A New Friend at the Office

by Shauna Checkley

When Jan turned her head and I recognized her, I shrieked, “Politically correct!” Knife-like, my yell cut through the autumn morning. She looked away.

I was as surprised as she was by the outburst. It was Kafkaesque, odd, and I had never done such a thing before. When I heard someone yelling on the street, I always wrote it off as inebriation or mental illness. I only looked away, as Jan did just now.

In fact, yelling was anathema to my nature. Tiny and timid, I found it difficult to speak or perform... or anything. Preferring to blend in quietly, I would stoke my inner flames privately.

Yet the curious thing was that I found the shriek rather cathartic. I experienced some monumental release akin to a punch, an orgasm, a sneeze, even a death grip. It was knee-jerk. You would have thought I was in an examining room being poked and prodded by a physician. Feeling relief, I laughed.

I continued straight through the verdant park. It was the same path I took to work every day. The lilacs had just bloomed, lined the premises like mauve ribbon. The air was fresh and fragrant. The dewy grass was soft underfoot. Soon I exited it all to go to my employer across the street.

Entering the large, gray office building, I made a beeline for my cubicle. It was one of dozens laid out in my unit. Like a honeycomb of light-yellow cells, it seemed. I thought nothing more of the incident with Jan until quite late in the afternoon.

Disappearing with coffee in hand, I settled in a nearly forgotten side stairwell that had been abandoned in favor of zippy, state of the art, transparent elevators. Everyone used the funky, new see-through elevators now. No one used the stairwell anymore.

The side stairwell had become my safe place of sorts. It was where I carried out my later day work charade. Yes, once I heard that heavy taupe door close behind me, I felt safe, content. For there were no longer any prying eyes on me.

Sipping my black coffee, I then recalled the strange event from the morning. What had come over me? Why did I yell like that? But I knew the sight of the personage from my past had triggered me.

Her name was Jan. I had known her years ago during my student days when we had clashed on campus over issues that I was hard pressed even to remember now. After that, I caught glimpses of her on TV or protesting on the streets. It seemed that Jan had passed through the lens of my life, my personal stream of vision like a floater in the corner of my eye. I could never quite rub her away.

I disliked her radical posturing. Smug and sanctimonious, it had a smarmy, self-congratulatory feel that I found repellant. It was ego on parade. Like a bohemian extravaganza of cranks, closet fascists just awaiting their cue to emerge. Zealots had always offended me. Having a democratic sensibility, a mind-set built on the twin pillars of fairness and free speech, I abhorred the authoritarian.

But this was the third wave of political correctness, constricting as any snake. The Thought Police were on steady patrol, ideological bullying was the norm. It was an Orwellian hellscape.

My ruminating was cut short when I heard that taupe door open above me and footsteps descend. Who could that be? Have I been found out?

It was Karinna. She was upper management, one of the players at work. With a pear-colored thermos in hand, she sat down on a step at the very top of the landing. We exchanged curious looks, then nods. She took a pull from her vape. Soon a light, fruity, fresh fragrance filled the air.

Handsomely clad as ever, she wore a dark purple ensemble that looked just amazing. She was one of those people who wore head turning outfits so casually that they seemed almost like a second skin.

Turning to face the front again, I sipped my coffee nervously. Has she come to spy on me, catch me in the act when I hide out on the job? I felt panic like an electric prod. My heart raced. I felt the hairs stand on my neck.

Gulping my coffee down, I was ready to excuse myself and leave. But Karinna smiled and said, “So, how are things with you, Kristy?”

“Uh, okay” I said, turning to face her once again. We exchanged smiles. “And how are you?” I asked.

Karinna shrugged. “Okay, I suppose,” she said in an unconvincing tone. Her brow had morphed into a washboard. She was sipping from her thermos cup. It was designer-looking somehow, just like the rest of her. She wore chic, expensive, power suits, usually gray or black, not the rich dark purple of today. But her eyes were red-rimmed slits.

Though I had scant interaction with Karinna, I had heard a lot about her over the years. The gossip machine at work was a finely tuned machine and reported her to be alcoholic, addicted to nearly everything: sex, gambling, dope, you name it.

