There was a hair in the stroganoff. It floated aimlessly amid the flaccid noodles and the greasy, grayish-brown sauce that covered the little bits of ground beef on the plate.
Cassie paused with a forkful halfway to her mouth, transfixed by the hair’s sluggish trail as it began to wind itself around a noodle, lazily serpentine in its movement. She followed each undulating curve, unable to look away as the strand began to pulse and throb before her eyes, making its way through the paths and crevices created by the noodles and meat.
She blinked, breaking contact, and the throbbing shaft became just a hair again, drowning in a plate of stroganoff.
With a start, she realized that she had brought the fork closer to her lips while mesmerized by the contents of her plate. A drop of sauce had landed on her bottom lip and it lay quivering, waiting to be consumed by an involuntary swipe of her tongue.
She dropped the fork in disgust and hastily grabbed the napkin on her desk to wipe her mouth. She hated these stupid office potlucks. She hated the office itself, lit up in superficial lighting that sucked the life right out of a person.
Cassie stared at her surroundings as if seeing them for the first time. It seemed she’d hit the jackpot when she first started working at Standard Savings Bank of America. A Fortune 500 company, voted 3rd best place to work, SSBA was a leader in its industry. But there was something about SSBA - particularly the people she worked with – that filled her with distaste. Something about the place just didn’t ring true.
It wasn’t that she couldn’t fit in, with their plastic smiles and ‘SSBA-speak’, a phrase Cassie had made up herself when she realized that every person in the company spoke a lingo all their own. Like, “Set yourself apart from your peers.” Which, loosely translated, meant, “Step on as many people as you can to get to the top.”
No, fitting in wasn’t the problem. She could be just as counterfeit and self-absorbing as the next person. The problem was that she just didn’t want to. Didn’t want to become one of the mindless robots, reprogrammed to live the SSBA way of life.
The whole gray world she worked in was a conglomerate of corporate shams, born of corporate leaders spinning their web of pseudo-beliefs and precepts as if they lived in a world all their own. She knew it was a cynical way of thinking; cynical and bitter to be precise, but after enduring countless interviews filled with endless questions and scenarios, succeeding where success was rare, the whole thing seemed a bit pretentious now and she’d only been there six months.
And yet it was more than that. Somehow, everyone seemed so synchronized, as if they lived a twisted, corporate version of Stepford Wives, trying to pull her in with their inane potlucks, motivational meetings and continuing ‘education’ classes; classes which were really just mass-brainwashing sessions that lasted eight hours.
Re-seeding and sowing is what they did in those small conference rooms, and at the end of the day the blank stares and mind-numbing shuffles was all the proof she needed. For six months she had escaped attendance, and although she wasn’t sure how long that could continue, she certainly intended to try.
Where’s your individuality! she wanted to ask, where’s your diversity? For probably the thousandth time, Cassie wondered if the money was worth it. And for the thousandth time, she shrugged. Of course it was worth it. She just had to pretend to play their game.
As Cassie pushed the plate away, she looked up and stifled a groan. Horatio was making his way over to her cubicle, a pasty smile on his round face to go along with his thick, doughy body. He was harmless enough, but his nails-on-chalkboard quality made it difficult to spend too much time in his proximity. Not an ounce of polish graced his physical appearance, and from the mostly one-sided conversations he had forced upon her, it didn’t grace any of his inner traits either.
Where the majority of the people of SSBA took a certain pride in their appearance, as well as their formulation of verbiage, Horatio somehow missed that lesson in life. His clothes were ill-fitting and rarely ironed, hanging on his rotund frame as if they had no idea where to go. And somehow the concept of simple grammar had eluded him.
Horatio guffawed like a buffoon when he reached her desk, dispelling her hopes that he had gained some professionalism overnight.
“Whaddya think of the potluck, Cassiopeia? Pretty nice spread, eh?” He reached down for her plate with a large, gray, sausage-fingered hand and Cassie cringed at the dried flecks of food sticking to them. “You plan on finishing this? I can take it to the trash for ya.”
She thought of the hair floating in the sauce and she shuddered. A mental image suddenly took form in her head and she could see him slurping it down while no one else was looking.
Cassie turned back to her computer, hoping he would take the hint and leave. “No, I’m done. Not really hungry.”
He shrugged as he picked up her plate, and ambled off in the other direction, much to Cassie’s grateful surprise. It usually took much more than short, fragmented sentences for him to get the hint.
She didn’t see the cake until she began to shut down for the day. It was sitting next to her computer encased in plastic wrap and she grabbed it without another thought, hurrying to escape before anyone else could start some inane conversation about absolutely nothing.
