“Seriously, I’ll try,” I replied. I didn’t know what to say, but I sincerely felt bad for both of them—I knew that they already did the lion’s share of the work for the principles, just without the pay grade or title. However, the current situation meant regardless of what I said, they would both be getting quite a few more hours added to their workloads. Maya and Priti knew this too, even though they didn’t want to admit it to themselves. After venting to me, they had both calmed down enough wander away from my desk and eventually get back to the piles of work in each of their cubes.
When I headed back to my desk I was feeling more prepared to take on my monster task. I was making myself a checklist of things to look for when one of the analysts, Nathan, showed up to help. I sent him into Ari’s office and told him to pull all of Ari’s files and to use his best effort to sort them in piles.
I took on the same task in Sarah’s office. Martin even noticed my general state of panic and half-heartedly offered to help me via IM. I considered it, but thought about Sarah’s cluttered files and decided that it would be better as a one-person job.
When I approached the closed door I could smell the bleach and chemical cleaners from the outside—it seemed that the SPD had gathered sufficient evidence and documented the crime scene enough so that over the weekend the office could be professionally cleaned. The other two analysts Laura and Michelle stared at me as I took a few cleansing breaths and mentally pumped myself up before I cracked the door.
When I entered the room the horror of the last week’s events had been completely erased: it looked as sterile and ordinary as any other high-rise office. There were none of the drawings by Sarah’s children or family portraits scattered in frames about the room, and her normal clutter of Post-It notes had been piled neatly in a small stack at the corner of the desk. I took a step in and looked directly to the left of the door where all of Sarah’s personal belongings had been packed away. The two file boxes were sealed with clear plastic packing tape and labeled: “Sarah Lieber: Personal Effects.”
Behind the desk, the area where the floor that had been soaked with blood not five days ago had been re-carpeted with the same large, contrasting dark and light grey block pattern that covered the work area of the building’s entire 29th floor. My nostrils stung with the harsh fumes of cleaning agents as I stood for a moment, bracing myself for the task at hand. It was incredibly creepy, but also kind of amazing that the horrible act committed just last week had been completely erased from this tiny sterile space with a piece of commercial carpeting and a rag doused in bleach. I shuddered, trying to clear my head of the recurring image of Sarah’s dead body, crumpled on the floor of this space and instead concentrate on the task at hand.
When I pulled opened a couple of the file cabinets, the sterile atmosphere gave way to the homey and scattered sense of Sarah’s old office. Her massive files were spread out among the drawers-typed documents and papers hand-written in Sarah’s loose scrawl scattered here and there. As I reached in and touched her precious files, I felt myself shaking my head, and the strange feeling of my eyebrows crumpling together involuntarily. “No, no, no, no, no,” I said, quietly, and didn’t even feel myself crying until the tears started to stream lightly down my cheeks, falling into the drawer in a steady river, staining a corner of one of the files a dark yellow. After a few minutes of sadness I pulled myself together with a deep sigh, wiping my runny nose on my sleeve. I slowly turned around and sat down in the desk chair, then rolling it over to the cabinet, put my head down and went about sorting and separating.
Eventually I whipped together a spreadsheet that broke down all of the projects and various associated tasks. Using guesswork, I calculated hours and workload for each one and created a column called “Assignee” which Elaine would no doubt inefficiently and arbitrarily fill in sometime today, completely fucking over one or more of our group’s employees. I sighed deeply and sent it off to her.
Sure enough when I got back from my afternoon meeting with Emily from HR (during which I sat nervously and got sweaty armpits as she nodded noncommittally and took notes on my “experience” over the last few days), Elaine had completed and returned the spreadsheet. Well, kind of: she had Mark print it out, scrawled the name “Maya” with a green sharpie on all of the columns except one where she put “Priti” and then had Mark put it on my chair. I knew that Maya was going to have a stage five meltdown when she saw her new list of “tasks” and I also knew that I was going to have to be the one to talk to her about it. I took a deep breath and got up to walk over to her desk. Might as well deal with this sooner rather than later.
