Thursday

"I was blindsided by Crystal this morning," Jamie recalls as she reclines in the chair opposite my desk. "She like freaked me out. I was like 'AAHHHHH!'" Jamie makes an over-exaggerated 'horrified' face you might see on someone mocking a 50's movie.

"Then I was like 'Uggghhh!'" She lets her expression droop to a sad face.

"Then I was like . . ."

"I get it. She's scary," I cut her off and give her a sideways glance. If I didn't stop her she would go on forever acting out emotions for me.

And then I was like, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

"Anyway at least she's taking her lunch hiatus so we can relax." Jamie gives me a smug look for no reason whatsoever. I wonder if she is just testing out her acting 'range'.

Crystal's lunch periods can range anywhere from two to four hours. That is if she returns from lunch at all. Most of the time she gets cocktails and appetizers at any one of the overpriced, trendy restaurants in the area. She then returns, intoxicated, and complains loudly about how she has too much work to do.

So much to do, so little time . . . wait. Strike that. Reverse it.

On this fortuitous day Crystal has chosen a shortened hour-long lunch. My eye caught on her polished Mercedes pulling into the parking lot as I turned my back to Jamie's ever-shifting face.

"Shit." Jamie says matter-of-factly then moves her expression to despair. I roll my eyes.

"Better scoot," I say to her and pick up some papers sitting to my left that I have to talk to Crystal about. I am so distracted by my task at hand that I don't notice her again until she walks into the front door. The sound coming from her flip flops is wild and erratic so I cock my head up.

To my horror I see her wrestling with a miniature schnauzer at the entrance to my office.

"What the hell?" The question escapes my lips before I can stop myself.

The dog cannot weigh more than 10 pounds but it looks like it is winning whatever battle they are fighting. I can't really tell who I am rooting for. For a moment this thought makes me smile.

"Jesus, Atrox! Stop!" Crystal calls, prying the dog away from her body with both hands. She finally triumphs and the animal goes nuts, barking and growling at her.

I lean back in my chair and take the situation in. Crystal's usually smooth, flawless hair is frizzy and sticking out at all ends. Her makeup is running and her eyes have the uneven, feral look of an animal.

"Uh. . . new hire?" I ask, stifling my laughter.

"Stupid DOG!" She yells. Her eyes flash back to the creature thrashing in her hands. They are both heaving with a lack of breath.

"It's . . . my . . . daughter's . . . animal . . . " Crystal pants, "and . . . she . . . is . . . in Mexico . . . for the . . . week." She blows out some air and takes a deep breath in.

"So you are stuck with it, huh?" I ask, still bemused by everything I am seeing. She nods as she wrestles a thin leash from her pocket and clips it to the dog's collar. The animal looks defeated but happy nonetheless.

You win this round!

"Yeah, I guess," Crystal sets it on the ground and glares down to the animal.

"What's it's name?"

"Atrox. I think. That's what the lady at the Pet Store told us but my daughter is planning on re-naming it 'Poodle'."

This gives me pause for a moment. Is the daughter being intentionally ironic by naming the dog a different breed or does she honestly not know that the dog is not actually a poodle?

"That's . . . cute." I finally manage through my confused stupor. Atrox has taken to yipping at Crystal's side incessantly so she yanks the leash and takes off towards her office. He actually saved me having to figure out a way to end another painfully awkward situation.

"Oh! Crystal!" I call for her down the hall, "I have some paperwork I need you to look at for the Commission Project!"

"NOT NOW!" She bellows back. The clacking from her flip flops is receding down the hall, "I'M BUSY!"

Tossing the paperwork aside I decide to investigate the name "Atrox" as it strikes me as very unusual. I google it quickly and erupt in giggles when the search engine retrieves the results.

Atrox means 'terrible' in latin.

Wednesday

Judy, as you might imagine, spends most of her miserable existence attempting to create problems out of thin air. There are many theories as to why this could be. The best is that she is one of those people who attempts to make herself look good by making others look bad. Everyone knows someone like this.

Unfortunately this tendency goes hand-in-hand with Marco's unnatural desire to perpetuate drama within the office. These two are simpatico. Like The Evil Witch of the West and her team of flying monkeys. She thinks up problems and sends Marco out to punish those she deems responsible. Most commonly this is Megan but we've all felt her wrath at one point or another. I sometimes imagine she lives in a large, black castle with lots of pointy towers. Or a dark cave. In reality she lives in a cramped apartment in downtown.