***
The moment she got in the door of her apartment, she changed out of her suit and jumped into the shower, freeing herself of the last vestiges of the day with a feverish haste.
The air in the office, the crux of the office seemed to stick to her clothes, her hair, layering her body with its presence, as if it contained her, claimed her as its own. Knowing how strange that statement was did not prevent her from performing these acts of cleanliness every night, the tainted feeling only dissipating after she had scrubbed every inch of her body.
As Cassie stepped from the bedroom, she was greeted by the smell of brewing coffee. It eased the last of her tension and swept away the remaining clouds from her mind. With a rush of gratification she poured a cup and sat down with her cake, easing into the recliner with the anticipation of a relaxing evening with a good book. She sighed, soothed by the warmth of the coffee, and she unwrapped the piece of cake and scooped a forkful into her mouth.
Not only did the people of SSBA organize a potluck for every occasion, they seemed to find a reason for cake just as often. Birthdays, retirements, promotions. Anything that remotely resembled a celebration or congratulations would call for a serving of some type of frosted concoction. It was a ridiculous tradition and Cassie did what she could to avoid it.
But as the first crumbs settled on her taste buds, she gave an appreciative murmur. Simple white cake with frosting, but it was good. Really good. She reached down to pick up her cup of coffee when suddenly she felt something in her mouth. Something on her tongue. It wriggled about, squirming to take hold of the thick muscle in her mouth, as if it could sense she was aware of its presence. The thought seemed fanatical to her conscious mind, yet it struck a chord of truth in her; that this thing on her tongue was alive and sentient. With a surge of panic she stopped chewing. The lump of masticated cake quickly turned to clay in her mouth and she gagged, grabbing the napkin next to the plate and spitting the unrecognizable mess out, strings of saliva and all.
She gagged again, feeling the thing still in her mouth, on her tongue, and unbelievably, she could feel it inching its way backwards, towards her throat, persisting in its purpose.
Hysteria swallowed her in one gulp, and she reached in frantically with her fingers, scraping her tongue and struggling to get a grip on the thin strand that slithered amid the slime of cake and frosting which layered her mouth and created a shield for the hair to hide behind.
And then she had it. Her fingers latched onto it and she sagged with relief. Taking care not to break it off, she pulled it out of her mouth, like a magician pulling out a sword, and laid it on the napkin with the remains of the cake. One long strand of hair.
She eyed it with suspicion as it lay there motionless, no longer struggling towards its mission. But as the cloud of surrealism began to evaporate, logic took its place, settling around her like a blanket of comfort.
It was just a hair. Disgusting, yes. But not alive. Not in the least. Her phobia of hair found anywhere but on the body had somehow manifested itself into some sort of physical delusion, caused by her panic. It was a perfect explanation to the bizarre, but even as she took the plate and the napkin and threw it in the trash, she couldn’t go to bed without first twisting a tie on the bag and hauling it downstairs to the chute.
***
That next week was Horatio’s birthday. There was no way for Cassie to avoid this bit of information due to the constant reminder by the ‘birthday boy’ himself. Every day. Without fail.
And it came as no surprise that in recognition of the special day, there would be a potluck.
As the sign-up sheet began its tour around the office, urging people to contribute, Cassie would pass it onto the next empty desk that she could find, without penning her name to anything, surreptitiously avoiding having to participate.
But on the day before the potluck, her plans were thwarted. A redhead from two cubicles down, who looked suspiciously similar to the 1980’s retro version of Madonna, minus the finger-torn black lace gloves, stopped by Cassie’s desk, waxing nervousness with every jittery step. The bangles on her wrists clinked a nonsense song that grated on Cassie’s nerves, and she made no attempt to recall the redhead’s name, unconcerned with who she was, only that she was dangling a legal size sheet of paper from between her manicured fingertips. Cassie could guess what it was.
“Hi, just wondering what you planned to bring.” Her sing-song voice matched the song of the bangles on her arm and the redhead smiled big, trying to overcome her timidity with nonchalance that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “The party’s tomorrow, not sure if you knew.”
And how could I not know, thought Cassie with a surge of animosity, you or one of your pals is at my desk every single day!
She bit her tongue to stop the words from escaping and gave a short smile instead, motioning towards her desk for the girl to drop the sheet. She’d plant it on someone else’s desk as soon as she was alone.
But Red stood immobile, a slow smile on her face. Cassie stopped typing and looked up expectantly at the girl who had been fidgeting in front of her only a moment ago, catching sight of her slightly upturned lips. The timid girl had disappeared, her smile now relaxed and calculated and Cassie felt a tingle of uneasiness at the abrupt change.
