There was one time, a few months into my job in New York, when I broke down and told her I felt like I was failing all the time, like I was always behind. And she nodded and said,Good, you need something to keep you in check.
Of course, Mom chooses this moment to weigh in.
sampaguita72:
Why don’t you wear a more colorful top? Maybe put some flowers in your cubicle so they show up in your background?
I focus on keeping my smile fixed in place as Erica is talking.
sampaguita72:
You look so tired. Are you eating well? Are you getting enough sun?
I type a few things, delete them, type again.
ruby.ocampo:
I’m just working hard, Mom, like you taught me. Keeping my head down. Persevering, like you said.
sampaguita72:
You know it was hard for me, breaking into corporate life
People didn’t exactly treat me with respect
ruby.ocampo:
I know, Mom
sampaguita72:
Oh all right, well I guess you know everything
I minimize Slack and smile wider, showing some teeth. “Okay, sounds good! And I’ll also have that presentation ready for you bright and early tomorrow!”
Erica visibly relaxes. “Oh yes, thank you for that. All right then! Buh-bye!”
Once she ends the call, I slump across my keyboard and exhale all the air I’d been hoarding in my lungs, like I was in danger of running out.
The afternoon wears on, and eventually I look up from my desk and notice that the office lights have dimmed on a timer, and the sky outside is dark. It’s late, and Morgan has gone home to her kids, but Sarah is typing away at her desk, and Al is in his cubicle, a lamp he brought from home glowing inside it.
I get up and drift over, and he’s chuckling at something on his phone. As I get closer, I realize he’s…scrolling on TikTok with headphones in?
He’s cleared out some of themoundsErica disliked so much. There are a few framed photos on his desk—one of Al posing with a marching band that looks like it was taken when he was in college, and a family photo with his smiling parents in front of a suburban house, the vivid blue sky taking on an amber sheen from age. Al’s dad is dressed in a military uniform, one hand on little Al’s shoulder. And there’s another photo in front of a different house that seems to be an homage—grown Al, standing the way his dad did, his wife next to him, hand on his little son’s shoulder, two daughters on either side. The photolooks old enough that the kids must be adults themselves now.
My heart squeezes, seeing these bits of his past, and I feel sad that I haven’t asked him more about his life. I associate him so much with my mom, it scares me off from getting too close.
I almost want to add it to the collection of Post-it note reminders on my desk:Talk to Al more.
Al senses me hovering and slides down his headphones. “Erica told me the voice in my copy sounds dated.” He tilts the screen my way. “Gotta keep up to stay relevant.”
On his desk are a few printed-out articles aboutSkibidi Toiletand how LOL is dead and IJBOL is in.
A wave of melancholy washes over me. “You could do this at home?” I offer feebly.
“I hate bringing work home,” he says, running a hand over his head. “I’m old—I still remember when working here felt likeYou’ve made it!Before all thisdo more with lessbullshit. When there was time for a real lunch every day, and you never had to log back in from home just to”—he pitches his voice higher to imitate Erica and wiggles his fingers—“handle a few more notes real quick.”
That makes me laugh. “Can I do anything to help?”