Pictured: Urban living at its finest

With all of this in mind it is not surprising that when I walked in the door on Wednesday morning I saw her hunched over Marco's desk in a deep, secretive conversation. I chose to ignore these occurrences as I've learned that the more upset I get the less change occurs. Instead I walk down the hall to my office. As soon as I sit down my inner-office intercom goes off. It's Marco.

"Hey there Goldilocks . . . do you have a moment?"

Goldilocks. Really? I try to assess our similarities - hair color and . . . not much else. I would never attempt to live in a bear's house regardless of the comfort level.

They are just too darned cuddley!

"Yeah," I respond before hanging up my phone and walking down the hall to his office. Before I get to the door I see Judy scamper out while sternly avoiding eye contact with me. I take a deep breath and cross the threshold.

"Hey there!" He booms from behind his huge, oak desk. His feet are propped up and he is deeply reclined in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head.

"Just wanted to touch base with you . . .and no big deal . . ."

That phrasing is the kiss of death. Anytime anyone in this office starts a sentence off with "no big deal" you know that what follows is most definitely a "big deal". I steel myself for what comes next.

"But some people in the office have noticed that there are project logs going out with some misspellings in the client name."

I desperately search my brain for ways this could be my fault. I come up short. I do not work in the department that sends out standard logs. I have never actually accessed a memo on our system. In fact I'm not entirely sure what they are for.

"So . . . and again, this is no big deal and we are all human here . . . I need you to make sure that all documentation goes out correctly."

In my mind all I can see is Judy complaining to Marco that a mistake she made is the fault of someone else. I see her explaining to him what can be done to prevent things in the future. I see her pointing fingers.

"Do you think you can handle that, princess?" He asks, breaking my thought process. I glare down to him. Marco with his slick, gelled hair and cuffed pants. His shit-eating grin and capped teeth. His ugly, fake tan. . .

I plaster a false smile on my face and say in the sweetest voice I can muster, "How can I help improve this process for the future?"

See, I am no stranger to this run-around. I know he will not possibly have an answer to this question because the problem does not fall to me. It is in a completely different department. One I never have professional interaction with. I watch his eyes - like a wolves eyes - as they narrow on me.

"You could . . . check the logs. Before they go out." He says slowly, carefully calculating his next move.

I straighten my stance and lock my eyes to his, "I never see the logs before they go out. That is Judy's job."

He breathes in through his nose. His bravado is shaken. I've got him cornered.

Your move, douche bag

I expect immediate and harsh retaliation. Instead he leans forward and lifts his feet from the desk. He's studying me again, surely marveling at my bravery. He's about to speak when Crystal barges in behind me and slams a paper down on his desk.

"Are you expensing COFFEE?!" She shrieks to Marco, demanding every ounce of attention in the room.

In the heat of the discussion I didn't hear her warning flip flops. Her face is wrought with frustration and her veins are popping out of her neck. I take two steps back and watch his eyes dart to mine in a moment of panic. A small smile creeps over my face as I raise an eyebrow and walk from the office.

I can almost feel the animosity on my back. I can almost hear his brain growling, "I'll get you next time. . ." It's a twisted satisfaction I get from this interaction. I know this battle will rage on. I know he will be gunning for me in the future but today I've won. And that makes me happy.

"You can take away my job but you'll never take my freedom!
Unless you take my job. Oh God, please don't fire me. "

Here Comes Trouble

"It's him." mutters Judy through my inner-office intercom. She hangs up abruptly before I have a chance to answer. Sure enough I glance out my window and see his unnecessarily enormous F-250 pickup pull into the parking lot. It is adorned with all of the expected accoutrement - American flag, NRA membership & Ducks Unlimited bumper stickers. He swings the truck around and parks across three parking spaces - yes, he is this guy.

. . . cue the seething hatred . . .

"Marco," I whisper to myself. Turning back to my computer monitor I hear the scurrying footsteps of Jamie from behind me.

"God . . . now I'm not going to get anything done!" she half-whispers from behind as she rushes passed my door.

I roll my eyes emphatically and nod, frantically pulling up the spreadsheet I was working on before I got sidelined. I hear the front door open and freeze. It is definitely him.

". . . Well, hey buddy . . . " he is practically yelling into his cell phone. I'm across the office and down the hall and I can hear him very clearly.

". . . fuck 'em! Am I right?" He bursts into a fake, too-loud laugh that booms throughout the room.

