Finding the silverfish lining.

Tuesday, 10:25 a.m.

Tuesday is the bland day of the work week. It leaves nothing to anticipate, save the commencement of Wednesday – a day characterized as something midweek we must all get through or climb over in order to be rewarded by our Thursdays and Fridays. Wednesdays are fibrous and uncomfortable cancer lumps that crop up midweek and are typically endured in lengthy 8-hour segments that feel more like 12. Coworkers groan at the mention of Hump Day almost as much as Monday. In contrast, Tuesday affords no comment since nothing can be said about a day so mundane and meaningless.

I feel like I’ve been here for seven hours.

Tuesday, 11:55 a.m.

While plotting on how to assign ownership of my project that’s due COB Thursday, I realize the gap in my life where Greg once sat. He might not be the poster child for morality. But what he lacked in discretion, Greg made up for in dedication. No one carried the water quite like Greg, and in his absence I feel bloated.

Tuesday, 12:08 p.m.

Eight minutes into the lunch hour, throngs of coworkers flood past my door. Their pace is quickened, short scuttles across the commercial carpeting. I consider the possibility that while I zoned out on visions of Greg in pervert therapy, the state-of-emergency siren sounded to evacuate. And then it slaps me in my face, and my eyes start to water. A crime secondary only to fraudulent practice, extortion, and money laundering has been committed.

Fish in the microwave is a stench incomparable to any other. Its offensive odor does not merely nauseate the masses, but, in some cases, ignites anger and violence . Typically, these reactions erupt from those less-likely, such as the sweet, white-haired woman who brings in fresh baked cookies and works the front desk. The smell is terrible, and yet I find myself admiring the audacity of the person who stands in the face of so much adversity and says,

“I need my lemon caper tilapia for fuck’s sake!”

Tuesday, 12:33 p.m.

Drawing a line between microwaved fish and project tenacity might be like comparing apples and oranges to some, but my mind is scheming as I consider braving the toxic conditions outside my office to find my new team member. The person willing to risk an onslaught of cruel and threatening emails or murderous glares could be the next to take on Congress, fight for human rights, or, at the very least, convince the CEO that my project is a well-planned, economically-responsible venture for the company across the piece.

I stand from my chair with a new found commitment. My blue silk tie draped across my nose and mouth, I walk out the office door.

Despite unfavorable food habits, my eyes are on the bottom line. This is exactly the kind of change agent I want on my team at the end of the day.

Some charitable insight among team members.

Teaching Everyone to Avenge Management

Wednesday, 9:37 a.m.

I am slathering plain cream cheese on the ass end of my onion bagel, saving the top half – with its perfectly crisped brown onion pieces – for last, when the VP of marketing appears in my doorway.

Her navy skirt suit and stern expression make her look both confrontational and attractive. I drop my bagel into its paper wrapper, knowing it will sit there until it reaches a lukewarm, undesirable temperature.

She offers a standard, “May I?” while touching the back of my Ivy League side chair before helping herself to the seat across from me.

Wednesday, 10:02 a.m.

“So, we’re clear about what’s on the table? I want to know that you can back me on this cost-benefit analysis before the board tries to throw, what I believe to be a very valid factor in this equation, into another bucket.”

I reiterate my support and exhale in relief that she’s backing towards the door when these words come out:

“Thanks, Frank. I’ll see you at the team-building workshop then.”

I lose my appetite.

In one, quick sweep of my left arm, the bagel and its cream cheese counterpart atop the parchment paper thud at the bottom of my waste basket.

Wednesday, 12:45 p.m.

The city’s growing homeless population sleeps on subway grates. The Dow is fluctuating like a Yo-Yo. We can’t agree on shutting down Guantanamo. My two-year-old nephew lisped the word ‘recession’ to me over the phone earlier today. In spite of it all, I’m two hours into a workshop learning that Together Everyone Achieves More.

A pudgy HR rep with loose curls is bubbling on about T.E.A.M. exercises, clutching an itinerary of events that will take hours off my life that I will never get back. We’ve already been subjected to a few mind-numbing icebreakers. Everyone in the room is wearing a name tag that reads: “Hello my name is:” and then a letter that is meant to identify a workplace personality. The ‘Es’ don’t like the ‘As.’ The ‘Ms’ are everybody’s best friend. The ‘Ts’ are routinely assholes and make everyone else in the office feel worthless and stupid.

“Where are all my Ts? Put your hands up high, you ornery Ts. Raise them up!” The HR rep is scooting around the front of the room waving her lumpy arm and smiling into a sea of dazed faces. Half of the room keeps their heads down in blackberry comas.

Wednesday, 2:00 p.m.

I manage to compile a small list of alternative acronyms for the purpose of team-building:

Touching Everyone All Morning

Terrible Excuse for A Manager

Today Each Asshole Meets

Too Erect Affects Meetings

Thin Ears Are Messy

Teaching Evil Animals Medicine

Wednesday, 2:12 p.m.

I hear a rustle about organizing a trust fall and decide the time has come for a discrete back-door exit. I think about heading back to my office, drawing the blinds and chopping out lines of cocaine onto the glass of my framed Master’s degree because the workshop has enlightened me. My education means nothing. I have been reduced to a single letter. Depressed and a little exhausted, I manage to escape the room and let the door softly click shut behind me. I start down the hall then stop and quickly jot down:

Team-building Encourages Another Massacre