It’s so destructive to pity oneself. Ugly lines form at the corners of one’s mouth that only a Lynyrd Skynyrd mustache could disguise. As I walked, I tried to rally. Just think of the starving Victorian children, forced to work as scullery maids and bootblacks. I wouldn’t last two minutes as a scullery maid; my arms are too thin and feeble to haul in coal from the scuttle, not to mention the number it would do on my bronchial tubes. All for a lice-infested blanket and bowl of thin gruel. My digestion is extremely testy and cannot handle gruel. No, with my constitution I would have been much better suited to the life of the chronically ill Victorian lady, coughing delicately into a Battenburg lace hanky while servants remarked on my courage.
Pink is my color. Everything else makes me look gaseous. Of course, only Gran realized this … Mother made me child-labor uniforms in various corpselike shades. The pink dress Gran gave me for my ninth birthday was spectacular, with its puffed sleeves, daring Empire waist, and flowing knee-length skirt. She and Grandfather brought it over to our house, and I ran to my room to try it on immediately. The grandparents clapped as I twirled around, while the parents snickered, natch, calling me Prissy Princess. They preferred me in sackcloth and ashes.
Gran said, “Doesn’t she look like little Eliza Doolittle? After Rex Harrison transformed her, of course.”
Huge argument ensued, with parents defending Eliza’s right to talk bad and dress in dirty frocks.
Gran sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with a monogrammed hanky, explaining that she only wanted to do something nice for her granddaughter, heaven knows she couldn’t do much, and she would just stay out of their lives if that’s what they wanted. I clutched Gran’s skirt fiercely and glared baby poison darts at my parents.
Father apologized lamely while Mother prayed to Krishna for strength. Gran squinted and touched her temples. She said she had a sudden migraine and would just wait out in the car for Grandfather.
“Oh, Christ!” spat Mother, stomping into the bedroom and slamming the door.
“Oh, gee,” said my father, biting his cuticles and looking back and forth between Grandfather and me.
Grandfather patted me on the head and said, “Addie, you don’t have to admire Eliza Doolittle if you don’t want to.”
I said, “I admire Lizzie Borden.”
Grandfather went to his car, I gazed at my reflection in the mirror, and Father ran out to lock the tool shed.
Chapter 3
New development with 2F: I was vacuuming the hallway before work one morning this week when the door to their apartment swung open. A voice called out to tell Jadwiga, the janitoress, to knock it off until after noon. I replied that it was not Jadwiga, who usually can be found eating salami in the laundry room and not vacuuming, but Addie Prewitt, 3R. I looked over the railing as the owner of the voice looked up the stairs. I met the gaze of an Asian gentleman in silk pajamas with a black satin eyeshade pushed up on his forehead.
“Hello, Mr. Chung,” I called gaily. He made an odd, guttural noise and flapped his arm slightly in greeting. Progress! As he turned back to his apartment, I caught a glimpse of a Turkish rug fringe inside the entryway, and a stack of empty liquor bottles five feet high. I am intrigued. Perhaps I have misjudged 2F by their occasional pile of lumpen work boots.
That day the sun shone its first feeble rays. The sky had broken up in pieces, clouds parted to admit custard-colored light. No green growth yet, but the alleys sported fresh puddles of vomit, a sure sign of spring in our neighborhood. A line of diseased individuals with crying children had already formed outside the mom-and-pop clinic. Snow had melted on the biohazard Dumpster. Paco swept up the broken glass on the sidewalk in front of our building while his wife, a sullen giantess in an orange muumuu, glowered at him from their front windows.
Even at the Place I felt loads lighter. No demanding zombies lurched into my cubicle all morning. I took a break from proofreading the galleys for the thrillsville journal Technical Services Quarterly to stare out my cubicle window. We in the publishing department have cubicles lined up against the windows. Plenty of other peons in the building merely face other cubicle partitions. The Place itself is U-shaped, with a parking lot and garbage heap in the courtyard area we can look down upon. I am grateful for my cubicle window, even if the Place resembles an office version of Rear Window. Except that I have never seen anything as exciting as Raymond Burr murdering his wife.