I push back from my desk and roll my chair towards the door frame so I can sneak a glance back. He is turning into his office with his cellphone still glued to his ear so I can relax a little. I have a few minutes before he starts gunning for people. Still I can hear his entire conversation.

". . . That's what I told the guy!" he is almost shouting, "I said, 'If I could grill them myself I would! But then what would be the point of this rocket ship?!" I close my eyes and breathe out through my nose.

Marco is the vice president, sub-owner I mentioned before. He does about as much work as Megan but makes three times as much money. He spends the majority of his days in this office leaned back in his leather chair, feet propped up on his expansive desk, cell phone at his ear, yelling bull shit to whoever will hear him. It is my belief that he is now functionally retarded but too integrated into our systems to be cut loose.

My main problem with this character is that he has made a hobby out of stirring up problems in the office by instituting random, unnecessary "work flows" that require everyone to do his job for him while he sits back and watches from his desk. We'll get to this later.

Remember how Crystal's footsteps were overbearing, loud and rapid? Marco is the opposite. His are silent - like a predator stalking prey. The man could walk behind you for a full twenty minutes before you'd notice. He is like an evil, evil ninja.

Like this but more menacing. And covered in Tommy Bahama.

Even though I can't hear him - I can feel him. His presence is like that of a ghost - the air gets noticeably colder and your arm hair stands on end. I am typing furiously at the spreadsheet I am on as I feel him getting closer. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence his voice pops up from behind me.

"Hey Princess . . ." he starts, smirking at me, "I saw you put this on my desk. The thing is . . . well . . . I am not very familiar with this project. And I really didn't know what to do with it. . ."

In an effort to end what promises to be a very long conversation, I interrupt him. "I just need you to sign it. It's an expense report for the Oakland Heights project. The PM over at the project site requested . . ."

He starts talking over me as if I never spoke. ". . .and without instructions I cannot be expected to understand this, can I?" He fake smiles at me, his overly-tanned face crinkling around his mouth. "Anyway, as you can see I am very, very busy. Too busy, in fact, to know about every paper that crosses my desk. You see, I am wrapped up in about 100 projects at any moment while you . . . " he flits his hand around dismissively, ". . . office gals only have a couple things on your plate at any one time. So I understand that you can't possibly grasp how busy I am. But, ya know, in the future if you would explain the documents that cross my desk I'd appreciate it." He smiles again and it fades quickly to a grimace as he backs towards the door. "Ok . . . that all sounds good!" He shouts as he turns the corner out of my office, down the hallway.

I honestly cannot tell you what change he wants me to make. This is one of his many dark gifts. He can have entire conversations whereby he never has an actual point, idea or thesis. Mostly its just loud buzz words strung together between inappropriate laughter and leering glances.

"Market Dynamics . . . Revenue Streams . . . Profit Sharing Ahahahahaha!!!!"

I can hear him storming someone else's office in search of twisted retribution. As I stare out my window I feel ease knowing I was first on the list so that the rest of the afternoon can be spent attempting to tune him out.

Ah, We Meet Again. . .

I hear the laugh before I enter the building. I hear it in my sleep sometimes. I hear it the way a PTSD war vet hears gun fire when they are home alone. It haunts me. The screeching, too-loud half giggle that erupts from Megan every five seconds is with me for all time. It is seared onto my soul.

This is the laugh she has developed to fill dead air when she doesn't know the answer to a question. Which is often.

******

"It's that . . . that . . . sound . . ." Judy puts the cigarette poised between he pointer and middle finger to her lips and inhales shakily. Her sickly pale skin sucks into her gaunt cheeks and inflates with smoke. She exhales slowly and eyes me with an eyebrow lifted. "It's constant. The idiot. She just laughs instead of providing any information. 'Megan, do you know when we did this job?' AHAHAHAHAHAHA!'" Judy mimics the awful, repetitive noise.

She takes another drag of the cigarette and turns her gaze out to the street next to our parking lot.
"I can't deal. I work so much harder than her and I get none of the coddling or the . . . the . . . fucking . . . appreciation!" Her voice raises to a dull roar before she takes one last drag and tosses her cigarette to the ground.

"I don't need this." She snubs it with the toe of her sandal then looks at me steadily for one moment.

"I'm going to bomb this place someday." She says, her voice steeled with conviction. Then she turns and walks back into the building leaving me alone in the parking lot.

