It Was Only a Job - Jeff Thomas

Michael, young and fair, sat behind the receptionist desk reading a novel. He had read through almost an entire chapter since the last time the phone rang or anyone walked by. Not that anyone would have spoken to him. It was the third day of this assignment and no one in the office knew his name, except for the office manager but he couldn’t remember that last time he’d seen her.

He crossed his legs. Uncrossed them. Recrossed them. It was July and very hot outside, but the office was icy. For the fourth or fifth time that morning Michael left the receptionist desk to go to the bathroom. There, he slowly, deliberately washed his hands under scalding hot water for warmth. They were puffy pink when he dried them. Before he left he carefully pulled the sleeves of his sweater down to cover the fraying edges of his shirt cuffs.

He took roundabout way back to the receptionist desk, wandering here and there, glancing into cubicles and offices. Many were empty, but those that weren’t were filled mostly with people wearing headsets, staring into space and tapping a pen or pencil. He reluctantly reached his desk. No missed calls. With a sigh he picked up his book.

Two chapters later he was just about to head to the bathroom again, this time to masturbate, when Barbara, the office manager, appeared before him.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he said back.

“Um, we’ve had some complaints,” she mumbled. Michael looked stricken. She continued, “yeah, some people are saying that if you have time to read, then we’re not giving you enough to do.”

“Oh.” Michael tried to be nonchalant.

“So I guess I’ll try to find something for you to do.”

“Okay.”

Barbara walked away. Michael picked up his backpack and dropped his book inside. He sat up straight and clasped his hands on top of the desk. He heard a clock ticking. His hands were numb.