“It’s probably laced with anthrax.”
Stephen glances around nervously. “Be careful how loudly you sayanthraxin here.”
He isn’t kidding. Hart was one of the buildings shut down years ago due to anthrax contamination. Hundreds of staffers were displaced from their offices for months. People who worked here at the time speak of it like they survived the apocalypse.
I lower my voice to a whisper. “Do you know any anthrax dealers?”
“Oh, honey, we don’t need anthrax.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re going to send him back something that’s more obnoxious than this.” His eyes take on a diabolical glint. I remind myself never to cross Stephen.
“Is that evenpossible?”
He exhales loudly. “Come on, where’s your competitive spirit? Are you a fighter or a doormat?”
I gnaw on the end of my pen as I consider it. I suppose I could come up with something that will get under Ben’s skin. He exposed some of his pressure points during his elevator rant, and I can use them to my advantage. A smile blooms as my brain swirls with possibilities.
“Am I right?” Stephen’s devilish grin matches my own.
“You’re so right. Don’t get mad; get even. As usual, I bow down to your pettiness.”
“I consider that a great compliment.” He inclines his head and I’m snickering as he leaves my office.
I spend the next twenty minutes googling around for negative press about the Republican tax plan. I hit pay dirt when I stumble across a recent story highlighting how a schoolteacher earning a sixty-thousand-dollar salary will collect a meager tax savings of a dollar fifty per week.The writer of the piece helpfully juxtaposed that pitiful statistic with the millions in deductions large corporations are set to receive.
Then I draft my note.
Ben,
Thank you so much for the reference material—from your personal library, I take it?
Since one good deed deserves another, I thought I’d send some background research on your tax plan. That extra $1.50 should really be life changing for schoolteachers! Think of all the things they can buy (I’ve included just a few examples). The $1 trillion added to the deficit is a nice bonus. You must be so proud.
Yours in discontent,
Kate Adams
I fumble around in my desk until I collect a half-empty pack of gum, a small box of staples, a coupon to Subway, and a handful of spare change and toss it all into the envelope. I eye a stray tampon for a minute before deciding to throw it in. He looks like the kind of guy who will squirm at the sight of feminine hygiene products. I cackle like a half-cracked villain as I call for an intern to deliver my retaliatory missile.
It goes on like this for the next week. On Monday I receive aWall Street Journalop-ed:WHY LIBERALS WILL BANKRUPTTHE NATION IN THEIRQUEST FOR A SOCIALIST AMERICA. On Tuesday—and coincidentally, National Diversity Day—I send him a roundup of tweets ridiculing the Republican Speaker of the House for a photo he recently posted of the current class of House interns. In a sea of a hundred faces, not one is of color.
On Wednesday I get an article entitled,HOWWEARINGHEELSCANSERIOUSLYIMPAIRWORKPLACEPERFORMANCE. I figure he must have doctored that headline until I google it and find out it’s real.Damn it.On Thursday I send himGigantism in Twenty-First-Century America: A Report. I had to do some serious digging to find that one.
I have to admit—the whole thing is pretty entertaining. It’s like we’re back in high school, passing origami-folded notes during homeroom. There’s something deliciously old-school about his handwritten missives, even if their contents do make me question my commitment to nonviolent conflict resolution. I’d never admit it out loud, but I’ve actually started to lookforwardto his hate mail. Sometimes it’s the only fun I have all day.
I must be losing my mind.
Before I know it, word of our feud spreads and the mail war takes on a life of its own. Everyone in the office wants in on our domino rally of hatred. Stephen’s so invested in the drama that I have to create a separate folder just to corral all the link-filled emails he sends me for inspiration. A group of us dissect each of Ben’s notes, drafting stinging rebuttals that leave us all in stitches. It’s become an office bonding ritual, and I pat myself on the back for bringing everyone together for a common cause.
Taking down Benjamin Mackenzie.
“You have to join it!”
I’m headed back from lunch with Stephen and Tessa, another staffer on Senator Warner’s team. They’re currently trying to peer-pressure me into signing up for LeftField, the new Democrats-only dating app that everyone in the office is talking about. Their tagline: “There are plenty of libs in the sea.” I wish I were kidding.
“No way.” I punch theUPelevator button and turn to face them.
