It was a typical Monday, my boss expecting yet another half-assed project to be completed by the time she arrived at the office. Dwelling in the cubicle world, comfortable in the same chair I'd parked my butt in for fifteen years, I still needed some uninterrupted time to stare at my computer screen and figure out how to add extra lines to an Excel spreadsheet that some unnamed company drone had created; how to bullshit my way through the latest morass without letting on that I had absolutely no worldly clue what I was doing or why anyone'd even hired me in the first place.
The last thing I needed at this particular moment was a co-worker resting his arm on the overhang of my pseudo-office door because he was bored and wanted someone to brighten up his day.
But, alas, there was Ted.
"You KNOW," said Ted, "the SANDWICHES in the VENDING machine are WHOLLY unacceptable."
I'd grown used to Ted's hyperbole after all these years,, but his emphasis on EVERY other WORD still jangled my nerves.
"Hey, Ted, how're you doin'?" I ask, ruffling through the pages of copy I'd spit out of the printer; squinting to decipher actual numbers out of the teeny-tiny typeface.
"I have a TEN POINT plan to FIX the SANDWICHES in the vending machine," Ted punctured the stale Monday, air-condition-deprived oxygen with his jabbed finger.
"I don't really ever buy any --" I start to say.
"You can read about it on my personal WEBSITE. Some people have tried to DISTORT what I've said about vending machine SANDWICHES, but if you go to my WEBSITE, I lay it out very SUCCINCTLY. I am, and have ALWAYS been, opposed to pre-form SANDWICHES."
"Good for you, Ted!" I say, trying to muster enough fake enthusiasm to make him go away. I decide if I just stop responding to him, he'll grow bored and go bother Tanya on the other side of the wall. It works. Absent an enraptured audience, Ted toddles off, still mumbling and SHOUTING random words, down the narrow corridor.
"You know..."
Great.
Donald is here.
"Is it seven o'clock already, Donald?" I smile, hoping my expression looks friendly and not panic-stricken.
"I've been thinking about the sandwiches in the vending machine," Donald says, waving his hand like he's swatting away a gypsy moth . "They look foreign to me. I think we have to nuke 'em."
"You mean, 'nuke them', like in the microwave?" I ask.
"No, I mean BAN them. They're a danger to us. I have the polls to prove it. They're not only low-energy, but they're missing the stamina."
"Stamina? In a sandwich?" I hate myself for asking, as the hands on the clock sweep precipitously toward the witching hour, when my boss will flip on her office light and expect me to perch in her doorway with the latest statistics on something I don't even know what the hell I'm supposed to be analyzing.
Luckily, or unluckily, Jeb (!) appears.
"Donald, you've been fooling people with your pronouncements on sandwich-making for far too long," Jeb says, flicking Donald's elbow off my cubicle perch. "I've been spreading mustard on the sandwiches of the people of Florida for years. An amateur like you doesn't know how to spread the mustard right. People want their mustard smeared by a professional."
"I don't think it takes a mastermind to smear --", I start to say, but the two of them ignore me and begin jostling each other, and I peer around my high wall, hoping somebody will show up for work soon, because I'm just a girl and I am NOT getting in between two old guys who want to beat each other up over French's.
"Guys...guys!"
Oh good, John's here.
"Is this any way to settle an argument?" John pleads. "Think about the people around you. They don't want to hear some silly squabble about vending machine sandwiches! I asked my daughters and they were appalled! My oldest said to me, 'Dad, this is what I don't like about sandwiches. There's no consensus. Why can't we just do bologna? That's what the people want! This is just silly!'"
"I hate to break in," I summon the nerve to blurt, "but I really need to get this report --"
"Did someone say 'sandwiches'?" a timid voice breaks the impasse. "I've been studying sandwiches with my advisers, and they agree that Obamacare has sullied personal choice...a ham on rye here, a pastrami and muenster there. I say we need to establish SSA's, "Sandwich Savings Accounts", so everyday Americans can CHOOSE which vending machine confection they think is best for their family."
