hint that I was entering a stupid game in which the rules are unclear and the prizes are yet unknown. I didn’t factor in my anxiety and my complete inability to be a casual person about anything. I failed miserably during my first six months.
I had no idea yet about things like: working faster than everyone is bad, actually; not talking about your private life with colleagues is suspicious; and you have to be fake nice to powerful people even when they treat you horribly. When I finally realized that the same situations that caused me so much anxiety in high school had followed me here, I had a panic attack and took four sick days. I almost didn’t make it back.
I returned because I needed to survive, and this job was the only way I knew how to do that. So I figured out how to keep a low profile, working in silence while everyone hung out around me. I’ve survived this long, even though I’ve seen a lot of turnover. Four years ago, Armin’s desk used to be occupied by a guy named Harold. And I’ve seen three other people in Caitlin’s role before her: two who moved up the ranks, and one who transferred to another city.
I’ve spent more time with these people than anyone. We’re forced to work together in close proximity every day, which really means we’re forced to live together. And it’s the living involved. The sheer humanity of that, which could never be professional, or even normal. We’re all dry flecks of skin turning to dust and breathing each other up. It’s too much.
I never talk to them, yet I know things about them. Every day I put on my headphones, but I listen. Rhonda may brag that her son poops at exactly nine thirty a.m. Eastern Standard Time, but she also steals coffee creamer from the fridge on the sixth floor.
Armin is slowly and intentionally killing Joey, Rhonda’s fern that sits between their desks. I’ve seen him pour blue Gatorade into the soil at least a dozen times. I have a theory why he’s committing plant murder (possible revenge for the high crime of unwarranted kabob disposal), but the behavior is still unhinged.
Mel Elliot has an outfit routine that is disturbingly precise. Blue cardigan and beige skirt every Monday, painful-looking shoes every Friday.
Ron McDowell lost access to the shared drive last month and has opted to try to live without it by simply working way less. Nobody has noticed.
And Mary Perkins has a literal plank and hammer in her office that she crushes walnuts with. It sounds like she’s doing a murder every afternoon, yet we all zombie-stare at our spreadsheets of data without flinching at the batshit noises.
I didn’t choose a single person here and never would’ve, yet I’m spending my life with them.
“Where’s the accounts paid doc?” Armin asks Rhonda, breaking me from my thoughts.
“It’s not in the accounts folder?”
“If it were in that folder, I wouldn’t have asked.”
With that, our office clicks back into its mundane rhythm. My drama has already dissolved.
I’m invisible once again.