“Hey Maya,” I called out to her as casually as I could when I was still five steps away from her cube. “I got this list back from Elaine and I wanted to go over it with you.”
Her head snapped up from her computer screen and her nostrils flared widely as she sucked in a deep breath through her nose. By that point I had reached the edge of her cube, but when I saw the state she was in at last minute I chose to stand behind the carpeted partition in Priti’s cube, leaving a buffer between her and myself.
“Let me see that shit,” she demanded. She snatched at the paper I that I was holding. I stood helplessly as she un-folded the document. Her face turned from pale pink to red, then to deep purple. She was shaking in anger when she imploded. “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?” I took a quick look over my right shoulder in the direction of Elaine’s office-thankfully the door was shut. “This is complete BULLSHIT! I am going to kill that bitch!!!”
By this point the rest of the office couldn’t have ignored Maya’s freak out even if they tried. Priti got up to in an attempt to calm her down. Nathan was shaking his head wildly in the cube across from Maya, either disapproving of Maya’s yelling, Elaine’s idiocy, or a combination of both. Laura, Clark and Michelle stood up in their cubes to stare over in our direction, all of them looking completely shocked. I even saw Martin’s head pop up from the other side of the room. Jenny and Michael had both opened their office doors and were peeking out into the hallway.
“Maya, try to calm down,” I said, scanning the room of shocked faces. “I am sure we can find someone to help you with this stuff – you know how Elaine is. She wasn’t thinking.” I could not believe I was defending Elaine, but I didn’t want Maya to do something crazy and get fired.
“That dumb cunt!” Maya said, this time a little bit quieter, despair taking over the anger in her voice. “I swear she is trying to ruin my life.”
“You’re totally right.” I didn’t really agree with her that Elaine was “trying to ruin her life” but I certainly did share in the sentiment that Elaine was lazy, inconsiderate and unfair. “But listen, I know you don’t mean it but really don’t think you should joke around about killing co-workers right now, you’re going to freak people out. Think about it,” I told her, as I gestured towards the other employees with my head.
As Maya looked around the room everyone quickly turned away or ducked back into their office to avoid her. The poor thing looked totally defeated as she slowly sat down in her desk chair. The anger had drained out of her with the realization that she had made a scene, and I could see her taking a couple of deep breaths, trying to regain some shred of dignity. When she slowly looked up to me she said, this time in a normal volume, “Fine, I’ll work on this stuff, but I’ll need your help making sure it all gets done. I can’t do this shit alone.”
“I’m sorry Maya, this really sucks for you” I said. I meant it and even though I didn’t really know what I could do to assist her, I tried my best to assure her by saying: “I will help you as much as I possibly can.”
I didn’t have too much time to worry about Maya, however; as soon as I got back to my desk I received a meeting reminder for my 3:30 PM “grief in the workplace” appointment with Dr. Michael Castro. I didn’t even have time to take an Ativan before the meeting, so I was petrified when I shut the door behind me in the tiny client room that Dr. Castro had transformed
into a makeshift office.
“Oh hello Louisa, please sit down.” Dr. Castro sat back in a large, heavy-looking brown leather chair that had obviously been brought in specifically for him. I sat down slowly in one of the decidedly much less fancy standard black vinyl Merit chairs across from him, separated from him by the wide, deep espresso-colored conference table and took a deep breath. I knew from experience that this interaction was going to go one of two ways: I was either going to panic and go straight into what my friends called the “Louisa show” where I could not shut the fuck up and talked as much as possible, trying to control the situation as to avoid vomiting or pooping myself. Or I would go completely catatonic, avoid eye contact and mumble robotic responses while staring at the carpet and counting down the minutes until I could leave. With me and therapy it was always one of the two, and it was always a total crap-shoot.
“Let’s begin by you telling me how you think you’ve been coping with everything that’s happened here at Merit over the last week,” he began. I noticed that Dr. Castro’s voice was deep and velvety, with a hypnotic quality.