I heard Coddles stumping down the hallway, making feeble introductions.
“This is uh, ahem … our new temp. He’ll be helping out around here as you work on the Web project.” A harassed-looking young man followed, nodding absently to each cubicle resident as he passed. Coddles stuck the temp at a workstation in the middle of the common area, where the printer, copy machine, and joyless secretaries sit. How unfeeling and automated our work society has become when the temps don’t even get their own cubicles. There were still two hours to go until lunch, so I took some company stationery out of the supply closet and composed a stern letter to the Chicago Transit Authority. It read:
Dear Sir or Madam:
I am writing in regard to the harrowing experience I endured last Sunday as I rode the Red Line to visit my sick grandmother. I quietly sat, awaiting my stop to switch over to the Evanston Express, when a disgusting fellow passenger made a most indecent and improper advance toward me! (It took fifty minutes from the Loop—that’s ten minutes longer than usual. Are your conductors adequately trained? It shouldn’t be that difficult, pushing the Go lever and pulling the Stop.) I suggest you place armed guards, or at least those Hells Angels with the red berets, in each car from now on, or I will cease my CTA business travel immediately! I have the full support of my organization behind me!
Sincerely,
Coddles
I had written several drafts before this using my own name, but they didn’t seem to carry the weight that middle management did. Even Coddles’s e-mail address rings with more authority than mine. It uses his name ([email protected]) in the address, unlike mine, which just uses my cubicle position ([email protected]). I penciled his e-mail address under his name, sealed the letter in an envelope, and dropped it in the mailroom guy’s cart—the Place can afford first-class stamps for my infrequent personal letters. Francis, the soiled graphic designer, and Bev informed me that the Jeffs had scheduled another HTML training session for our little group. This really disrupted my day, as I prefer to eat lunch at 12:05 exactly and would now have to put off the meal for at least another hour. I patiently explained to them about my digestion and how its healthful function depends on a rigorous eating routine that varies by not even one instant.
Bev said, “This gives ‘anal retentive’ a whole new spin,” and the plebe Francis burst out laughing. I said nothing as they stood around enjoying themselves at my expense. If there is a God, then perhaps he is taking note of this spectacle and making marks in a specialized booklet.
Suffered through another workshop. I’ve lost all hope of catching up and have now decided to spend these occasions in the Hole making ironic observations about the techies. While Bev and Francis jot down inane instructions from the Jeffs, I record my thoughts in my notebook. I have noticed, for example, that while all the tech hobbits defer to Fat Bald Jeff on everything from system configuration to take-out menus, they regard Other Jeff as an irritating speck of lint. Poor Other Jeff … he’s quite harmless, but he does seem to bumble around a lot for someone in charge of network administration. Their supervisor came in and disrupted our session to ask Other Jeff why he had left his (the supervisor’s) Mont Blanc in a cup of coffee on the desk. Other Jeff explained nervously that he thought that the supervisor left his pens in a coffee mug.
“Not a full one, dumb-ass,” barked the supervisor. “Next time use your brain, if there is one trapped under that stupid baseball cap.”
The Hole occupants snickered at Other Jeff, and for a moment I felt I could empathize with him, having recently been made a laughingstock myself by hag Bev and Fr
ancis. But Other Jeff lifted his RON’S PIZZA cap for a second to adjust his fur, and the sight of all those burrs and snarls relieved me temporarily of human feeling. Fat Bald Jeff, however, ceased his instruction. He took an imposing step toward the techies and fixed upon them the ferocious stare of the angry baby whale, just like when he assaults the pastry platter in the morning.
“Is there something funny?” he bellowed. The techies glanced around sheepishly at one another, laughter dying all around. They turned to their workstations, backs curling up tightly like boiled prawns. Satisfied that the message went through, Fat Bald Jeff smiled rather grimly and came back to our astonished little group. Other Jeff looked down at Fat Bald Jeff with submissive gratitude. Fat Bald Jeff nodded shortly in response and resumed the lesson. Strange! It would never pass muster aboveground, but in the Hole it pays to be Fat Bald Jeff.
