by Becky Monson
I have my own uniform of sorts. Basically, I alternate between two pencil skirts, one black and one brown, and two pairs of slacks, also one black and one brown. For the tops, I have about ten different colored polo-styled shirts, and I wear whatever is clean. Today is the brown pencil skirt with the navy blue polo. It’s plain, it’s boring. It’s, well, me.
“Heard any gossip today?” Brown asks as she leans against the wall under the awning that keeps the smokers safe from the snow and whatever other crazy weather Denver likes to throw our way.
“Nah, I’ve got nothing,” I say as I look out at the clear, blue sky. There’s nothing like spring in Colorado. It’s beautiful, except for the random snow storms. Those I could live without.
“Well, I do,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. Brown does love to gossip, I think because she likes to know what’s going on around her at all times. Not me. I like it because it’s always fascinating to hear what’s going on in people’s lives. It’s always much more exciting than mine.
“So, what is it?” I try to act as if it’s no big deal, but Brown usually has the real juicy stuff, so I’m dying to know.
“Okay,” she says, lowering her voice as if someone else were around. “You know Martha in HR? She’s totally having an affair.”
“No way!” I crinkle my eyes in disbelief. “How? Who?” I’m baffled. Big, overweight, Martha? Seriously? She has a crazy scandalous sex life, and I’ve got nothing? Really?
Brown takes a long dramatic drag from her cigarette and blows out the smoke. “I don’t know who it is, but I suspect it’s someone at Spectraltech.”
“No! Who?” This is good stuff. Brown truly does get the most delicious gossip.
“I’m not sure, but think about it,” she says as she takes another drag from her cigarette and exhales the smoke. “She’s been working late, and we both know that Martha is not the most stellar of employees.”
I nod my head in agreement. On most days, you can find Martha in one of three places—in the break room, eating; in the bathroom, playing on her cell phone; or at her desk, playing computer games. I honestly don’t know why she’s still employed.
“I’m still wondering who’d want to have an affair with Martha,” I say, still confused by this scenario and trying desperately not to picture it. Ugh. Too late.
“Maybe Mike in IT? He likes ‘em big,” Brown says and we both laugh out loud. Mike is a total nerd as are most of the, dare I say, “men” at this place. Role-playing games and online versions of Dungeons and Dragons run rampant around here.
We have to cut our smoke break short this time because Brown has a meeting. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around Martha and her crazy—and quite disturbing—life.
I’m sure the answer to Martha’s crazy love life is that, unlike me, she puts herself out there. I don’t put myself out there because, as we’ve already established, I’m a creature of habit.
The trek back to my office is a long one today. I didn’t start the day in the greatest mood, and now I don’t know if it’s the lost dream of the position in HR, or icky Martha and her crazy love life that has me feeling even bluer, but I’m feeling it. I’m sure having to work on the report for Mr. Nguyen isn’t helping.
Like Martha, I guess I’m not the most stellar of employees, either. I actually do my job, but I hate it. When I was a teenager my dad would always tell me to choose something I love to do, and I would always be successful at it. Well, I most certainly didn’t choose something I love to do, and he was right—I’m not successful. I’m stuck in a job I don’t love, and I have nowhere to go. And now my hopes of going to HR have been thoroughly crumbled by some guy who’s probably a LARP (live action role-player—it’s truly sad I know what that means).
If I were to do something I love, it would certainly be baking. I adore everything about it. I love finding a good recipe and adding my own touches to make it better. One of my favorite parts is the smells that come from the oven as my newest creation is baking. It’s the best. And when the flavors and aromas come together for that first bite, it really can be magical.
I must say the best part of baking is sharing it with others. I know that sounds cheesy, like some message from an after school special, but it’s true. Watching their expressions as they take their first delicious bite … hearing all the admiration and praise of my hard work … I think that’s when I’m truly happy.