Our small talk shifted to the weather. In Canada, the weather is a natural source of horror and wonder, easy conversational filler.

“The summer went by so fast. But I managed to sneak to Vegas once,” she said.

“That’s nice,” I replied.

When she refilled her thermos cup again, I watched her pour carefully. Her hands seemed a little shaky. She had French tip nails carefully manicured.

Lightening and brightening, though, the strain left her like a dark cloud lifting. I begin to relax as well.

“Had a great time. Met a Brazilian boxer. We drank champagne and casino-hopped on the monorail” She began to talk at length about Hugo, the boxer. And soon I began to suspect that at least some of the gossip might in fact be true. But just as it began to get really hot and interesting, her cell phone went off.

“Hey, it’s quitting time,” she said. “I’ll finish the story tomorrow, okay, Kristy? See you.”

“Bye”

* * *

Hurrying through the park the next morning, on my way to work, I see Jan again.

“Politically correct!” I shrieked. My voice carried bell-like. Once again, the sight of her triggered me, vestiges of earlier campus abuse. And the dark, dormant inner dragon is unleashed.

Jan looks at me angrily. I get the sense that I hadn’t so much startled her as had challenged her massive ego. Who dares challenge the great despot Jan anyhow? Just who?

I hurry past her. I sprint past Security, everyone really, to the safety of my cubicle. Feeling rattled, I begin to question my own sanity. One shriek is perhaps explainable due to stress or fatigue or whatever. But twice? Would there even be a third time? Had the sight of Jan unleashed some hitherto unknown, latent tendency in me? As if the imp of something perverse and menacing had seemed to materialize.

Needing the crutch of morning black coffee such as never before, I hurried to the coffee maker. It was stationed in the back work room. The walls were barren, but the tables crammed with corporate paraphernalia, posters, pamphlets, everything, piled in tall pillars threatening to spill. But as I poured one, a co-worker walked past carrying a bag with the reproduction of The Scream on it. OMG! Was the cosmos now nudging me? I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh.

But I just sat and sipped my coffee instead.

Still wondering about the whole incident, I finally arrive at a place of gratitude. Thank God, Jan doesn’t remember me! There was no sign of recall in her face. I am just some random passerby. That’s all. For if there was one miracle in this whole strange saga, it was blessed anonymity. Breathing in deeply, I relax.

The remainder of my workday was uneventful. As I had little actual work to do, my tasks seemed to be drying up at an alarming rate. So, I worked slowly and continued with the façade of busyness, inventing small tasks and projects if need be. But as this didn’t always carry me right to the end of my workday, I would then slip to the stairwell and hideout until home time. Not having a supervisor per se was a boon and allowed me to do this with ease. So far, so good.

When I entered the stairwell later that day, Karinna was already there. She motioned me over to join her.

Sipping from her ornate thermos as before, Karinna gripped her cup with her other hand. She still looked tired with bloodshot eyes. But there was a hopeful vibe about her, and I had the sense that we were becoming fast friends.

“Hey, girl” she said.

“Hey, girl” I replied.

We both laughed.

“I remember you saying that you’d finish the Brazilian boxer story with me” I teased

“That’s right” she said, in an airy tone. She then launched into a colorful and lengthy tale that carried us both to home time.

* * *

Soon a new work pattern had been established, the daily rhythm of the early morning scream, then scurrying cockroach like to my forlorn little cubicle to spend the remainder of the day in busy work.

I considered changing my usual path to work. Perhaps if I walk the long way, I can avoid Jan. But it would take too long. All of those extremely winding city blocks. It’s just not feasible I decide.

Yet fearing that Jan would take a picture of me and blare it all over social media, I donned a disguise. I wore dark sunglasses and had my hood up. After the reflexive shriek, I would sprint, ensuring a safe getaway. And so, the shriek remained my dirty little secret.

In keeping with this newly established work pattern, the very last part of my day would be spent hanging with Karinna in the stairwell. Except for the shriek, it gave me a daily structure that I could accept.

* * *

The next day, we met as usual. Karinna was toting her usual thermos. I clutched my coffee.

“Hey, girl!”