“Well, I am not really sure,” I answered, which was the truth. He brought up a very good point though. “How should I be feeling?” I added.
“There’s no right or wrong way to feel after a trauma,” he smiled. “Everyone processes these events differently. Some people will be angry, some afraid. Some people enter a state of shock and feel absolutely nothing. However, even though the mind pushes the emotions away as a coping mechanism, it’s almost always a temporary fix. Most of my patients discover that strong feelings related to traumatic events can pop up in their lives at the most unexpected and inconvenient times. That’s why we try to address and deal with your emotional state as soon as possible, so you can learn tools to help you cope at that moment when you do have a breakdown.”
“How are we going to do that?” Surprisingly, I was actually interested. Even though it was totally unrelated to the work murder, I was getting really sick of having emotions come up in my life when I least expected and least desired them.
“We are going to talk about it,” he said. I must have sighed a little bit in frustration because he continued. “I know it would be easier if I said there was a magic bullet, but unfortunately there’s not. We just have to meet and discuss your feelings, this is how therapy works.”
I nodded. “I’m sorry if I don’t have the best attitude about all this. You know, I’ve been to therapy before, and it hasn’t exactly helped me out.”
“We’ll see if we can change that. If I’m any good at my job, which I think I am, we will.”
“If you say so.” I tried, but couldn’t control the snark from bursting from my mouth. I liked Dr. Castro, but I just didn’t have that much faith in therapy. At least I wasn’t having a panic attack.
“You know, I had a long discussion with your friend Martin this morning,” he said, changing the subject. I didn’t realize that Martin had got the mandatory therapy sentence too. “He is very upset about Mrs. Lieber’s death. So upset, in fact, that I recommended that he take some time off of work to process and recover.” This was news to me. Martin really didn’t seem that upset at all. In fact, he had barely mentioned Sarah. The Martin I knew was a classic narcissist when it came to most people—if it wasn’t about him, he couldn’t have cared less. Plus it’s not like he and Sarah and been the closest of friends. I decided that he was probably playing the sympathy card to either hit on the cute Dr. Castro or weasel some paid time off.
“I didn’t realize that. Is there something that I should be doing to help him?” I played along.
“No, no. That’s not why I bring this up. The reason that I mention Martin is that he expressed to me how close the friendship is between you two. He also told me that as upset as he is, he knows that you are hurting much, much more. He said you’d be afraid to talk about it. I just wanted you to know that you are in a safe place here, Louisa.” What? I wondered what the hell this was about. Why was Martin throwing me under the bus to the therapist?
“That was nice of him,” I said with thinly veiled sarcasm.
“Martin also expressed to me your desire to take some vacation. I really think that’s a good idea. Would you like me to discuss this with your supervisor? I think a month would be sufficient. I can recommend someone for you to work with on a daily basis while you’re out. It might be just what you need.” Ahh. Martin was trying to hook me up with some time off—very clever. Too bad that I knew exactly how understanding Elaine would be if Dr. Castro told her that I was going to require a month-long vacation right before the merger. She would probably stab him with her letter opener.
“That’s a very nice offer,” I said, sincerely as I could while knowing that his suggestion was utterly futile. “I will think about it and let you know.”
“Yes, do that. I cannot emphasize enough how important your well-being is to Merit. They are fully committed to you feeling and doing great, both at work and in your home life.” Even though this sounded like a monster line of bullshit if I’d ever heard one, I swallowed my opinion and nodded amicably.
“OK, I think I have to get back to work now,” I stood up, not knowing if I should shake the Doctor’s hand or hug him or what. I hoped it to God that it wouldn’t be another awkward hug. I was relieved when instead he stood up and folded his hands in front of him.
“Think about what we’ve talked about. I’d like to meet with you next week. If you feel that you want to speak with me before then, here’s my card. Call or email me any time. I mean that, I am always available.” He reached across the table and pushed his card into my hand, his deep brown eyes boring into mine.