I believe her, is the thing. I can only hope that when that fateful day comes I will have had the common sense or dumb luck to have called in sick. For a moment I wonder idly if she would even warn me.

Upon walking back through the front door to our office I immediately hear the laugh. It resonates throughout the building and I can almost make out the simultaneous groan of everyone hearing it. I walk down the hall towards her office in the back corner. Although I've been putting it off all day I actually need to interact with Megan. I feel like I'm on death row.

When I arrive at her doorway I am met with stacks of manila envelopes and papers cluttered around her desk. I can barely see her for the mess. "Uh, Megan . . ." I start, darting my head to see past her clutter. "Do you . . . have a second?" Her head pops up from behind some papers and her glazed over, wild eyes survey me momentarily.

Don't move. . . It can't see you if you don't move

"Yeah . . ." there is a pause then she bursts into giggles. I narrow my eyes and clear my throat.

"Do you have the correct billing information for this project?" I hand her a paper with the project details. She looks at it briefly. So briefly, in fact, that I wonder if she even registers what is on the page.

"I think I remember somethiiiiing . . ." she drags the word out while she spins around to her computer. "Let's see. There was this guy yesterday . . . and he called for . . . something . . ." her fingers tap at the keys as the computer screen brings up the project tracking program. "I think his name was . . . Bryan?" She asks herself, "or maybe Chad. I don't remember."

I roll my eyes from behind her. This is the interaction I was dreading.

"He said . . ." she stops typing and starts rifling through the piles of paper on her desk, " . . .that he was going to send me something and I thought maybe I wrote it down . . ."

I already know she won't remember. In fact, I think I might have known that before I entered her office. She knows nothing. Her continued employment here baffles me.

Picking up one of maybe a thousand post-it notes littered across her desk she sighs.

"Did you say you needed contact information?" Then . . . the giggle. It is uproarious and jolting. I lock my eyes to hers.

"Billing. Info." I reply steadily.

Another giggle. "For who?"

My jaw locks. I take in a deep breath through my nose. I close my eyes. Meditation is what works for Tibetan Monks, it can work for this.

You are a being of pure light and energy. And anger . . . we cannot forget anger.

"You have the paper, Megan." She casts her unfocused eyes downward to her desk where the information I gave her is now lost amidst the sea of other documents scattered in front of her.

The giggle bursts forth again. I am very close to my boiling point so I tell her I'll come back later for the information then practically run from her office.

Once I am at my desk again I try to steady myself. My nerves are shot. I feel strung out and too tense. My eyes wander to the bottom corner of my computer screen at the time.

It is only 8:30.

Beware the Kraken

I've heard stories that the most disturbing noise a prisoner can here while in lock-down is the "clack clack clack" of a jailer's night stick against the bars of the cell. It invariably means that the jailer is going to do something horrible to one of the prisoners. Each night after lights-out the prisoners wait nervously until they hear the ominous "clack clack clack" coming down the cell line, praying it doesn't stop in front of them.

Your office is just through here. . .

Crystal arrives at our office anywhere between 9 am and 11 am. She has no schedule. She has explained to us that her personal life will not allow her to have a set schedule. In order to keep the peace we all tell her that we understand. In reality we all know that her lack of accountability seems to filter through to every aspect of her life. When I see her white Mercedes (or Infinity, she has two ridiculously overpriced cars) pull into the parking lot I spend the 60 seconds of peace I have remaining attempting to ready myself. The calm before the storm. The quiet before the chaos.

Crystal is a petite 5'2 so she tends to wear large, platformed flip flops with her various mini skirts and tank tops (yes, in the office). This is a mixed blessing. On the one hand I have the benefit of hearing her coming down the hall towards my office. On the other hand, I get the feeling of impending doom upon hearing her come down the hall towards my office. She has an especially fast gait and usually large, noisy jewelry. As soon as I hear the front door open it is usually followed by the rapid "click-clack, click-clack, click-clack" of her gigantic footwear.

Where fashion Meets Oppressive Dictatorship

I close my eyes for a brief moment, praying that the sound of those shoes turns left towards her office instead of right towards mine. Once I hear them turn right I know I'm fucked. The madness is going to start early. If I hear them turn left then my morning has the possibility of being slow . . . calm even. This morning she turns right and the "click-clack, click-clack, click-clack, click-clack" stops dead at my door.

Before I can even turn around I hear her shrill voice,

"We. Have. Issues." She says with her over-sized Louis Vutton purse still slung on her forearm.

