Little Did I Know

Carrie's cubicle is decorated with inspirational wall art that she procured from the local dollar store. One quote says "Believe, and you're halfway there." Another says "Be yourself because an original is worth more than a copy." Her walls are carpeted in blue rectangles, red rectangles, pictures of beaches at sunsets; all covered with cliche phrases commonly found on the Facebook timelines of wine moms. One rectangle reads "Positive things happen to positive people." Another says "A dream is a wish your heart makes."

I have exactly one quote in my cubicle. It's written in black ink on a dry-erase board and hangs on one of my gray carpeted walls. It says Every hour wounds. The last one kills.

"Knock Knoooock," Carrie sings in a southern drawl as she taps on my cubicle divider.

"Hi Carrie," I say, "how are you today?"

"Oh I'm fine darlin', just fine. But the real question is how are you?"

"Swell."

"Say, Evan, I noticed that that quote on yer wall's been hangin' around for quite some time, huh?"

"Maybe," I say, "I haven't been keeping track."

Carrie laughs and says "Well me neither, honey, but I just thought you could use a change. Maybe go with sumtin' a little... less... dark?" She plasters on a smile, exposing her bottom teeth and squaring her upper lips. It's the same smile she's flashing in her family portrait on her desk, next to her miniature Zen garden.

"It's a reminder of our inevitable ending, Carrie. It's my memento mori."

"Uh-huh... "

"Is there something I can help you with?"

"Oh pardon me," she says, "where are my manners?" She reaches over the cubicle divider to hand me a pale yellow envelope with my name written on it in blue ink. "This's for you."

I look at her incredulously for a moment before taking the envelope from her hand. "Thank you?" I say.

"I know it don't have a lot of signatures, sweetie, but you oughta know that there's people here who care 'bout you."

"What?" I ask, "what's today's date?"

"April 4th silly," she chuckles, "It's your birthday."

Tilting my head to the side and squinting my eyes, I ask, "Is it?"

"Well don't tell me you forgot your birthday, Evan!"

"Not forgot," I say, "I just — I got distracted. I guess."

"Well all right sweetie, I'll let you get back to work."

Carrie sinks back down behind her cubicle wall and rejoins the symphony of clicking keyboards and ringing telephones. I examine the pale yellow envelope with curiosity before tearing the top open. The front of the card has a white cartoon rabbit on it wearing suspenders and walking on a dirt road. Big pink bubble letters printed across the top of the card say "We HARE someone special has a birthday today!" I close my eyes and let out an exhausted sigh.

Opening the card, I see a painful amount of whitespace. There are four signatures: one from Glenn — the maintenance guy, one from Carrie, one from my boss, and one from Jackie in accounting. Jackie is head of the birthday committee.

I close the card and stick it back into the pale yellow envelope. Pulling my phone out to check the time, I see that it's 11:45 am. "Close enough," I say aloud to myself.

I grab my brown paper lunch bag and lock my computer before heading over to the break room. Along the way, I pass co-workers who sport the same smile that Carrie is wearing in her family portrait. I smile back at my peers, but the nanosecond our paths finish crossing, I drop the facade. The short journey to the break room is a roller coaster of synthetic smiles and genuine sneers.

Sitting solo at one of the break room tables, I take my ham and cheese sandwich out of my brown paper bag. My stomach is grumbling. I want to take a bite, but the smell in the room is nauseating. Wanda beat me here, and she's reheating a fish sandwich in the microwave. Wanda always reheats fish sandwiches on Tuesdays. And I always sit by myself.

I finish my lunch hour at the same time that most of my co-workers begin theirs. While passing a herd of colleagues on my way back to my cubicle, I rehearse the ritual of flashing the fake smile, but they're too busy talking and laughing with each other to notice me.

When I get back to my cubicle, I roll my office chair out from underneath my desk and peck a button on my keyboard to wake up my computer. Sitting down, I see out of the corner of my eye that the quote on my board is a different color. The once-black letters are now a radiant blue. I turn to study the new words, which say: All those days that came and went, little did I know that they were my life.

Staring at the board, I let the words engrave themselves into my consciousness. Somewhere between the second and third read-through, my face materializes a genuine smile that I can't seem to wipe away.

"D'ya like it?" asks Carrie. "If not, we can change it back."

I spin my chair around and see her looking through the divider, her face apprehensive, breath fogging up the plexiglass.

Grinning I say, "It's perfect. I love it."

"My mother-in-law always used to say that to my husband and I. I just felt like you might appreciate it."

"I do," I say, "I really, really do."

"Well good, I'm glad," Carrie says, as she slips back into her six-by-six world, "Happy birthday again, honey."

"Thank you, Carrie," I say, "for everything."

"Don't mention it, sweetie."

Phones are ringing, keyboards are clicking, voices are chattering. The sounds permeate the room, but my mind is as still as a lake on a cool November morning.

I stand up and look around. All I see are the tops of heads, typing and talking away. I turn back to my dry-erase board and smile. I say "Goodbye Carrie," but she doesn't hear me. She's talking on the phone while raking the sand in her miniature Zen garden.

I set my key card and ID badge on the desk, then pick up my pale yellow envelope. I take my new blue quote off the wall and tuck it under my arm. Walking out slowly, I take a good long look at the building I've spent the last 6 years in. "All those days," I say aloud to myself. "Little did I know."