At the end of the session, the Jeffs gave us a sample assignment to work on later in our cubicles. Francis tried to peek at my notebook as we packed up to leave.
“How’s it going? Need any help?”
I assured him that all was under control. As if I wanted a graphic delinquent hanging about my desk in his scandalous pumpkin pants and potato-digging fingernails. A girl has to maintain some standards in her cubicle. The indignity of no door is bad enough without inviting the rabble in.
Faint with hunger by the time I reached the elevator. Steady on. I waited, leaning against the wall for support as Bev hoisted her elephantine ankles up the stairs. She looked back over her dowager’s hump at me, wearing a superior expression. I had no energy to parry with her over my use of the elevator. Practically fell out the doors at the second floor and crawled into the staff lounge. Opened the refrigerator door to retrieve my sack lunch. Gone!
Frantically, I searched the fridge, every shelf, every dusty egg bin, every moldy crisper. The brown bag was nowhere.
“My lunch is gone! My lunch is gone!” I screamed, running out into the common area. I was trembling with rage and low blood sugar. The temp woke up and the secretaries looked over, mildly annoyed.
“Someone has stolen my lunch! I must sit down,” I gasped. I tried to lower myself into a chair at the conference table but misjudged the distance and fell down. Of course, sniggering all around.
The graphic designers’ cubicles were just opposite the common area, and the three of them strolled out to watch the show. Francis, at least, had the good manners to help me up and into the chair while his vile colleagues stood there and rubbernecked.
“Someone has stolen my lunch,” I repeated to Francis, who sat next to me at the table. “I feel dizzy.” I blinked, and two big tears plopped down.
“What was in your lunch?” he asked. “Maybe somebody grabbed it by accident. There’s always so many bags in the fridge.”
My voice shook as I recited the contents. “Tofurkey tarragon with Danish havarti, butter, and radicchio on seven-grain millet bread. One banana, cubed. Pepperidge Farms’ Distinctive Milano cookies, two.”
He looked as though he was fighting the urge to smile. I don’t see what’s so hilarious about the theft of one’s food. He asked the other graphics fellows as well as Lura and Bev about the missing lunch. Bev came out to the common area with a toothpick working its way through her decayed brown fangs.
“All this fuss over a cheese sandwich?” she crooned. Francis had to restrain me, which wasn’t too difficult given my weakened state.
“How come you put cheese and butter on the sandwich?” asked one of the graphic designers.
“Yeah,” said the other. “Wouldn’t cheese and all the other junk be enough?”
Junk! That pound of sliced tofurkey cost $7.98! Not to mention the expense of organic radicchio, which has a rather unpleasant texture but wonderful color.
I screamed, “The point is, it was stolen, simpletons! We have a thief in the building, ripping sandwiches out of the mouths of the hungry.” Slowly, all eyes came to rest on the temp, who was nervously sharpening pencils.
“It wasn’t me,” he said in a small voice.
Lura spoke up quickly. “Now, let’s not make any accusations. Addie, I have a sandwich I’ll split with you. Come into my cubicle.” She pulled me up and dragged me out of the common area around the corner.
We sat down as she split up the contents of her lunch on the desk. I wiped my tears and exhaled a quivering breath. At least someone at the Place had a little consideration. I did my best to smile at this one kind soul through my anguish and peristalsis. She smiled back as she pushed over half of her ham sandwich.
I sniffed it. “Is this white bread? Because I really try to avoid it. It’s so bad for you.”
A strange expression crossed her face. She probably had never heard about the digestive pitfalls of processed flour.
“Well, I suppose one time won’t hurt,” I said, taking a tiny bite.
After lunch, I took a brisk walk around the block to calm my nerves. It exhausted me. To have to go back in the midst of my laughing coworkers, one of whom is a remorseless criminal, was too much to bear. At least Lura was a decent sort, generous to me in my time of need. Back in my cubicle, I looked warily out the window at the thousand windows opposite me. A thieving madman roamed those corridors—but who? Where?
“Everything all right?” I jumped at the sound of a voice behind me.
