Frosted Tips
Matthew Ryan Fischer
“Do you know who my father is?” asked Kyle.
Morgan held is breath, a headache setting it. It was going to be
one of those sorts of days, he thought. He had no idea who this kid was, or who
his father was. Morgan wasn’t even sure he worked here. He had been given a
tour, but that was a blur. A hundred handshakes and a hundred names and cubicle
locations and none of it meant anything to him now. He was looking to get into
his cubicle and keep his head down and have a few minutes to regroup. He hadn’t
planned on being accosted so soon.
Someone behind him and to the left whispered a name but Morgan
couldn’t make it out. The others standing around became to chuckle and laugh, some
a lot less subtle than others. Morgan wondered if his face was red.
“Guys, I’m not trying to be a pain…”
The men laughed.
Morgan had caught one of them pouring something from a flask into
his coffee and he had said something. He instantly regretted it.
He felt so old. Starting over in at a new job in a new industry.
He was twenty years older than the rest of them. His hair was thinning and he
was wearing the wrong clothes and he couldn’t stop starring at the tattoos and
the piercings and the fact that they all had bleached hair or frosted tips or
some sort of spiked and dyed hair. It felt like a uniform and he wasn’t with it,
whatever it was. He was pretty sure that drinking on the job was never a good
idea but same time he couldn’t claim when he was twenty-five, he hadn’t done it
once or twice.
Morgan wanted to slip away and escape, but he had already forgotten
where the breakroom was in the maze of halls and corridors. All he could see
where cubicles in front and to the sides. Somewhere behind him was the exit to
this department extension, but he didn’t want to turn. It reminded him of
school where you had to stand up to a bully. He had always been afraid of what
might happen if he looked the other way, who might strike out or what might befall
him. It was insane, this was a job, none of this should be happening.
He wanted to scream, ‘this wasn’t the way things are supposed to
operate,’ but knew that would only bring more laughter.
This was going to be a long day.
Morgan mumbled an apology and promised to buy them a bottle of
whatever it was they were drinking, if only they would tell him.
The men laughed and then began to turn away. Three of them were in
the cubicles adjacent to Morgan. Kyle, the one who threatened with his father,
eventually walked away down one of the other rows. Morgan tried to not watch
where he was going, but he wanted to make sure not to walk that way any time
soon.
“Hey old man,” somebody said, “you know how to turn that thing on?”
meaning the computer work station.
“The thingy plugs into the side there,” meaning the USB drive.
Morgan knew he was red now. He couldn’t believe their behavior.
Two days later he found his computer was infected with a virus. He
was sure he could hear muffled laughter coming from some of the other cubicles.
Shouldn’t have left it unlocked, he scolded himself. He really did hate it
there, but he had been looking for a job for so long, he didn’t know where else
to go. Those god damn frosted tips, he thought. Those and those fucking
co-workers. He was sure he would end up hating them all.
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