Dead End Job (5 page)

I decided that the only option was to get myself to the office to grab one of my emergency anti-anxiety pills before I completely lost it. Even though the date had seemed to last for hours, the sun was still shining brightly, but there was hardly a soul on the streets. Using the deep breathing my therapist had taught me, and anticipating taking my meds, I managed to walk the couple of blocks to my office building in relative calm. 

When I entered the lobby, I passed the night watchman and shuddered. Martin had renamed this guy “Chi-Mo,” which was short for “child molester.” I know, I know, it’s completely terrible, but in Martin’s defense, this guy
was
irrefutably uber-creepy. Beginning each day at noon, Chi-Mo worked maintenance in the building, washing the glass doors, performing basic maintenance work and re-stocking the bathrooms with fresh toilet rolls. He was a skinny, shifty-looking bald man who was probably in his late forties. He had a habit of constantly and menacingly glaring at the different office workers while quietly mumbling obscenities to himself. Every time I saw him I walked away quickly and avoided eye contact. I didn’t know if it was true, but my co-workers and I often recounted the office lore that he was actually an ex-con, currently on probation for a nasty, violent crime. I think everyone in the office was scared of him, which probably served to isolate him further, causing more extreme behavior, making people more afraid and so on. I kind of felt bad for talking all that crap about him and practically running every time I saw him, because I knew from the hours and hours I’d invested watching reality TV that most likely the stories weren’t true and in fact, he might be fighting some horrible disease or have a heartwarming story about saving puppies that no one knew about. Even so, I didn’t have the time or willingness to evaluate the social dynamic of the building at the moment, so I rushed by, feeling his beady, blue eyes on my back.

When I’d exited the lobby and gotten to the elevator bay, I used my keycard to call one of the twelve elevators and took it up to the twenty-ninth floor to reception. By this time of night, the office was dead quiet. Most people don’t realize that there’s artificial white noise pumped in to the buildings where they work to help drown out the endless chatter of office phone conversations and to wipe out the creepiness of an empty floor during those deadline days when you work hours past your colleagues. I’d heard from co-workers that the white noise in our building abruptly shuts off at 7:00 PM, but I’d never stuck around long enough to experience it for myself. Now that I was in the office without the artificial noise, I agreed that the result was eerie.

I buzzed myself in through the glass doors and rounded the corner to my cube. The lights were still on, but I didn’t see anyone in the office when I slipped in as quickly as I could, grabbed the bottle of meds from my locker in my cubicle, popped an Ativan and went to the kitchen to get a sip of water. On the way out I leaned on the counter by the water dispenser for a moment in the silence and took a deep breath, then buzzed myself out and marched back down the block to my parking garage.

When I got home, I was feeling much more relaxed.  I slunk upstairs, threw on my “uglies” (grey, oversized sweats and a worn out University T-shirt), and crawled into bed. It was only a quarter to nine, but I was exhausted. I could hear Kathy downstairs in her bedroom directly below mine on her phone talking about something that she’d read in a highly popular national news magazine and how that “publication should be banned, as it is journalistically flawed and unethical blah blah blah.” To drown her out, I flipped on the little flat screen at the foot of my bed and started playing the latest
Real Housewives
from my DVR. I thought about going to the kitchen to pour myself the last glass of pinot grigio that I knew was in the fridge, but I didn’t want to take the risk of running into her and having one of our polite daily chats. This would entail having to either lie about my evening or go through re-telling the story, so I let the medication take over, and I fell asleep.

Chapter 4: Shock to the System

The next morning was more brutal than usual. When my alarm went off at 6:15, I was having a horrible nightmare that the world’s population of great white sharks had somehow mutated in a way that allowed them to grow human legs, and they were roaming around the world’s beaches and waterfront cities looking for their next snack. This topped my two most popular anxiety dreams that I A) had failed my senior year Physics 111 class and was not going to graduate from college or B) was pregnant, and could not for the life of me remember who the father was. Yikes. Is this my subconscious’ interpretation of my dating life? Sharks with legs? Happy Wednesday, Louisa.

