drudgery.”
“You’ll have to admit though, it’s fun watching people fighting to be first at the table for spinach dip and store-bought potato salad.”
“No. When Rick doesn’t bring anything and dares to show up, plate in hand—now that’s fun to watch.” I made a face. “Ohhhh . . . daggers.”
“I’ll shoot Rick daggers all right.” Truong shot me a sidelong glance with that blade sharp smile of his. “And if he even dares to come back for seconds . . .” He left a portentous pause.
I frowned to myself. “It’s always the ones who don’t bring any food who are the gluttons. By the way, what did you bring?”
“Bread pudding,” he said with a playful wink. “It’s drenched in rum so you won’t have to worry about bacteria breeding.”
As we turned a corner, Jewel wafted past us carrying an oversized Tupperware container. “Oh hell no.” Truong held back a groan. “Please don’t tell me she brought marshmallow salad again.”
“I think it’s called a Waldorf salad. Wait no, I think it’s a Watergate salad. Or maybe it’s called an Ambrosia salad.”
“Just call it an embarrassment,” Truong said dryly. “It’s not a salad if it’s got mini marshmallows in it. Marshmallows are not even a vegetable. It’s candy. Why not just make a Snickers salad?”
“Actually,’ I said tragically, “there is such a thing. It’s made out of Snickers bars, apples and whipped cream.”
“That’s the craziest shit I’ve ever heard.”
An acerbic voice butted in, “What is?!?”
We turned at his exclamation. It was Deepak, a fellow supervisor and a newly minted MBA (he never failed to tell you that). He had a habit of always saying, ‘I’ll take one for the team.’ And yet I’ve never actually seen him make any sacrifices for the benefit of anyone other than himself.
“Hi, Deepak,” I greeted him with a forced smile.
He began sculpting his hair with his fingers. “What were you guys talking about?”
Today, like most days, Deepak wore his hair like his personality—slicker than greased goose shit.
“Oh,” I replied vaguely, “we were just talking about controversial salads.”
Truong, noting that one of Deepak’s hands was laden with plastic bags, asked, “What did you bring for the potluck?”
“I brought two desserts. Ritz cracker apple pie with melted cheddar cheese and mayonnaise cake.”
“Whaaa?” My breath caught in a tiny gasp. “Cheddar cheese on apple pie?”
“I’m from the Midwest,” said Deepak, by way of explanation, “and apple pie without cheddar cheese is like a hug without a squeeze!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I observed that Pamela, Jewel and Debbie were visibly distraught. Like high school cheerleaders, they frequently moved around in a pyramid formation.
The synchronized human pyramid moved in our direction and stopped in front of us.
“Oh, Deepak,” Pamela called tearfully, breaking the formation. “I could really use a hug right now.”
Deepak dumped his plastic bags at his feet and wrapped his arms around Pamela. “What’s wrong, babes?”
“It’s Amanda . . .” she sobbed into Deepak’s shoulder. “Her husband just had a heart attack. H-h-he’s dead.”
“Amanda?” I turned sheet white. “Amanda Briggs on Hillary’s team?”
Debbie barely had the strength to string two words together. “Yes,” she managed.
“B-but,” I stammered, “I just saw Amanda at her desk fifteen minutes ago and she seemed OK then . . . does she even know?”
“Carter just gave her the news,” Jewel spoke quietly. “We overheard him just now as we were walking past his office.”
“Is Hillary even here today?” Truong asked anxiously.
“No,” I murmured distractedly, “today’s her day off.” Then I spotted Amanda leaving Carter’s office. From the stooped curve of her shoulders and from the way she was hugging her arms around herself, I sensed her anguish and deep despair.
Guided by intuition, I cut purposefully
“You’ll have to admit though, it’s fun watching people fighting to be first at the table for spinach dip and store-bought potato salad.”
“No. When Rick doesn’t bring anything and dares to show up, plate in hand—now that’s fun to watch.” I made a face. “Ohhhh . . . daggers.”
“I’ll shoot Rick daggers all right.” Truong shot me a sidelong glance with that blade sharp smile of his. “And if he even dares to come back for seconds . . .” He left a portentous pause.
I frowned to myself. “It’s always the ones who don’t bring any food who are the gluttons. By the way, what did you bring?”
“Bread pudding,” he said with a playful wink. “It’s drenched in rum so you won’t have to worry about bacteria breeding.”
As we turned a corner, Jewel wafted past us carrying an oversized Tupperware container. “Oh hell no.” Truong held back a groan. “Please don’t tell me she brought marshmallow salad again.”
“I think it’s called a Waldorf salad. Wait no, I think it’s a Watergate salad. Or maybe it’s called an Ambrosia salad.”
“Just call it an embarrassment,” Truong said dryly. “It’s not a salad if it’s got mini marshmallows in it. Marshmallows are not even a vegetable. It’s candy. Why not just make a Snickers salad?”
“Actually,’ I said tragically, “there is such a thing. It’s made out of Snickers bars, apples and whipped cream.”
“That’s the craziest shit I’ve ever heard.”
An acerbic voice butted in, “What is?!?”
We turned at his exclamation. It was Deepak, a fellow supervisor and a newly minted MBA (he never failed to tell you that). He had a habit of always saying, ‘I’ll take one for the team.’ And yet I’ve never actually seen him make any sacrifices for the benefit of anyone other than himself.
“Hi, Deepak,” I greeted him with a forced smile.
He began sculpting his hair with his fingers. “What were you guys talking about?”
Today, like most days, Deepak wore his hair like his personality—slicker than greased goose shit.
“Oh,” I replied vaguely, “we were just talking about controversial salads.”
Truong, noting that one of Deepak’s hands was laden with plastic bags, asked, “What did you bring for the potluck?”
“I brought two desserts. Ritz cracker apple pie with melted cheddar cheese and mayonnaise cake.”
“Whaaa?” My breath caught in a tiny gasp. “Cheddar cheese on apple pie?”
“I’m from the Midwest,” said Deepak, by way of explanation, “and apple pie without cheddar cheese is like a hug without a squeeze!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I observed that Pamela, Jewel and Debbie were visibly distraught. Like high school cheerleaders, they frequently moved around in a pyramid formation.
The synchronized human pyramid moved in our direction and stopped in front of us.
“Oh, Deepak,” Pamela called tearfully, breaking the formation. “I could really use a hug right now.”
Deepak dumped his plastic bags at his feet and wrapped his arms around Pamela. “What’s wrong, babes?”
“It’s Amanda . . .” she sobbed into Deepak’s shoulder. “Her husband just had a heart attack. H-h-he’s dead.”
“Amanda?” I turned sheet white. “Amanda Briggs on Hillary’s team?”
Debbie barely had the strength to string two words together. “Yes,” she managed.
“B-but,” I stammered, “I just saw Amanda at her desk fifteen minutes ago and she seemed OK then . . . does she even know?”
“Carter just gave her the news,” Jewel spoke quietly. “We overheard him just now as we were walking past his office.”
“Is Hillary even here today?” Truong asked anxiously.
“No,” I murmured distractedly, “today’s her day off.” Then I spotted Amanda leaving Carter’s office. From the stooped curve of her shoulders and from the way she was hugging her arms around herself, I sensed her anguish and deep despair.
Guided by intuition, I cut purposefully
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