Page 17 of I Hope This Finds You Well
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 thanone pento 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 Iwon’tlose 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
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.
Aunt: Another Four-Letter Word
Even though the promise of mountains of kabob could normally make me do questionable acts, dread sits heavy in my chest. After I left work, my head was tight and hot. I drafted a cancellation text to Mom, but right before hitting send, an image of her explaining my absence popped in my head, and I couldn’t pull the trigger.
When I pull open the brass handle of the creaky wooden door of House of Shiraz, I’m greeted by the savory smell of dozens of khoobideh skewers roasting over a flame grill. A mix of affection and angst builds inside me as their signature big hairdos and bright blouses draw my gaze. Dinner with my mom and all my aunties is sort of like being in a hospital: you don’t want to be there, but you could die if you leave. I normally try to limit my interactions with the clan to five mandatory occasions a year, making this visit rogue and dangerous.
I inhale as I make my way over to their lively table. My first mistake was not packing a change of pants. The ones I’m wearing are wrinkled from a day of sitting in an office, and as I make my way over it’s like a runway of shame to a row of harsh judges. Aunty Miriam spots me first and gives me a look that’s somehow proud and disapproving at the same time. Aunty Miriam is the only aunty here who’sactuallymy aunt. In the Persian aunty network, there’s a series of women in every corner of the world who are either vaguely related to me or close family friends. If I were to vacation in Antarctica, my mom would tell me to check in with an aunty there or face certain public shaming. Today Aunty Miriam is sporting aggressively dark eyeshadow and a designer handbag that’s so sleek and sharp, it could be wielded as a weapon. She nudges my mom, who is seated beside her, and mutters something—a lovely comment about me, I’m sure. Mom yells, “Jolene, come sit,” as if I were planning on going to the kitchen and showing my nips to the chef if not for her direction. Roya, the one Mom can stand the least,raises her newly threaded eyebrows as she spots me. The ground below me seems to warp as I make my way over to the one available chair at the head of the table.
Silence sweeps over the party. Mom is sitting on my right, Parvin on my left, then Miriam and Roya beside them, respectively. A waiter is heading to the table beside us, but before he can get there, Mom directs him in Farsi to get me a mint yogurt drink, her lips sticky with thick, waxy lipstick. His helmet of shiny hair bobs in acknowledgment, yet his hands ball into little fists as he heads back to the bar.
“Mom, I could’ve waited. I don’t want my food to come with spit.”
She flicks her perfectly manicured nails my way. “It’s okay, we’re Persian.”
This is Mom’s defense for most things that my dad and I question. The waiter places the drink down in front of me. As soon as the cool, perfectly salted, minty perfection hits my tongue, something in my soul lights up. All the women at the table stare at me, not unlike predators stalking their prey.
Parvin speaks first. “It’s nice to finally see you, Jolene joon.” Crow’s-feet pull at the corners of her eyes. She’s my favorite aunty. She lived with us when she first moved from Iran. She’d watch stuff likeJersey Shoreto learn English and write down the words she didn’t understand. The ones my mom couldn’t translate would often be my job. Spending my early teen years explaining words like “quiff” to an innocent older lady may have affected my development in some way. She continues: “Have you been busy? How come you never talk in the group chat?”