“Thanks,” I said, and left the room, happy that the meeting was over. And after the door shut behind me I crumpled up the Doctor’s business card and chucked it into the first recycling bin that I saw.
Chapter 11: Who are You and Where are My Pants?
Maya was waiting for me when I got back to my desk with a look on her face that meant that if I whined about any of the work she was giving to me, she was probably going to beat me to death with a stapler. “Here’s the work that Priti and I assigned to you. It’s going to be a late night,” she said, unceremoniously plopping down a stack of files on my desk. She was right. For the first time since the beginning of my Merit career, I hadn’t vacated the office by exactly 4:00 PM. In fact, I didn’t leave until long after every other employee besides Maya, including Priti, who’d finished her work at 7:45 and trudged out, announcing her plans to buy a bottle of wine and go home and drink it by herself. I didn’t see Martin for the rest of the afternoon. I desperately wanted to break up my massive workload with a little gossip, mostly about my talk with Dr. Castro, but he must have been in meetings with the management team all afternoon, because his desk remained irritatingly empty.
I finally left Maya at twenty past eight. I offered to wait for her, but she insisted that she had a few more emails to deal with that I could not possibly help with, and thanked me forcefully and told me to go home. When I arrived back at my house I was feeling a little bit restless. Kathy was not there, so the house was quiet when I poured myself a glass of Sauvignon Blanc from the unopened bottle in the fridge. I was happy to see that she had left me a note on the kitchen counter explaining that she didn’t know where I was but that she fed Winston and let him out. Now, even though I didn’t see him, I could hear that he was snoring away in the living room behind the sofa.
I flipped through the channels aimlessly as I drank my wine. I showered without washing my hair, and changed into a pale blue Capri and tank cotton pajama set. I was brushing my teeth when the doorbell rang. It was a little after 9:30, and I was expecting my unexpected guest to be one of Kathy’s grifter magazine friends coming over to wrestle up a free beer or some conversation. Didn’t these freaking people own cell phones? When I opened the door I already had my mouth open, fully ready to announce to whoever it was that “she’s not here,” then slam the d
oor on their face.
Much to my surprise, the visitor was not a revolting stinky hippie in dreadlocks. It was Rocky.
He wore a soft black cotton t-shirt that was just tight enough to show off the flatness of his stomach over a pair of well-fitting dark jeans. I could smell his light, musty cologne from the landing. His brown eyes smoldered when he saw me.
“Hi Louisa,” he said. “I’m sorry to just drop by on you.”
“That’s OK,” I replied, pretending not to freak out about my outfit and unwashed hair. “Come on in.”
“Thanks,” he said, stepping through the door. I thought about just grabbing him and kissing him hello, but even after our very ‘passionate’ first date I still felt a bit awkward, so instead I quickly turned and started up the stairs, babbling. There were a few dirty dishes in the sink, but I knew that I at least wanted go get him away from Kathy’s bathroom as quickly as possible.
“I hope there’s not anything wrong,” I said, yammering on.
“No, everything is fine,” he said, following me through the house.
“Sorry that the house is a little messy, but Kathy’s not here, so she can’t bug you about composting or whatever it is that she was talking to you about the other day.” We got to the kitchen and I stopped. “This is the living room, and kitchen, and my room is upstairs. Oh, and that’s my bulldog Winston.” Winston hadn’t even bothered to get up when the doorbell rang, so I pointed in the direction of the snoring. “As you can see, he’s quite the guard dog.” The longer I stood there the more nervous I became. I was excruciatingly aware that I was wearing less-than-sexy pajamas, not a smidge of make-up and still sporting a very bruised eye. Not to mention that under the harsh kitchen light I was sure that the glass of Sauvignon Blanc I’d guzzled was making my face flush even more than normal. I continued, trying to distract Rocky from my appearance: “Um, do you want something to drink? I have some Diet Coke, and water, and I think there’s even a beer in the fridge.” I opened the fridge and started poking around for a beer.
Dead End Job Page 12