"Good Morning, Crystal," I retort dully.

"Payroll was a disaster! And my car needed its oil changed! Then my daughter called me cause the Justin Beiber show was almost sold out! So I had to go all the way to her apartment to help her buy tickets!"

For the record I am not one of those annoying people who uses too many exclamation points when writing dialogue. This is literally how the woman speaks. Everything she says can fall into one of three categories: Overwhelmingly upsetting, overwhelmingly exciting or overwhelmingly stressful. These are her only three functions. And this comes across in her speech such that she always sounds like she is yelling. At everyone. All the time.

"HOW ARE YOU DOING TODAY?!!!"

I am far passed the stage of my employment where I feel obligated to fake enthusiasm. The honeymoon is over. We all know what we are getting ourselves into here. So instead of even trying for chipper I go straight for bitter calm.

"Sounds horrible" I say in the most monotone manner I can summon.

"It was!" She cries. Her big, permanently lined eyes look me over frantically. A pause settles between us that might signal some that the conversation has ended. However Crystal continues to stand in my doorway, hand on her hip, pumping her chunky sandal on the ground impatiently. The first thought that crosses my mind is that I must have not heard a question she posed to me. I raise an eye brow. She gives me an exasperated gaze and starts tapping her long, manicured nails on my door frame. The silence has moved past uncomfortable to the place where it is palpably strange. She jerks her arm around to check the watch on her wrist. I move to speak just as her cell phone goes off. Her ring tone is something poppy, loud and unforgivable for someone her age.

"Uggghhhh!" She grunts, fishing into her designer duffel bag after the noise. Mercifully she walks back towards her door. I sigh in relief. I survived another assault. Next on the list is Megan. My arch nemesis.

This Can't Be Real

"I was drunk by 10 am yesterday . . ." Judy starts from behind me, "then my sister and I went around yelling at people on the street." She is leaning against the door frame to my office and studying her nails in an offhand way. I sigh and spin around to face her.
"Really?" I say, feigning disbelief.

I know she was drunk yesterday. She is drunk every day.

"Yeah. Then we went to dinner at 'Cosmo' and had Bellini's until she threw up in the bathroom."

She wants me to be impressed. She wants me to think her life is one big party. In reality she was probably sitting in her cramped apartment with the lights off smoking weed all day and wallowing in her own misery.

Like this . . . only somehow sadder

"Crazy." I say, turning back to my computer in an attempt to end the conversation.
"Fuck Mondays" she says in a dead tone, then she is gone.

One down. All the crazy women in this hell hole make a trip to my office in the morning. Why is anyone's guess at this point. It could just be habit.

Next is Jamie who tiptoes through my door frame as if she wants to startle me. Luckily sitting with my back to the door has attuned my other senses. You know when you hear about how blind people start to have incredible hearing to compensate? It's like that.

So she walks in and I immediately spin around in my chair to face her. The first thing that I notice is her outfit. Actually, it visually assaults me. She is wearing cropped bright blue leggings and an over sized pink shirt with a wide neck opening that falls down her shoulder. This is paired with stone gray heels that strap in the front. I steel my stare into her eyes to keep my expression from giving away how stunningly horrible her outfit is. She looks like a clown. Or a whore. Or a whore-y clown.

Oh God . . .what were the bananas for?

"Hey Friend," she says in an almost whisper. It is my theory that this is meant to be sexy. Maybe she thinks she sounds like Marilyn Monroe. Mostly it comes off sounding as if she is afraid of you.

"Hi!" I reply. I find that her annoying whisper voice forces me to be louder to compensate. This has to make our interactions sound hysterical.

"How was your weekend?" She asks, again in a whisper. I know this game. She is only asking about my weekend so that she can talk about her own.

"Good," I respond. Then I wait . . . desperately locking her gaze to keep from staring at her outfit again.

"That's good . . ." she says, pausing momentarily, ". . . cause mine was awful!" I already know the story before she tells me. It is the same every week. Whoever she is dating had the audacity to ask her to split the bill on a date (the nerve!) then she was up all night binge drinking with friends so she got no sleep. And to top it off her mom asked her to clean or pay rent which qualifies her as abusive. Her story touches on all these points in some manner. When she finishes her tirade she shrugs and says something along the lines of "I'm lucky I'm so strong and resilient so I can handle all of what life hands me."