But baking is not something one can do for a living. It’s just not practical. I mean, in order to make any kind of money at it, I’d have to go to school to become a chef, and then work my way up in some kind of fancy restaurant or something, or I’d have to run my own bakery. That’s all too risky, and I don’t have the stamina, nor do I have the gumption, to do something like that. I know me, and it’s just not in me.
Not everyone can be like Rachael Ray and take her hobby and make a fortune out of it. I can’t even watch her on TV. Mostly because she uses too many hand gestures and talks too loudly, at least that’s the reason I tell other people. The truth, though, is that I’m totally jealous when I watch her. She has my dream job. How could I not be envious? She actually does use too many hand gestures and it can be irritating, but that’s not the point. The point is that I’m stuck in my life and this job, and it’s sad. I’ve become a pathetic person whose hopes and dreams have been ruined by Rachael Ray and, more recently, by some new guy that stole my HR position.
I seriously can’t do this report right now. I’m not in the mood. I have time to procrastinate, so I might as well do just that. Perhaps a little catnap would lighten my mood. I am feeling pretty sleepy.
A little snooze might be helpful for this mood I can’t seem to get out of. And yes, I do realize I’m at work. How could it be possible for me to take a nap? Oh, but it is possible. And no, Spectraltech does not offer break rooms with cots in them, even though I anonymously left an article on the president of the company’s desk about how napping during the day can increase productivity and morale in a company. He obviously didn’t bother reading it.
It’s no big deal because I’m actually the queen of taking little snoozes at work, a self-titled queen, but a queen nonetheless. No one actually knows about it because it’s not something one should brag about. But it’s quite a talent, if I do say so myself.
It took me some time to perfect it, but I figured it out. Basically, I just lean my head on my left hand while my right hand moves the mouse. It took practice to be able to sleep and move the mouse at the same time, but I mastered it. I’ve also made sure that my computer screen is placed strategically in front of me. That way, if anyone were to walk into my office, my face would be hidden from view. It’s genius, really.
Luckily for me, I don’t have to use this technique that often (it tends to put a bit of a kink in my neck) because I have a little secret: upstairs on the sixth floor is a rarely used conference room. It’s mostly used for the Board of Directors’ quarterly meeting. Sometimes they’ll use it for presentations to investors or buyers, but this is rare.
Since Mr. Nguyen is the VP of accounting, he’s always a part of the board meetings. As I am the next person ranked under Mr. Nguyen and his assistant, I know his schedule and, therefore, know if the conference room is in use. Today, like most days, it’s vacant. This means I can grab some files (my disguise) and head up to the sixth floor to catch a little nap.
It’s brilliant, right? Too bad I’m the only one that gets to celebrate my napping-at-work discovery since it’s not something one would want to share with one’s coworkers.
Mr. Calhoun is the only person who has an office on the sixth floor. He’s the head of the HR department and would’ve been my new boss had things worked out how I wanted them to. He’s rarely in his office, though. He likes to be downstairs where the action is. He sometimes sets up camp in the downstairs sales conference room just so he can be near everyone.
Therefore, napping in the conference room it is. I think it’ll revive me and help me get out of this
funk I’m in. I’ll just sneakily maneuver myself up to the sixth floor. Really, it’s not that sneaky. I just grab the files and walk like I have a purpose, like I have somewhere to be. No one cares what I do anyway (unless I’m dropping baked goods off in the break room), so it’s not that hard.
Okay, so I can see how I’m not making myself look like an employee who actually gets her work done with all the smoke breaks and the naps, but I swear I do. It’s just that lately Mr. Nguyen hasn’t been giving me all that much work.
He just keeps giving me reports to do that I swear I’ve done before. I actually questioned him about it the other day, and he just gave me a look as if I were an idiot and motioned for me to leave his office. He didn’t say a word, which is not unlike Mr. Nguyen (he’s the quiet type for sure), and shooed me off as he usually does.
It doesn’t matter because I honestly don’t care what Mr. Nguyen thinks of me. I do my job and he knows it. He has nothing to complain about. He never says anything to me regarding my work. In fact, my reviews are usually done via email. I always get the standard raise, so that essentially says I do my job, right? Besides, I’m not the type of girl who needs constant reassurance, unless it has to do with my baking, and then I do love the compliments.