And then, just as quickly, it was gone. Red cleared her throat nervously as she took the pen from behind her ear.
“If you want, I can just jot something down for you. Doesn’t have to be elaborate or anything.”
Cassie eyed Red for a moment, wondering if the subtle change was just her imagination. “Actually, I don’t think I’ll be participating. Not really into potlucks. Other people’s food. You understand.”
Red blinked a couple of times and Cassie felt a certain burst of freedom at the look of consternation on Red’s face, at finally being able to admit to somebody, anybody, that she had no interest whatsoever in taking part of this strange tradition. She turned back to her computer.
“Thanks anyway, though.”
When she glanced up again, Red had already left.
***
Someone had brought her a plate of salad. It didn’t matter whether or not she had wanted to participate, it seemed. They were going to try to feed her anyway.
Cassie stared at the plate, wondering. What was the chance, anyway? Surely not three times in a row?
Hesitantly, feeling an indescribable need to know, she took the plastic fork and began to push the salad around, her eyes straining to catch sight of something alien, something that didn’t belong.
Nothing. She sat back, about to surrender the effort when she saw it. There, entwined around one of the orange slivers of carrot was a thick, dark strand of hair. She looked up at the people around the office as they talked and ate, bite after bite, and wondered if their plates contained the same treasure as hers. If so, they either didn’t notice or didn’t care. She hoped it wasn’t the latter. With a grimace of revulsion, she pushed the plate away.
It was then that she saw Horatio; the same sloppy smile on his face and wearing yesterday’s suit. He carried two plates in front of him, holding them out as offerings in his bloated hands.
She wrestled with the urge to say something mean and spiteful, and after a brief moment she won, feeling just a twinge of disappointment at the triumph. It would have been nice to lose that battle.
He held out one of the plates to her, still smiling.
“Hiya, Sassi-frass.” A snicker escaped his oversized lips as he released yet another stupid rendition of her name.
It’s a wonder he has friends, she thought with a surge of loathing, waiting with raised eyebrows to see what he wanted. He set one of the plates down on her desk.
“Wanted to get you a piece of my birthday cake before the wolves scarfed it down.”
She looked at the cake and shuddered, thinking of the week before and what she had found in hers.
“Thanks. Maybe I’ll save it for later.”
He nodded, shoveling his own piece of cake into his gigantic maw.
“Ish ghud,” he told her, his mouth stuffed to the brim, and she crinkled her nose in distaste. Instead of wasting words, she turned back to her computer, giving the clock a glance to see if she could sneak out without being noticed. But he spoke again, his words and his body language resonating with wounded emotion.
“Where’s my ‘happy birthday?’”
Instantly, and to her great surprise, she felt a flood of compassion for this round man that stood before her, and maybe a little twinge of guilt.
Completely lacking in social skills, probably fated to never find a mate and sure to keel over at a very young age due to any number of ailments commonly caused by obesity, she pitied him at that very moment for what was surely a lonely existence. With a sigh of resignation she turned back to him, hoping her smile didn’t look forced.
“Happy Birthday, Horatio.”
And with those three magic words, life for Horatio once again returned to normal. He grinned one of his stupid, moronic grins, showing all the frosting and bits of cake that still clung to his teeth, making her instantly regret that she had said anything.
And that was when she noticed the hair. Not in his cake. But in his teeth.
It curled up from between the gap, as if it felt her gaze, her repugnance. The look of revulsion that masked her face was uncontrollable and with a jolt of horror she watched him run his tongue over the surface, sucking the remaining bits of food as well as the piece of hair into his mouth and down his throat. He cocked his head in a question, the smile never wavering.
“You look like you just seen the devil. What’s got your goose?”
Cassie felt the color drain from her face. “Nothing. I gotta go, Horatio. Happy Birthday.”
She shut down the system, locked up her desk and left, leaving the cake to be thrown out by the evening janitors.
***
Cassie was at the copier when she saw the memo.
WE’RE HAVING A BREAKFAST!
BRING YOUR FAVORITE HAIR!
JOIN IN THE FUN!
The memo was decorated with tiny balloons, confetti and banners of every kind, displaying a sense of frolic and fun that contradicted the oddity of the message.
Cassie stood in shock as she read the words printed on the sheet of paper. The air seemed too thin and the words swam before her eyes as she peered closer, trying to understand.
And then she saw her mistake. BRING YOUR FAVORITE DISH! it said. Not hair. She felt bewildered, out of place.
These potlucks are getting to me, she thought as she threw the memo in the trash and left the copy room, hoping the breakfast would be forgotten.
