They

In the company breakroom, Kay grabbed a mug from the off-white cupboards that employees were supposed to clean each year. The white mug, with the faded pharmacutical logo, that was hers. Someone had used it, again. A lip print in red lipstick stained the edge. Could have been any of the ten women in the building, she thought, but she’d bank on Deanna.

Kay tilted the inside of the mug toward the light and scanned the insides for any liquid stains. There weren’t any, but she cleaned it thoroughly anyway, using a biodegradable soap the staff committee had insisted on using.

Her lunch breaks provided a kind of desperate solace. Over the past few months, she began to notice her attitude shift as lunch approached. Up until that hour, she went about her daily tasks in a stone-faced silence while her coworkers gabbed about cats, doctors appointments and knitting projects. Oftentimes, she found refuge in front of her desk radio, oldies stations and NPR.

Then, as if her mind had learned to reset itself around noon, her contempt toward everything lifted. Her paced quickened. She became lighter and smiled a bit more. Never had an hour to herself been so cherished as her 1 to 2 p.m. break, and it was pathetic. She knew this. But, fuck it, she thought. Work is a test of endurance.

Only four more hours to go.

Foot steps approached. The short strides, the distinctive hard knock of heeled shoes striking the linoleum, Kay knew this was Judy. She didn’t see the need to confirm her guess. It was her. Working with these people five — sometimes six — days a week, one picks up the nuances, subliminal things.

“Coffee ready? Please tell me there’s some for me? Please.” Judy said.

“Yep,” Kay replied. “Tough morning all ready, huh?”

“What morning isn’t tough, honey?”

Kay guessed Judy was in her late sixties. The dated purple outfit tipped Kay off. That, and the skin on Judy’s face sagged on each side, pulling her mouth into a constant frown. She was the office’s undisputed ring leader, head of what Kay referred to as the “Gestapo”, several covert full-time employees who regularly e-mailed personal grievances to the office manager. Weeks ago, Kay had received an officewide correspondence asking employees to “please regulate radio usage for the benefit of those around you”.

“You’re a soy drinker, right?” Judy asked.

Kay filled her mug and reached for the powdered creamer that no one in the office used.

“Yep. Put it on everything — cereal, oatmeal, hot chocolate.”

“Huh. You should probably think about switching to rice milk.”

Of course. The topic of rice milk had been recent office chatter, typically between 2:30 and 2:45 p.m.

“Rice milk,” Kay repeated. “Haven’t tried it yet.”

“They say it’s better for you than soy, which apparently has high levels of estrogen. They say the phytic acid binds to important nutrients like calcium, magnesium, iron and zinc during digestion.”

“What does that mean exactly?” Kay said.

“We can’t be sure, but anytime you’re bonding harmful acids with the essential nutrients needed for digestion, then we’ve got a problem. No? Plus, they say soy milk lowers the concentration of sperm in men — “

Judy leaned in and lowered her voice.

” — due to a corresponding increase in ejaculate volume.”

E-jack-u-late. The way she enunciated the word in her drawl left Kay internally grimacing.

“So, Kay, keep Riley away from the soy juice.”

Kay’s boyfriend wasn’t news to the office ladies. Late 20s, a bartender and aspiring poet, good-looking, often broke and romantic, Riley had sent flowers to the office on Valentine’s Day. To the women, this gesture apparently meant an open invitation into Kay’s relationship.

“And, they are wondering if soy milk is the reason our girls are –”

Judy cupped both hands a foot away from her chest.

“Oh,” Kay said. “Developing quicker.”

Judy knodded, smiling with her big, thick teeth.

“I’ve started with the rice milk for about two weeks now. I think it’s why I have so much more energy and vigor. It’s low in cholesterol and literally chock full of vitamins — B12, B3 — calcium and iron. Good for the bones.”

She scrubbed her hands beneath the faucet at a pace that was almost psychotic.

“Good for the bones. Unlike that creamer you got there.”

Kay snuck a glance at the nutritional facts and saw a bunch of percentages, meaningless amounts in elementary weights. The fucks a gram? she thought.

She waited for Judy to dry her hands before hurriedly dumping two scoops of creamer into her coffee. Kay swiped the loose grains from the counter and stirred quietly, side-stepping to a nearby table.

“What’s on the menu for lunch?” Judy asked.

“Riley and I tried this new recipe last night. Sounds gross, but it was amazing — bacon cheeseburger meatloaf.”

Judy looked genuinely pleased, nearly beeming with the thought.

“It sounds absolutely wonderful, but, believe me, my thighs can’t take another loaf.”

Kay offered a courtesy laugh and pretended to find something in her coffee.

“Oh, by the way,” Judy started, “did you get that article I e-mailed to you? From ‘Prevention’ magazine?”

She had but didn’t read it. Something about opening an e-mail from Judy at her apartment seemed like an invasion of personal space. Even on the Internet, Judy was too close to home. She deleted the article titled, “Beef? Good Grief!”

“I haven’t checked my e-mail in a few days,” Kay said. “Our Internet’s been down for whatever reason.”

“It said women should really start cutting out the varieties of meats, one of which is beef.”

“Hmm. Gonna be hard to knock that out.”

“Well, you should,” Judy said, stirring rice milk into her coffee. “They say beef could cause bowel cancer, not to mention its outrageous amounts of saturated fat poses risks for heart disease. The article said women your age should limit beef to under a half-pound per week. My neighbor, Walt Lionne, he’s about 70, 71, he was just diagnosed with colorectal cancer. The man loved beef, ate it by the pound.”

Kay nodded and Judy quieted again, speaking in hushed tones.