Oh, it was just Francis. I nodded and turned away. The thief was probably not him, as he usually ate greasy fried flesh with his colleagues each day. On the other hand, he always appears to be on the verge of scurvy and perhaps felt the need for a healthful meal.
“Have you been in this cubicle long?” he asked, glancing around.
“Four years,” I responded.
“Wow,” he said. “It looks like nobody even works in here.”
A comment directed toward my lack of office decoration. I like to keep my cubicle as barren as a spinster’s lingerie drawer. Everyone else in the department has plants, posters of kittens on ropes begging you to “hang in there,” and photos of loved ones. I may be resigned to the idea that I am toiling myself into an early grave, but I have no desire to fool myself into thinking of the Place as home.
“I have to work on the sample Web page,” I finally said to Francis as he stood there gawking at my blank walls.
He sighed and walked back to his side of the wing. His sigh was irritated, but I expect it’s just that he, too, is dreading the boring project. The Jeffs had handed us each a sheet of gibberish, detailing what we were to do. I read it over for a moment, then checked the corridor to see if anyone approached. Then I unplugged the computer and opened up the back of the hard drive. I cut a wire with an X-Acto knife—easy enough! But I couldn’t get the back panel of the machine on again. Finally I found an old Zero candy bar in my desk and shoved that in there, too. Its gooey, melting icing would seal the box up nicely. I felt a twinge of regret afterward, when I realized I had thus incapacitated the solitaire game as well.
I knew I had to behave as normally as possible—the usual course of action when one’s computer conks out is to plead for help from tech support—so I took the elevator down to the Hole. I tried to walk past the desk geek at the glass door, but he laid a dry paw upon my arm, barring my way.
“Sorry. You can’t just waltz into tech support.”
“But my computer’s broken,” I said. “I need to alert the proper authorities.”
“I’ll page somebody,” he said.
“But they’re all sitting right there,” I said, annoyed. “Can’t I just knock on the door?”
The desk geek looked aghast. “You most certainly cannot. Who worked on your machine last time this happened?” I gulped. Do they really keep track of these things? I had dismantled the computer once last year. A greedy coworker had taken a few additional days of maternity leave, and Coddles forced extra editorial duties upon me. People can be so selfish.
“Um, it was Jeff,” I lied.
The desk geek drew in a long breath and flutter
ed his eyelids rapidly. “Which one?”
“Fat Bald, Fat Bald,” I replied quickly.
He droned into the intercom system. “Fat Bald Jeff, please come to the administration desk. Fat Bald Jeff, to the administration desk.”
The stout little man answered the page immediately and listened intently as I explained the problem.
“I see,” he said finally. “You turn the machine on, yet nothing happens. Is that right?”
I nodded. We then walked to the elevator together. As it spat us out on the second floor, Jeff stepped into the pale sunlight streaming in through the hall windows and blinked as if in pain. I was reminded again of the sea and imagined Jeff as a sightless albino fish swimming around in a dark cave all its life, never once seeing the sun.
“So bright up here,” he complained. I replied that, yes, March sunlight in Chicago is often brutal, but my sarcasm went unnoticed.
We entered my cubicle and I sat in my folding chair as Fat Bald Jeff manhandled the computer.
“I guess I won’t be able to finish that sample project you gave us this morning,” I said.
He shrugged. “You’ll have to take that up with Coddles. I’m just the trainer.”
I detested the idea of willingly entering Coddles’s office, but I felt it was my duty to slip out of this assignment as quickly as possible so he could give the work to someone else. I knocked on his door and went in. He was wedged tightly behind his yucko Louis XIV desk, emptying the contents of a Chinese take-out carton into his mouth. The remains of a sub sandwich lay ravaged at his elbow. His hair, if one can call a slick strand grown to the length of five feet and wrapped several times around the head “hair,” must have fallen into the carton recently, as it dripped brown MSG goo all over Coddles’s dandruff-flaked shoulders. He held up a pudgy finger, indicating that I should wait while he licked the inside of the container clean.
Fat Bald Jeff Page 4