As I enter the conference room, I notice it’s a little messy today. Come to think of it, I actually haven’t been up here in a while (proof that I don’t nap that often). I’m sure people are using the conference room to store stuff again. Heads are going to roll—Mr. Calhoun hates it when people use this room for storage. Well, I won’t be the one to tell him. I’m not a tattler, and he would wonder what I was doing up here in the first place.
The conference table is a long rectangle shape with chairs surrounding it. Boxes are placed sloppily on the table, and the chairs are moved around a bit. No worries, the best chair—my favorite chair—is still in its proper place at the head of the table. It’s the most comfortable chair, and easily the biggest chair in the room. I suspect it was someone’s desk chair and they got a new one or something. I don’t know why anyone would give up this perfect chair. I’ve even thought of switching it out with my desk chair, but I wasn’t sure I could get away with it. It’s got a high back, is made of nice reddish-brown leather, and it even leans back, probably from years of usage. It’s quite perfect for snoozing.
I plop myself down in the perfect napping chair, kick off my shoes, and put my feet up on the conference table. I lean my head back. I’m so tired I can actually feel myself already drifting off. Just as I start to fall asleep, it dawns on me that napping at work is truly quite spinster of me …
~*~
Voices.
There are voices right outside the conference room door, and someone is rattling the handle. The rattling is actually what woke me up.
Who’d be using the conference room now? I checked the schedule, and there was nothing. It’s a good thing I locked the door just in case. I’m fairly certain a key to this room does not exist. Hopefully, whoever it is will just try the handle and then give up.
The handle rattles some more. I can’t make out the voices. It’s too muffled behind the door.
I’m feeling groggy. I’m not sure how long I’ve been asleep. Whoever is out there needs to leave so I can get back to my napping. The rattling of the handle is keeping me awake.
Oh, no. Oh Heaven’s, no. I just heard keys. I swear I just heard keys rattling. Who’d have a key? I try to rack my brain, fully awake now, panic starting to set in. How will I get out of this? There’s no other way out than through that door.
The keys keep rattling. Perhaps they are trying to find which one actually fits. It’s buying me a little time, but I still have nothing. I don’t know how to get out of this. This is bad, really bad.
They must’ve found the right key because the door handle is moving. What do I do? I have nowhere to go.
I make a snap decision and slip under the conference table, grabbing my shoes as I hide. I’ll just have to wait until whoever it is does their thing and leaves. Hopefully it won’t be long. Maybe it’s the same people who are leaving boxes up here. Yes, that’s probably it.
In hindsight, I should’ve considered the fact that if there are boxes up here, that might mean more are on the way, but I was too tired to think straight.
Wow. What’s wrong with me? Who takes naps at work? Who? Idiots like me and George Costanza, that’s who. Oh, my gosh, I’m totally the female George Costanza right now. And, to top it off, I’m wearing a skirt. I’m under a conference room table in a skirt … lovely.
I hear the door open and from under the conference table I can see two sets of men’s shoes walk in. One pair is older, very worn, but not from wear and tear as much as worn from having to support fat feet. I know right away who that is—Mr. Calhoun, the HR director. The other pair of shoes is fancy. I have no idea the brand. I don’t get into shoes that much. I bet Brown would be able to tell. The fancy shoes are shiny and black. A pair of perfectly tailored and pressed pants hang over the tops of the laces. Whoever this is, I can already tell he’s a little too formal for the likes of Spectraltech.
Oh! I bet I know who it is. I bet it’s him. The jerk who stole my HR job.
“I’m not sure how the door got locked,” I hear Mr. Calhoun say, flustered. “Very strange. Anyway, it’s open now. So how long do you think it’ll take?” Mr. Calhoun asks the job stealer.
“It usually takes a couple of months,” Job Stealer says as I see his feet walk to the head of the table. He pauses in front of something.