“His wife tells me that Walt’s BMs are so painful he has to take a stool loosener, which I’m against because they say laxatives can cause intestinal paralysis and Irritable Bowel Syndrome.”

Behind Kay, someone opened a company locker. It was Deanna, and she grabbed a book and swung the metal door closed.

She was wearing red lipstick.

“What are you ladies talking about?” Deanna asked.

Judy took a hurried sip of coffee, set her mug down and looked at her reflection in her locker mirror.

“I was telling Kay about Walt Lionne,” she said, grabbing a tube of facial cream from her locker.

Deanna’s face looked pained.

“Colon cancer, I heard. Probably from all the ground beef he used to eat. Ate at least three pounds per week, I heard. Has to take … what do they call them?”

“Laxatives.”

“Yes, Judy. Laxatives. Thank you.”

Deanna angled her tall frame into a plush chair in the corner of the break room. She opened her book and quickly closed it, a thought distracting her.

“You know Marlene Bunce from the North Branch, Judy? She struggled for years with laxative abuse. They say that stuff will eat you up from the inside out.”

Kay heard nothing and instead eyed Deanna’s pink Crocs and her bright flowery socks. Then, fixed on Deanne’s huge puff of orange hair, Kay remembered once describing Deanna as a menopausal circus clown, minus the humor and hijinks.

“I heard it, too,” Judy said, rubbing a cream into her cheeks, jowls quivering. “It supposedly erodes the intestinal wall, causing a difficulty in expelling feces due to long term overstimulation. Wild stuff.”

Deanna watched Judy.

“All natural moisturizer, I hope?” Deanna said.

“Of course. What, you think I would knowingly apply factory-made chemicals to this face? Nuh uh, honey.”

Deanna muttered “good good”, her eyes studying Kay.

“Well, What’s on the menu, ladies,” she asked.

“I got soup,” Judy said, retrieving her coffee. “And Kay’s got beef.”

“Beef? Did you not send her the ‘Prevention’ article?”

“Yes, I did,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

Deanna was another office snitch, most certainly a faithful member of the Gestapo. In her mid 60s, Deanna’s incriminating tendencies coupled with her outrageous, youthful attire branded her the most hated aide in the building. Kay hated her more because of the coffee mug but didn’t plan on bringing it up.

“My internet’s down,” Kay said.

Both nodded.

“If you’re gonna eat beef,” Deanne said, “then be sure to drink lots of water.”

“That’s what they say,” Judy said. “More water.”

“But I switched out beef and do mostly free-range chicken and a little tuna fish,” Deanna said. “Though, they say tuna fish, if you eat too much of it, can poison you with mercury.”

Upon finishing her coffee, Kay stood from the table and retrieved a Tupperware container from the refrigerator. She placed it in the microwave for three minutes. Suddenly, she was thirsty for water.

“How much tuna fish do you eat?” Judy asked.

“Oh, honey, just a spoonful.”

Today, Kay would be eating outside.

Judy was behind her now, opening the refrigerator door. Seeing the container spinning in the microwave, Judy spoke again.

“Kay. My beautiful Kay. Is that a plastic container you’re putting your leftovers in?”

“Yeah,” Kay said, looking to Deanna. “Why?”

“That’s a plastic, isn’t it? That’s a number seven plastic, Kay. They say it’s carcinogenic. You have to, you must switch to glass.”

“She’s right, Kay,” Deanna said. “That particular container is a polyvinyl chloride plastic containing a phthalate that is a suspected carcinogen and reproductive toxicant.”

“Containing a what?”

“A phthalate, Kay. It’s a class of widely used industrial compounds known technically as dialkyl or alkyl aryl esters of one, two benzenedicarboxylic acid.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Highly poisonous, Kay,” Judy said.

Deanna put her book down on the nearby end table.

“You should seriously consider switching to glass. I don’t know. This is what they’re saying.”

The digital numbers of the microwave read a two minutes and 10 seconds.

“They say this carcinogen could cause infertility, and, seeing as though you and Riley are in a very serious relationship and will probably marry soon, you should at least think about switching to glass for your leftovers.”

“But, wait,” Kay said. “Riley and I aren’t…”

“I know, I know,” Deanne said. “But you will, sometime. And when you do, get pregnant that is, we’ll discuss water birth.”

Judy placed a hand on Kay’s shoulder.

“Kay, it’s something to think about. That’s all.”

“No N…”

“Water birth is perfect,” Judy continued. “It’s the next big thing in delivery. The key word they use is ‘buoyancy’. They say the buoyancy created by the water promotes more efficient uterine contractions and better blood contractions and better blood circulation … “

Deanna simply nodded.

“…resulting in better oxygenation of the uterine muscles, less pain for you, the mom, and more oxygen for the baby.”

Judy smiled and said, “We’re so proud of you, Kay.”

The microwave beeped loudly, and Kay popped the door open and reached for her alleged carcinogenic meal in one motion.

“OK. OK. I’m going outside now, ladies,” Kay said. “Thanks.”

Judy placed a glass bowl of yellow soup into the microwave and turned to Kay.

“No problem. No problem. Enjoy the weather. It’s so gorgeous out there today.”

“But sit in the shade,” Deanna said from her chair. “Unless, of course, you’ve applied a generous amount of all-natural sunscreen, preferably SPF 50 or higher.”

“Have you?” Judy asked.

“I haven’t.”

“Then, sit in the shade. UVA and UVB rays, ugh.”

Kay stepped out of the break room, passed through the employees entrance and found a table in the courtyard. Directly in the fucking sunlight.

*

L

May 2009