STEALING TIME

I nodded at the guard as I made my way through the lobby past her desk. She looked me up and down, as if that in some way contributed to the security of the building. For the first time, she smiled at me and I barely mustered a stiff smile, still stinging from the gut-punch I had just experienced when I called my old firm. I wondered as I passed the guard if she was happy in her job. I wondered if she could pay all of her bill and whether she was college-educated. I asked myself if I could live on the salary of a building security guard.

As I slipped by the guard desk my thoughts of what her life must be like were left behind in my wake. Then I went down to the basement and having gotten back there in just an hour I felt relieved. In such a crowded room I was confident that no one had missed me.

At the door I stopped briefly to compose myself and look natural. Then I went through the maze of folding tables and chairs and made it back to my spot at the end of the table between the old guy and the former stay-at-home mom. They were both busily clicking, moving from one document to the next and appeared not to notice my return. Then the former stay-at-home mom leaned in toward me and whispered, after looked to her left and then to her right, “The paralegal was looking for you.” She as if she had an interest in whatever the paralegal needed with me. Her face was inexpressive yet conveyed an unspoken message. I couldn’t put my finger on it—pride, sympathy, empathy, apathy, disgust, hatred—something was there but I wasn’t exactly sure what message she was trying to send me. Or was she?

There was a piece of something that looked like doughnut glaze at the corner of her mouth that came into view as she craned her white, fleshy neck across the table to whisper this news to me. I tried to avert my eyes, but I couldn’t help but look at it. I started to tell her but decided against it. The sooner I could end the conversation the better. I looked around and noticed that someone had brought in several boxes of doughnuts. I was glad that I had missed the feeding frenzy.

Then the old guy next to me indicated in the direction of the black guy that I had identified as my only possible rival, two rows away from me. “He’s been designated as the team lead.” “What’s that?” I asked. “Just a middle-man that the firm and the agency use to convey their decisions and enforce their policies on us without having to have the balls to face us themselves. It’s typical corporate crap; always have a snitch among the lowly masses. He’s one of us but Team Leads can make your life hell, so watch your back, buddy. They think they’re something special because among us they’re at the top of the heap and they make a couple of dollars more per hour for being glorified snitches.” The old guy shrugged it off and turned back to his computer screen.