My files! Oh no! I left my files just sitting there. I’m such an idiot. I don’t even know what files they are. They could be something I shouldn’t be leaving around. I just grabbed whatever was on the top of my inbox. I can hear papers ruffling. Job Stealer is looking at my files.
“What’s this? I thought no one used this conference room,” I hear him say, sounding a little irritated.
“I’m not sure. No one should be using this room,” I hear Mr. Calhoun say, slightly out of breath. Mr. Calhoun is always out of breath.
“I was up here not that long ago, and I left all of my things. Someone could’ve gone through them,” Job Stealer says, now sounding even more irritated.
“Yes, well, I’ll check into this right away. It doesn’t look like anyone has gone through anything,” Mr. Calhoun says, a worried tone in his voice.
There’s silence for a second, and I can see they’re walking around the table, probably looking for more clues left by the perpetrator. Imagine their surprise if they knew that it was just a lazy junior assistant taking a nap and now hiding under the table. I’d be fired for sure.
I hear papers rustling again. I’m trying to rack my brain to remember what they are. I’m getting nothing. I’m sending out silent prayers that my name is not on any of those files. This could be the end of my career at Spectraltech. Then what would I do? I’ve been here for ten years. I don’t even know how to look for a job, I’ve been out of that mode for so long.
The good thing is, for now I’m safe under this table. Job Stealer and Mr. Calhoun will leave at some point. I’ll stay here all day if I have to. It’ll be fine, just as long as I don’t have to cough or anything.
And there it is. I’ve just jinxed myself.
Now there’s the tickle. There’s a tickle in the back of my throat. Oh, please, no. Please, no.
I have to cough. I just have to. This is not good. I’m horrible at lying. How will I get myself out of this?
The tickle is getting worse. I need some water. I need to cough. This is very bad.
I can hear talking between Mr. Calhoun and the new guy, but I’m too consumed by this tickle to be able to concentrate.
I’m sweating. I’m now sweating from trying to suppress this tickle. I’m actually starting to feel a little claustrophobic under this table. I need an out. I need to get out of this office right now.
Here it comes … I can’t suppress it any longer. I cough.
Ever
ything goes silent, and then I see fat feet move around to the side of the table directly in front of me.
Think, Julia. You have to think. I look around frantically and see nothing. I have no options. I must get out from under this table and come up with something that even remotely resembles an excuse. I’m fired for sure. Who’d be under a table in a practically abandoned conference room? A sad, lonely, and soon-to-be jobless spinster, that’s who.
Mr. Calhoun’s body struggles to bend over to look under the table.
“Julia?” he asks, his eyes opening wide in surprise.
I crawl out from under the table. I can’t think of anything. I have nothing, no speech to give. I’m horrible at speeches as it is. It’d be a near impossibility for me to come up with one on the fly, anyway.
And then I see it out of the corner of my eye. A red stapler by the door. It’s a long shot, but it’s all I’ve got.
“Ah! There it is!” I say trying to sound convincing. I crawl over to the door and pick up the red stapler from the floor. “I knew it was in here, but I couldn’t find it.”
I clumsily stand up and tug on my skirt that was hiking up a little too high. Mr. Calhoun just stares at me.
“I … uh . . . left it up here when I was doing that project… um . . . the other day,” says the Worst Liar Ever.
I’m holding out the stapler as proof that I found what I was looking for. This is the worst excuse I’ve ever come up with. I’m going to lose my job. I’ll be fired for sure. What’ll I do? I don’t even have a resumé. I need this job. I have no other options right now, and the job market is complete crap. I’m so screwed.
I look up to see the man who stole my job and Mr. Calhoun staring at me. Job Stealer is looking at me like I’m a complete idiot, which I clearly am.
In hindsight, wouldn’t it have been better if I’d just stayed sitting at the desk and looked as if I were studying the files I brought up? I could’ve told them I needed a quiet place to go over reports or something. I still would’ve looked like a fool, but not as much as I do right now.