We exchanged our saucy epithets. Laughed.

Never would have guessed we’d end up friends. Who would have known? But that’s okay!

Karinna was seldom seen about the building. She rarely emerged from her executive office, which was so large and luxurious that one could almost take up residence in it. Rather than being respected or feared as most other bigwigs were, she exuded a clumsy charm that others either dismissed or tittered about. Either way, she was a phantom-like presence.

“How has your day been?” she asked.

“Oh, the usual. And yours?” I replied.

She shrugged and took a quaff from her cup.

The stairwell had been freshly mopped by the cleaners. It smelled of disinfectant. The tiles actually glistened, they were so smooth and clean.

Outside, the sky was a somber September gray. Like a veil slowly spreading over the shadowy city, it seemed to encapsulate everything. I appreciated her company; it was affirming to have another presence there. I relaxed, no longer feeling as if I were walking on proverbial eggshells, exposed, with the grimly oppressive air that had settled about work, society, everywhere in fact.

It was the times, I told myself. These politically correct times. As the world in the early twenty-first century had grown thinly transparent. Comedians could no longer joke. People could no longer speak their minds. Free speech had been shut down. People had grown cautious around one another, on edge. And it seemed to be growing exponentially like a tumor that had remained unchecked. Could that have been the cause of my scream at Jan? Hmm...

“So, tell me the truth, Kristy. Be honest. What do you really think of this place?” Karinna finally asked.

We exchanged conspiratorial grins.

“It’s a politically correct shit-hole. A micro-managed hell,” I deadpanned.

Karinna laughed uproariously. She was flushed, giggly. Then she drank heartily from her thermos and poured herself another cupful. It was like a blissful light had passed through her.

But I wasn’t so naive as to think it was a cup of soup in that tall thermos. Likely vodka. I could tell Karinna was on something, liquor, pills, lines. Something. Finally, unable to quell my curiosity, I mock-joked, “So tell me what’s really in the thermos?”

She winked. Leaning in closer, she spoke in a hushed, confessional air: “Seems to me that we are both kinda hiding out. So, you tell me, then I’ll tell you.”

“I usually run out of stuff to do. I’m just killing time.”

Nodding, she said, “No worries. I’ll send you some of my stuff to help you keep busy.”

“Thanks!”

Then it was her turn. I looked squarely at Karinna, expecting an admission of sorts.

“I hate this damn place. It has me so stressed,” Karinna confided.

All of a sudden, I felt like I was twelve years old. Like we were playing Spin-the-Bottle or Truth-Or-Dare and all of our secrets and whims were casually spilling out.

After taking another long quaff from her cup, she asked, “So what else is there to your story?”

Should I tell her? Were we good enough friends? Screaming is much more suspect than a little bit of brew or blow on the side. I took a long, deep breath. Paused.

She looked at me, intrigued. “C’mon tell!” she urged.

“You’re going to think I’m nuts if I tell you.”

“It’s okay,” she assured.

Feeling a light blush overtake me, I said, “When I see this certain woman every morning in the park, I scream.” I was embarrassed by my admission. I stared at my black dress shoes, Jimmy Choo’s.

“I usually hear one or two weird yells on my way to the parking garage. So don’t worry about it. That’s just modern life,” she quipped.

We both laughed.

Sensing my shame at having made such a curious disclosure, she continued with: “Look, it’s not like you swallow razor blades or drink fingernail polish or anything. A shriek here or there is well within reason, I’d say. Everyone’s psycho these days it seems.”

I nodded, thankful for her understanding.

“Do you know why you yell at her?”

“She’s a social advocate bully.”

Throwing her hands up, Karinna said, “Oh hell, one of those freaks! Now I’m glad you yell at her. They trigger me, too. If that was me, I’d find out where she parks and key her car. Just consider it primal scream therapy. That’s all.”

We both broke into peals of laughter. Then her cell phone went off, the signal for the end of the workday. And I watched her pack up her thermos and everything. A gust of wind picked up, and the autumn veil seemed to lift, shift, soften somehow.

“Hey, girl, see you tomorrow, then.” she said.

“Okay, girl!”

Proceed to Challenge 1001...