Page 12 of I Hope This Finds You Well

—C

I want to both scream and never make another sound. If it weren’t for Rhonda’s leaning back and forth in her desk chair stirring up the air, I’d be certain I was dead.

But how did I manage to get bcc’d again?

And if I were going to murder Armin, I wouldn’t chop him up. I’dfind some kind of industrial liquid to dissolve his body. Only a true imbecile wouldn’t understand that’s the best way.

My heart stops completely as another email pops in the chain. I’m somehow bcc’dagain.

From: Armin Habib

To: Caitlin Joffrey

Subject: Re: Jolene’s Birthday

She wasn’t hitting on me. Anyway, I feel bad for Jolene.

Armin

I slump so low in my chair the plasticky metallic scent from the wiring under my desk tinges my nostrils. Pity from Armin, a guy who once reheated a day-old hot dog (bun, ketchup, and all) in the toaster oven, is too much to bear.

The quiet calmness within the office narrows in on me—I’m trapped. I need to run away. But if I run to the bathroom now, it’ll be a free-for-all to comment.

Then the worst thing happens. Garret lets out a cackle that carries all the way to my desk.

I can’t help it. I’m an absolute masochist. I peep in his direction—he’s looking toward Caitlin, whose shoulders are silently shaking as she looks back. She must have just messaged him.

I stare at the floor, wishing I could dig myself to the core of the earth. I used to think everything would be fine so long as I didn’t interact with the humans I work with. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough. Now I’ll never leave my desk. I’ll come into work before anyone and leave after they’ve all gone home. I’ll eat at my desk and get special glasses that block my peripherals. I’ll drown out everything with murder podcasts.

This will be a good life.

Except I already chugged my whole mug of tea, and the water bottle I had on the bus isn’t helping either. By ten a.m. I can’t hold it any longer. I’m thinking through the logistical possibility of keeping a pee bucket under my desk when it fully hits me that I’m consideringpeeing. In a bucket. Under my desk. As a way to remain incognito? I push out of my worn chair and head to the washroom.

I’m washing my hands with the cough-syrup-pink liquid soap when I truly notice my face, how pale, dry, and puffy it is. I’d put on eyeliner and clumpy mascara this morning, but they only make me look worse at this point.

It’s been a progression, my life here. When I first started, this place had appealed to me because it seemed like an easy place to just exist in. During month one, I signed up to bring drinks to a potluck Rhonda was managing. I bought a bunch of soda, but then I worried about the people who don’t drink soda, so I went back to the store to buy loads of juice and various kinds of milk. I dented my second paycheck pretty hard from the drama of it, and the whole thing kept me up at night. The day of the event, Rhonda laughed when I showed her all the drinks. She said, “Most people just end up drinking coffee.” And fuck me when Garret was like, “Where is all this milk from—did we get a cow?”

Minor, and yet the idea of being laughed at stopped me from breathing properly. After that, I decided that limiting my interactions was the best way to keep people from hating me. But over time, embarrassment became resentment. I was annoyed that Rhonda had me buy drinks if coffee and the watercooler would’ve done it. That was the first step down a road. The thing about annoyance is that once there’s a spark, you can find more things to stoke it. It grew and amplified between me and them. And eventually the abyss stared back.

Tears prickle my eyes. I quickly blink and wipe and suppress. The soft skin under my eyes is so familiar with the scratch of a hard beige paper towel.

I harden my stance and step out of the bathroom. I’m passing the copy room, eyes on the floor, when a cry—“Oh, happy belated birthday, Jolene”—comes from Rene Salinger. Her smile protrudes into her cheeks, fake and proud of it—she thinks she’s funny. But so do Marla and Garret, who snigger next to her.

“Thanks!” I try to keep my own smile solid wood.

I hate everyone here.

Back at our workstations, Caitlin holds her phone in the way shedoes to take a selfie from above: some strategically placed, color-coordinated folders in the background, and she tilts her head and does the lip thing. Soon her story will read #backtothegrind, and it’ll gravely misrepresent the aesthetic of our office into something not depressive.

When she first started, I thought she might be nice. She offered to help me with some data analysis sheets. Only, as she turned them in, she mentioned to Gregory that it was because I had trouble managing them on my own. She plays with Rhonda too, acts like she gives a shit about every detail of her tedious weekend errands. She joined the Morale Boosters and is very helpful, of course. But I overheard her calling Rhonda an “old lifer” to Garret one day. She said the idea of ending up like her, “an assistant forever,”scared the shit out of her. And she stared at my desk pointedly as she said it.

I make it back to my computer and tap my mouse to awaken the screen. A few new emails are already waiting for me. The first one is a notice from Cliff in HR about my computer update. It’s sent to Gregory, not me. How can I be bcc’d on that one as well?

But the following email is from Jared to Brenda, two people who work in sales and hardly know of my existence. I cross paths with Brenda only when she’s sitting silently in the bathroom waiting to do a number two at the same time as me, which devolves into a standoff of who can wait in the bathroom the longest. And like any other war, nobody wins.

Next is one from Rhonda to Gregory, asking for a replacement company credit card as she misplaced hers and had to cancel it.

Brandy and Josh are discussing some account that they mutually handle.