Page 21 of I Hope This Finds You Well
“How long have you been in HR?” I blurt out.
“Oh, about a year or so.” Is there an edge to his voice?
“And is it everything you hoped it would be?”
“And more.” He smiles, but it’s not as natural as before. “Hey, Jolene, since I’m driving every day anyway, I could pick you up.”
“Oh no. Cliff, it’s okay—I swear I wasn’t trying to pressure you to offer.”
“Nah, I know you weren’t. Well, maybe there’s some carbon footprint pressure—it’s common sense. We’re both heading to the same place at the same time, and I wouldn’t mind the company.” He says all this so casually, like it’s a totally normal thing for an HR guy to offer an employee who is currently on probation. His hands weave over the wheel as the car turns the corner. “But I get it if you prefer the bus. They still hosting those public masturbation matinees?”
I cackle against my will, sharp and loud. How has this guy managed to break my cool twice in one night? While he focuses on the road, I dare a longer stare, as though his face will reveal what’s hidden inside his head. “To be fair, that show gives a lot of bang for your buck,” I quip back. “But honestly, it’s fine. I’m sure us pleb employees aren’t allowed to carpool with HR anyway.”
“Believe it or not, management has determined that HR bots are allowed to be friendly with employees. We just can’t date them.” Hishands go tense around the wheel, and his eyes flash toward the exterior mirror. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—that’s not going to be a—”
“Oh god,definitelynot,” I interrupt.
His knuckles loosen. “You flatter.” But then his eyes soften. “Totally don’t want to make things awkward, though. The offer’s there, but no pressure. I get it could be weird.”
He obviously offered only out of obligation because of my weird comment about his parking spot, but I can’t carpool with a corporate cop, anyway—no matter how much he wants to act otherwise. Besides, if we commuted together, he’d just ask tons of questions, and we’d get to know more and more useless shit about each other, and then we’d get to the useful parts and... I shake that train of thought away. “Thanks, I appreciate it, but I’m good.”
Yes, it’s only because he’s HR that we can’t carpool.
He pulls up to the curb of my street—or, I guess,ourstreet now—soundless but for the clicking of the turn signal. I hold my breath as my building comes into view, with its broken sign and the empty shopping cart leaning sideways on the front lawn. Those things were invisible to me just yesterday. Why did I have to tell him where I live? This is too much. What if I leave the hall light on, the one I always forget about, and he sees my colossal dish pile through the window? What if he deems my apartment unsafe for human life and has to make a report to headquarters about me? What if Miley’s there and she tells him about my tarot reading? He can track my comings and goings if he wants to, can inspect my garbage if he so desires.
All the calm vibes have dissipated. My seat belt pulls tighter across my chest. I rush to unclip it and open the door. “See you tomorrow.”
“Hey, I’ll help with your—” I grab the grocery bags in a rapid swoop and slam the door shut before I can hear him finish.
It’s just that HR people aren’t our friends. Nothing else.
Power Move
I flash my badge, and the door to my office floor buzzes open, welcoming me with a charred plastic scent. The big clock in front of my desk tells me that it’s not even 8:15, yet some shithead has already burned popcorn and tainted up the office.
My feet grow heavier with each step. I just need to make it through another cursed day.
Rhonda’s removing the teal tissue paper she’d pinned to the backdrop of her cubicle and replacing it with purple. A tedious process, but she changes her “color scheme” on the first of each month, saying, “It’s only a couple of dollars to brighten up a place we spend our waking life in.”
This place could easily be a case study.
With Armin’s desk still sitting empty, Caitlin’s the only one who marks my entrance by locking eyes with me and then abruptly looking away. She’s poured her Tim Hortons coffee into a speckled artisan mug and is snapping no fewer than five pictures of the situation. Her backdrop is the corner of her cubicle with her open bullet journal.May Goalsin fancy lettering. There’s also the creepy heart-shaped wooden box she keeps the Post-it notes her boyfriend puts in her lunch. It’ll make a beautiful, slightly motivational picture, that. To think, if her phone was angled slightly more to the left, she’d capture Larry Goodwin scratching his wrinkle-resistant khakis while struggling to bend over and refill his water bottle.
I log in, and just to be sure I wasn’t hallucinating yesterday, I click into my email to confirm I still have admin permissions. The only message actually addressed to me is the office-wide memo Rhonda sends monthly asking for more Morale Boosters volunteers, even though the lady hasn’t had a new recruit in years.
I click into Rhonda’s inbox before I can think too hard about it. It’sall boring stuff, confirmations for Gregory’s appointments and budget grids. There’s one odd thing sitting there, though:
From: Rhonda Staples
To: Rhonda Staples
Subject: Summary for Month
April 1: Late by 7 minutes
April 5: 12-minute phone conversation with Elite Sneakers
April 16: Returned from lunch 1:16 pm