It wasn’t. Saturday came and they were at it again. Sitting at her desk, she looked at the people congregating in the conference room and she thought of the hair she had found each time someone brought her food. It couldn’t just be her food that was tainted. What sense did that make? Someone’s sick joke?
With steel determination, she rose from her seat and entered the conference room, not sure what she intended to do, but needing to move, to see. To investigate. Her sanity was at stake.
The smell of fresh coffee hit her the instant she walked in. This time they went all out. Someone had brought in a coffee maker and a fresh pot was brewing.
Now that, I can sample, she thought and stopped to pour herself a cup, feeling a little less uncomfortable now that coffee was in the mix.
A toaster was set up on the windowsill, continuously popping out waffles, the syrup nearby in a neat little plastic bottle. Somebody had scrambled eggs and cheese along with eggs and fried potatoes. Even cereal and milk. And as she walked around the table, watching people eat, talk, and eat some more, the feeling of surrealism returned, hovering in the air around the room. She watched their filled mouths moving over the food as they conversed with exaggerated animation, forkfuls being lifted up, emptied and then refilling again from their plates.
Someone came up to her with a plate of scrambled eggs and fruit salad, insisting she try a little of everything, and she took the plate without thinking, trying to sort out what seemed so unreal about the whole place, the whole atmosphere of the office. She spotted Horatio talking with the redhead from accounting and found herself walking over to where they were standing. His smile grew impossibly wider when he saw the plate she was carrying and this time, thankfully, no food could be seen hiding between his teeth.
“Well, well. Look who it is.”
Suddenly, she was sorry for the spontaneous decision to join them. Horatio shrugged at her frown, unconcerned with her evident animosity.
“Whatcha got there, huh? Decided to try some of my fruit salad?”
Uhhg, she thought, stealing a look at his hands. They looked clean, but that didn’t account for much of anything.
“Someone just handed it to me. It’s a little too early for me to have an appetite yet.” She looked down at her plate as she was speaking, trying in vain to see if there were any hairs hidden among the strawberries, blueberries and pineapple. Nothing that she could see. But wasn’t that the beauty of it? You never saw it until it was too late.
Horatio was too busy shoveling a load of eggs into his mouth to answer her but she caught Red looking at her with a smirk. A different person from the frightened bird that had wanted her signature on a sign-up sheet the other week, that much was certain. Almost as if she was in her own element, her own neighborhood if you will, where there was nothing to be shy about.
Cassie checked the eggs on her plate, searching the mound of yellow as she had with the fruit. She saw nothing long, dark and intertwined. When she raised her eyes again, she caught Red looking at her.
“I made the eggs, Cassie. Try them.” Something gleamed in her eye and her smile grew as she waited for Cassie to take a bite. They were all waiting. Still chewing, but staring intently.
Cassie couldn’t break away from their gaze. She felt frozen, as if in a dream. Unaware she had even picked up the fork, she separated a little portion from the mound and brought it to her mouth.
What are you doing? her mind shouted in protest, and Cassie realized she really couldn’t answer that. She didn’t know what she was doing, only that she felt an overwhelming desire to eat the eggs, to taste their essence. A claustrophobic feeling surrounded her, as if every person in the office had converged upon her, like a pack of wolves closing in on their prey. It was a ridiculous thought, but even so, as the fork continued toward its destination, the whole room suddenly stopped. Conversations ceased, forks and spoons hovered in the air as everyone waited, watching.
In a fog, she tried to stop the motion, feeling as if she were no longer in control. Her lips closed over the tines of the fork and a collective sigh emanated throughout the room.
At once, the world started up again. The eating and talking, picking up from where it left off, as if there had been no interruption at all.
Cassie chewed delicately. And with a start of surprise, she realized Red was right. The eggs were good. In fact, they were the best eggs she had ever tasted. Just the right consistency, the right flavor, with a hint of something that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She smiled and her co-workers laughed with delight.
“Try the fruit,” oozed Horatio smoothly, and she did, marveling at how fresh it tasted, better than she had expected. Spoonful after spoonful she ate, each bite tasting better than the last.
“This is good, Horatio.” Cassie watched him grab another helping and she held out her plate for more. The serving spoon delivered another mound of eggs to what she had just sampled, this time with what looked suspiciously like pubic hairs, right on top. She paid them no heed. In they went with the rest of her eggs. She looked up at her co-workers, smiling at the camaraderie of the whole morning, the togetherness. Horatio grinned back as he ate another mouthful, carefully winding the threads of hair around his fork like a strand of spaghetti.
Good food, she thought. Good food. Nothing wrong with a potluck at all.
When Cassie went home that evening, she made herself a little stroganoff, making sure to include the hair she found in the bathroom drain.