It's clear that she has read too many crappy scripts. It's gone to her head. I am about to try to dismiss her with sympathy when I notice her eyes staring out the window behind me. A dejected expression spreads across her face.

"Oh God . . ." she mutters, "Crystal."

Sure enough a white convertible Mercedes is pulling into the parking lot taking turns far too fast. It is Crystal. I close my eyes and sigh, feeling my blood pressure increase. Jamie looks down to me and gives me a bleak smile.
"Uh . . . Good Luck" she whispers in her timid way. She turns and scurries down the hall as fast as she can in her ugly gray heels.

I try to mentally prepare myself for what is next. . .

What happened. . .

Some days when I'm at work I find myself snapping out of a daze to the realization that I don't really know where I am. This sounds serious, but its not. In a moment or two I return to reality and remember that I am sitting in the chair I've occupied for three years, staring out the same sliver of a window with the same parking lot view. The usual humming noises of an office in the throes of work resonate behind me. I instantly feel crushed by the monotony of it all. Even my walls are cream colored in keeping with the hideously mundane paint theme of the building. It's almost like they want to color code things so you'll know how to feel.

"Here is your office . . . it is taupe . . . which is the universal color of boredom"

Cars drive by my window and for a moment I feel like one of those people who find themselves stranded on an island when a plane flies over and they desperately wave for savior. Someday I want to spell out "SOS" in office supplies on my floor in hopes that help will come. It is equally futile. Those people - not unlike the people in the plane - are not paying attention. They are probably on their way to their mind numbing job.

This office I work in is located in the heart of an upper middle class suburban nightmare - complete with Range Rovers, 50 year old mother's attempting to look like their teen aged daughters, McMansions and swanky, expensive grocery stores. I feel like someone has surreptitiously placed me in an episode of "The Real Housewives" and I have awaken and been forced to survive among people who, for all intents and purposes, probably hate me. They should too - I voted for tax increases for the rich.

No new Lexus this year, ladies - sorry!

The company I work for is relatively small but we do a good deal of business in an industry that can best be described as "Construction-based". The owner works in an office down the hall from me with the three other women who work full time. The other part timer is the boss's wife, Crystal, who works in the office that shares a wall with mine. We'll get back to her in a minute. There are technically three men working here - the owner and the co-owner (I'd like to say sub-owner, really) and the head of our CAD department. That's it. Against seven females. And two additional female employees who work in our satellite offices out of state. There may be some level of pity that is technically necessary here but I can't really find it. The men in this little slice of hell are as ruthless and underhanded as the ladies. Think of it like "Mad Men" but not as sexy or as pithy. . . or entertaining.

Don't get my wrong - the ladies are nuts. And this is coming from a woman who finds the whole "ladies are nuts" mantra to be more than a little annoying. Personally, I like to think my crazy exists independent of my gender. I've nurtured it, fed it, raised it and I want credit for it. Chalking it up to my sex is a little insulting. But, I digress . . .

The lead "Crazy" in this circus is Crystal. Crystal is what you'd get it if your 100 lb. grandmother got a huge boob job, put on a hideous wig and spent most of her day boozing and sun bathing.

Yeah just like this . . . Oh Dear God.

Crystal is married to the owner which is literally her only qualification to be our Accounts Payable Manager. When she is not working (which is often) she spends most of her time yelling into her phone, yelling at a member of the staff or yelling at a member of her family. Remember, this one is a drinker.

The next crazy is a strung out, perpetually drugged disaster named Judy. She is the unholy offspring of Courtney Love and Lindsey Lohan - on crack.

This brings us to Megan. Megan is the bane of my existence. She spends her days either staring out her window, delegating tasks to others or complaining about how busy she is. Note that I never once mentioned working. She has not once, in her 10 years of employ with the company, worked. This is a documented fact. Her age is a company mystery although I've heard tell that she is well into her forties. Although the rabid alcoholism and inability to focus for any period of time make her look much, much older. When I speak to her she stares right through me as if I'm not even there. Barely registering her location.

Megan: Artist's Rendering

Finally this brings us to Jamie. This one was a theater major in college. She believes that this entitles her to wear whore's makeup and throw herself around the office in the most dramatic fashion possible. In reality she is a cautionary tale to those thinking of majoring in Theater. You will end up with the same boring, dead end job as the rest of us, kids. Don't kid yourself.

Or you'll end up like this. But seriously, which is worse?

There are other characters in this fucked up scene but we'll have to get to those later. Because I need a drink . . . or three.