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.