I had never been a morning person, which meant that waking up at any time of the day was a terrible, traumatic experience. 6:00 AM sucked. 11:00 AM sucked just as bad. I can, and have, slept all day when the situation allowed for it. On this particular morning I was going through my usual routine of thinking up every excuse possible that I could email work to let management know that I would not be in the office today: I had a migraine, I contracted HIV, my dog ran away, my left arm fell off sometime during the night and I had to find it. I pushed the snooze button on my phone four more times in nine minute intervals before I finally forced myself to get up and go to the bathroom. I sat on the toilet for another few minutes while I brushed my teeth, all the while trying to get my eyelids to open up enough to where I could take a shower without the possibility that I would fall back asleep and drown in a little pool in my bathtub.

When I rolled into the office at ten till eight, nobody in my department was there yet.
Score
. I opted to keep earlier hours for this specific reason. You see, even though I was technically twenty-two minutes late, I could say that I got there at whatever time I wanted, because no one was there to say I didn’t; that way I could justify leaving just before four o’clock every day. Of course, this didn’t always work because some of the time, one of the associates or someone horrible like Jenny would already be there for a client call, or to meet some deadline, and then I would have to pretend that my arrival time was just a fluke, and I had to behave as if I was running very late and act all flustered and embarrassed.

I pulled my makeup case out of my locker and started to put myself together, which I did every morning at my desk for fifteen minutes while I was alone in the office. I took my time and applied some foundation, a touch of my favorite nude sparkly eye shadow, a generous swipe of bronzer, and a couple coats of drugstore mascara. I heard the loud beep and click of the front door opening and quickly gathered my makeup from my desk, tossed it back into my case and chucked it in my locker. If it was Elaine, I really didn’t want to be caught doing my makeup at my desk. I took a deep breath and composed myself, feigning deep scrutiny of Merit’s home screen as the person approached.

Within seconds I heard a familiar squeak of orthopedic sneakers and groaned to myself under my breath.
Oh
,
fucking hell.
It was only creepy mail guy. He was a strange, grey-haired man who reeked of cigarettes and perpetually lapped the office, leering at all the female employees. Not only was he totally disgusting, but he habitually cock-blocked my slacking off, forcing me to minimize or click out of whatever website I was on and pretend to be working whenever he strolled by. If Maya, my favorite Associate, was in the office, I could complain to her about it (she was obsessed with a deep hatred of creepy mail guy), but since I was alone I had to get by with rolling my eyes and sighing deeply.

After creepy mail guy moved on, I checked Facebook and my personal email account, and then poked around on some gossip blogs before I checked my work email. I started going through my emails from the night before, when I suddenly remembered that in my hurry to dash out of my date’s private Tuesday night cocaine party, I had forgotten to log into the online website and block Jonah so that I would never have to think about or hear from him ever again. Oh. Crap.

I abandoned the work email requesting a copy of a client invoice and logged onto the dating site as quickly as I could, and I found that I had three new messages.

My chest tightened in anxiety as I pulled up my inbox. I was holding my breath when I clicked on “new messages,” and I did not exhale as I saw that I had 3 new messages in the folder, all from Jonah. The first message’s title was “Are you OK?” and it read:

Louisa, I am sitting here at the bar and it seems that you have stepped out for a moment. I am wondering if you are OK. Did something bad happen? Call me, Jonah : )

Second message: Subject: “Seriously?”

Louisa, I have now been sitting here BY MYSELF for 30 minutes, waiting for you to come back from wherever you are. Are you in the ladies room?

Third message, one hour after I bailed: Subject: “Fuck You.”

Louisa, it is VERY rude of you to do what you did. I don’t know what happened, but you should have at least called me to let me know that you were not coming back. I have never been treated this way in my life. Don’t ever call or email me again. You have really really bad manners. Jonah

I deleted the emails as quickly as I could and went on the site’s privacy area to block Jonah. Since he could no longer email me, I would try to forget that this entire incident happened as soon as possible, not to be spoken of until that nasty feeling of anger and shame that I got from remembering the evening had fully disappeared from my system.  Unfortunately, that feeling was still around as of this morning.