"Shut up, Ben!" Donald yells. "You're at fourteen! Nobody cares anymore what you say. My sandwiches are HUUU-GE!".
"You know," a soft voice wafts in from across the aisle, "When I started out as a secretary, there was no such thing as sandwiches in vending machines. There were candy bars. There was gum."
"There was a point?" Donald asks, waving Carly off.
"I just wanted to get it on the record," Carly says. "And, by the way, I am not afraid of Vladimir Putin."
"Good for you." Donald rolls his eyes, and I'm not sure if I'm supposed to shrug my shoulders in a sign of solidarity to Donald or stand up and pat Carly on the shoulder. I frankly just wish they'd all go away before I miss my deadline and get a stern talking-to.
"Sandwiches. In vending machines?"
Oh yay, Paranoia Rand has shown up. I can't wait to hear his latest conspiracy theory about how the government has planted listening devices inside lettuce leafs.
"How much do we want our elected officials to spike our mayonnaise?" Rand prattles, for the thirteen-thousandth time.
Fine.
I've frankly had it.
"Rand, why don't you pack a lunch bag with a Lean Cuisine, like I do, and if it makes you feel safer, run it under one of those TSA detectors before you haul it into the office?"
Freakin' nutbag.
I catch a glimpse of my boss. She just tromped through the aisle on the way to her office. I can tell she's not happy with the gang of eleven clustered around my cube, and sure enough, I'll get the blame. As if I have any sway over these hangers-on, these power-obsessed lunatics. What exactly, you guys, do you think all this bravado and Velveeta chest-thumping is going to get you? You're still going to be a peon, just like me, and unfortunately, it's my ass on the line, because you all have nothing much to do, but I really need to keep my job, what with my 401-K tanking and the Black Lives Matter people tromping around outside my house, just waiting to catch me in a sarcastic eye-roll, and then pasting me up on YouTube, which for sure will cost me my job in the current World Of Diversity.
A sudden breeze curls the hem of my blouse. Chris is here and he's loaded for bear. He acts like he doesn't even notice all these lunatics hanging on my cubicle wall, except I see the slight shake of his head as he tromps past on his way to his own cube to fire up his PC. Chris, I will tell you, doesn't possess a ton of patience. I sort of like that. Cut to the chase. In the business world, when one is hanging on for dear life, one appreciates a co-worker who narrows it down to the question at hand. On the flipside, I never disturb Chris unless it's vital, because he'll just as soon slice my head off than tolerate a bunch of small-talk. The thing is, if anybody knows anything about sandwiches, it's Chris. He's no doubt sampled them all. Not that I actually care about sandwiches, but all these goofballs have suddenly made me hungry.
Oh, good. Hill has finally shown up. My gaggle of shouters wander off, down the row toward her cubicle to heckle her. None of them like her, I've noticed. In fact, they all seem to delight in ragging on her. I wish my boss would take a cue from them and leave me the hell alone.
Finally. I have some peace. My head is throbbing and the clock is ticking. My boss wants numbers and I'm tempted to simply create some and splash them across the spreadsheet, hoping a completed file will mask my utter befuddlement and dazzle her with my stick-to-tive-ness.
I take a deep breath and a swig of coffee, lean back in my chair and revel in completing yet one more meaningless task, assured that my Friday paycheck will still be forthcoming. I await the coming lunch break, when I can settle my bones and exhale. I packed a Lean Cuisine this morning, and an apple -- my regularly scheduled fake lunch; but suddenly a grinning Marco alights on my cubicle wall, clutching a fast-food bag.
"I stopped at Subway and picked up a ham and cheese with pickles and jalapenos. Thought you might like something new and fresh. Those vending machine sandwiches will kill you," he says.
I smile, despite myself. It's been an exhausting morning. The hangers-on have depleted what little energy I'd willed myself to muster when I'd flashed my card against the electric eye at six a.m.
Someone who gives a damn about me? I don't know if he's running for anything -- maybe for Claims Representative -- but regardless, Marco has my vote.
No comments:
Post a Comment