Page 5 of I Hope This Finds You Well

“Okay. I feel like I need to warn you that if your emails containcertain 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, whileherswas 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’tfactor 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 livetogether. And it’s thelivinginvolved. 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 hasopted 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.

Birthday Party for One

She wasn’t waiting at the bench by the corner when I got off the bus, but I can still sense her. I walk slowly up the pathway, which boasts several cracks and a variety of weeds, to my apartment complex.

“Jolene!” Miley calls.

My stomach drops. Damn, I should really learn to climb the fire escape. I could’ve spent all these years figuring out parkour or becoming a master of disguise.

She’s twelve years old and lives in my building, one floor above me, and she’s always so...needy. Always looking for someone to talk to about her life, trivial stories about her homework and friends. She just started middle school this year, and I already know how those stories will go. Any day now somebody will laugh at her or somebody else will betray her, and she’ll figure out what the world is really about.

She skips closer, her mousy hair bouncing on her shoulders, before standing in a way that blocks the entire path. “Guess what? I got a new phone. What social media do you have? Facebook, I bet.”