After logging out of the site, settling into my desk chair that morning was like cozying down into a hole of self-pity. I hated the job, hated the co-workers and the bland, beige color of the walls and cubicles. I didn’t want to check my messages or answer emails. By the time I’d finished my coffee, I had already decided that I wasn’t even going to put in my normal two hours of work a day. Instead I was going to read an e-book and cruise around online retailers, putting items in my cart and then never buying them. I was also considering a nap on the floor of the empty cubicle behind me, because more than anything, I was just tired.

When Martin came in a little after 8:45, I hadn’t yet geared myself up for our morning’s perky gay chat, so when he walked over, put his chin over the side of my cubicle and sighed, I had to struggle to keep myself from snapping at him. He reeked of last night’s vodka and was eating a bag of French onion potato chips, so the aroma was not exactly a pleasant breath of fresh morning air.

“Have fun last night?” I asked.

“Oh Guuurrrlll…” He was in full-on drag queen mode. “We went to The Cuff last night, and from what I can remember, I did not come home by myself.” Martin, being a larger man, frequented several of Seattle’s “bear” bars, which are gay clubs that cater specifically to those who are, or those who like, large and hairy men. He usually ended up going home with some random stranger or “bear hunter” and although he was openly promiscuous, confessed to me daily that he was desperately seeking a soul mate, even though he was going about it completely the wrong way.

“Who is he?” I asked, playing along.

“Um, I think his name was Mitch and he was older. Bald guy. Hairy. Leather pants. You know, I’ve been going ethnic lately, and he was some kind of big Norwegian or German Viking type.” He winked and stuffed some more chips into his mouth.

I was going to tell him that there were not any German Vikings of historical note, but noting his appearance and smell, I decided not to bother and instead replied, “Wow. I am pretty sure you are still drunk, hon.”

Martin was thrilled with this response. “I am pretty sure I am too! Beotch!” He finished it up with a high five and a wink.

Although our banter was fine with me most days, at my latest performance review it had been mentioned by my supervisor that I was a bit “casual” in the office, which I think referred to the inappropriate sex/drinking/celebrity conversations that I had regularly with Martin. Or rather, that he had at me, since he was usually the instigator and was not exactly a quiet man. Knowing that the conversation was going to go completely south at this point, I quickly tried to change the subject to avoid hearing about the sexual adventures of Martin and the “German Viking” before he got me fired. 

“Do you want a Diet Coke? I have some in the fridge,” I said lamely. He rolled his eyes, knowing that I was avoiding the conversation.

“Anyways, no. But…do you have an Ativan? I am SUPER hung over, and I would love you forever!”

“No probs.” I was used to this request and even though it was frowned upon (or maybe illegal?) I shared my prescriptions with Martin on certain occasions.  Last year, after I had confided in him about my struggle with anxiety and depression, he had suddenly developed a tendency towards rampant and inexplicable anxiety. I wasn’t sure how much of this was medical, but I had a suspicion that some it was at least partially due to Martin’s habit of mirroring the behavior of his friends. I’d seen this type of behavior once before with another woman whom Martin had befriended at the office. She had a problem with shoplifting, and a few weeks after their burgeoning friendship fell apart (due to a dramatic fight about cat ownership) Martin tearfully admitted that he had stolen a hat and scarf set from the GAP and a pair of sunglasses from Macy’s during their friendship.

These days Martin was all about Louisa. Although I didn’t think we really looked alike (Martin being gigantic, pale-skinned and red-headed with a beard, and me being bleach-blond and stubbornly California-tanned), Martin was convinced that we were secretly long-lost twins and soul mates.  I liked Martin, but found his constant complaining and general flair for melodrama a little bit off-putting, so even though he pushed me on a weekly basis to “hang out” outside of the office, I usually refused, making up lame excuses. Add the complaining to his penchant for dramatic fights with friends, and I figured that spending time chatting him up at work was adequate for me.