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Chapter 2
Saffi
“Yo, Saff.”
I loved Tom’s nickname for me. Actually, I loved a lot of things about him.
If he only knew.
“Hey, how’s your day going?” I poked my head in his office door. Was he going to ask me to lunch? Finally? Or insist I join him in co-authoring a piece he was doing for the newspaper, which would be sure to win us both a Pulitzer prize.
“Saff, on your way back to your cube, would you mind running this stuff down to the mailroom for me?”
What. The. Fuck.
Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to his computer where he was most likely working on that Pulitzer prize winner, without me.
“Finally got my damn bills paid,” he muttered to himself. He reached for the ringing phone on his desk.
“San Francisco Post. Tom here.”
I lumbered down to the dark and foul depths of our newspaper building to drop off Tom’s bills, without a thank you I might add, and slunk back to my own hole of a cubicle. I’d been assigned a remote location on my first day there a few months before, conveniently stuck between the kitchen and the restrooms.
I had the pleasure of enjoying my coworkers’ smelly lunches and flushing toilets. All day long.
But even a shitty cube location in office Siberia was not without its perks. No one happened by unless they had a reason to, and I could always hear them coming. It was lonely, but gave me plenty of opportunity to read things like How to Get the Career You want, Do Nice Girls Finish Last?, and You Don’t Get What You Don’t Ask For.
And to look at the shoes on Zappos, of course.
In fact, just that morning I’d read an article about “taking the bull by the horns” and “making it happen,” right before I’d dribbled coffee down the front of my white blouse.
Like it was that easy.
* * *
I was the office bitch, no doubt. I got the bottom of the barrel assignments, had to run for Chinese food every day, and made all the trips to the nasty mailroom. What if I came up with a challenging assignment on my own, rather than waiting to be given one? And what if I dazzled everyone with a great job?
I could see it now. A new cube, far away from the kitchen and toilets. Maybe even an office. With a window, of course. But I wasn’t greedy. A little spot where I could see even a slice of sky would be perfectly acceptable…
And then, imagine not having to be the Chinese food/mail room gopher. No, I’d suggest something more fair like having people take turns running for the food. Or even better—paying the extra ten bucks and having the food delivered. Imagine.
But for now, I had to get back to my shitty little assignments covering Little League and the Garden Club.
* * *
The day crept by. I’d managed a first draft of both my lame story assignments, leaving plenty of time for perusing career websites and my favorite dating blog, Getting that Guy to Notice You.
Just setting the damn world on fire…yup, that’s me.
Because my cube was off the beaten path, if I wanted to join the gang for after work drinks, I had to listen for when they were heading out. I’d been forgotten on more than one occasion. But instead of feeling sorry for myself, I’d just joined the party as if they couldn’t possibly have a good time without me. Bright smiles and witticisms all around. They were gonna love me if it killed them. Or me.
And today was like no other. There was a rustle of backpacks, coats, and purses filtering through the air—a sure signal to catch up with the group and casually blend in.
“Hey guys,” I said, hoisting my backpack on one shoulder.
“Saffi!” the editor in chief said. “Glad you’re joining us. This will be fun.”
“Never miss it!” I said.
You jerks are not leaving my ass behind. Not today, anyway.
My coworkers crammed into the elevator for the ride down. There really wasn’t room for me, but I laughed and pushed inside anyway, stepping on several toes, and pretending not to notice. Then I tagged after them to the divey Irish bar not far from the office.
The place blared sporting events from around the world—mostly soccer—on TV screens hanging from every corner. The furniture consisted of rough, splintery picnic tables covered in graffiti carvings. You had to be careful what you touched. At least, I did. But the place had ninety-nine cent happy hour beers, which suited my budget just fine.
After all, I still freaking lived at home, and there was no end in sight to that. I’d have to make three times as much money as I currently did just to afford a crappy room in a crappy group house in a crappy San Francisco neighborhood before I could even think of moving out of my dad’s house.
Everyone grabbed a seat, leaving me on the end, which was not so bad really because it was next to Tom. The noise in the bar made it difficult if not impossible to hear the banter, but I pretended to understand and was sure to burst out laughing when everyone else did. A second and then a third round of cheap beer was served, and I pushed closer to hear the conversation, no longer much worried about office decorum.
Beer did that to me.
