The Break Room

Sarah quit in front of the birthday cake.

The cake was for Porter. His birthday was over the weekend, which meant they would have cake for him either on Friday or Monday. This time, it was Monday, because his birthday was on a Sunday, but there were no hard and fast rules about these kinds of things. There was a cake committee, led by Maura, and all cakes were purchased from the nearby supermarket. I have watched dozens of birthdays happen here. I’ve listened to people with badges and bad haircuts sing “Happy Birthday” off-key-- slowing down the tempo as though to prolong their midday respite. Cake presentation was supposed to be tacked onto lunch, but sometimes they did lunch and then a cake later in the day. That meant a sort of “second lunch” and that would be frowned upon by upper management, but upper management was barely ever in the office post-Covid. These days, they came in at nine, did a walkaround, went back to their offices to make a few calls, and then left early citing the need to drive their children to gymnastic meets or play rehearsals.

This cake was vanilla with chocolate frosting. It was the cheap kind that melts as soon as you pull it out of the fridge. I have yet to see a cake in this room that didn’t look like it would give you the runs, and yet I’ve never seen any leftovers. I don’t know what it’s like in the rest of the office or the world-at-large, but I know that here inside of me, people love cake. Cake gives them a reason to live. I’ve never seen anyone skip a cake presentation, and I’ve never seen someone quit while the cake was still being sliced. In fact, I’ve never seen anyone quit inside of me at all. Quitting is talked about in here, certainly, but it’s never happened in here. Quitting happens in the upper management offices. It happens in the conference room. A few years ago, two employees were in here gossiping, and one mentioned that someone had actually confronted a manager in the men’s room and quit while the manager was standing at the urinal. I wish I could have seen that, but I can’t see anything outside of myself. I catch glimpses of the outer office through my doorway, but because there’s a hallway leading down to me, those glimpses don’t tell me much. I hear more than I see, but it’s like being backstage at a play. I know what it’s like being backstage at a play because one of the employees worked as an actor in New York prior to the pandemic. Now, they’re an executive assistant, and they come in here and regale whoever will listen with stories of show business and performing. People listen politely, but I can tell they’re not all that interested. They just want to sip their over-creamed coffee and nibble on their stale muffins and dream about when you could smoke indoors.

When Sarah quits, she does it simply. It does not appear to be prompted by anything in particular. I have an idea sometimes of who can handle working here at Benton, Benton, Frye, and Benton. No one seems to be all that happy, but the majority of them stick it out for years. It’s the rare case that cracks and returns to the outside world. I have no idea what the outside world looks like, because there are no windows in me. A break room without windows seems odd, because a view would help the employees relax, but maybe the point is to deter them from dreaming of an escape while they’re in here flipping through a copy of People magazine from six years ago. Sarah did not strike me as someone who would ruin a birthday cake presentation, but she does. Or maybe she doesn’t. She waits until the singing is over, and then says very calmly--

“You know what? I quit.”

She walked out and nobody said a word. Mitch chewed loudly on the piece of cake he’d been eating when Sarah decided that working was no longer for her. I say “working” and not “working here,” because something about the way she said “I quit” makes me think that she’s not planning on getting another job. At least, not a conventional one. Last week, she was in here telling Al that she wanted to become a firefighter, but one that exclusively fights forest fires.

“Aren’t all firefighters the same,” Al asked her, picking the raisins off a danish that somebody had brought in the day before, “If you can fight one fire, can’t you fight them all?”

I could tell Sarah thought this was the dumbest thing she’d ever heard in her life, but she smiled at Al anyway, because he’s been working here since 1991, and the only reason he hasn’t retired is because that would mean spending his days alone at home. His wife died of skin cancer three years ago, and he never talks about it. Instead, he tells stories about his son who lives in Missoula and didn’t even come home for the funeral. He told Al it was because of Covid travel restrictions, but Al thinks his son is a coward who can’t face death or mortality. He doesn’t phrase it like that.

Instead, he talks about when his son was a child and how he wet the bed until he was halfway through junior high.

“Twelve years old and still wetting the bed,” Al would say to whoever happened to be making coffee in me at that moment, “And who had to change his sheets every time? His mother. But he couldn’t be bothered to find a way to be by her side when she needed him. I shouldn’t say more than that, but I’m sure you can tell what I’m thinking.”

I could tell. I don’t know if anyone else could.

Al doesn’t say anything when Sarah quits. People who quit make him uncomfortable. He clears his throat and gets a paper cup so he can enjoy some water from the half-filled cooler. Mitch swallows the last of his slice. Danielle, who can go the entire day without using the restroom, asks if anyone has plans for the weekend. Nobody answers. What I know about forest fires comes from a podcast that Sarah listened to on her lunch breaks over the course of a week. She didn’t bother putting her headphones on, and if anyone asks why she didn’t have her headphones on, she said it was because forest fires are something everyone needs to know about.

Looking back, there were signs. I should have seen the signs, but I was focused on the strange smell coming from the back of one of my cabinets. I concentrate on the fridge. Nobody’s cleaned it in over a year. I think about how I would look with a window. Or two windows. I’d settle for one. I’d like it on my north side. I don’t know what the north side would look like, but there’s a National Geographic magazine from several years ago on the table and on the cover is a mountain. I’d like a window that faces a mountain. I’d settle for one that looks out onto the parking lot. That way I could watch everyone arrive in the morning and leave in the late afternoon.

I’d watch their cars pull away while waiting for the motion detector to trigger my fluorescent lighting to turn off. Once I’m dark, I’d listen to the heat turn off inside the office. I’d listen to the pipes rattle. I’d listen even closer than I listen now. Every so often, a bubble will work its way from the bottom of the cooler to the surface. I don’t know what it feels like to be thirsty. I don’t know how badly someone can need a drink. I don’t know how to sing or sing off-key, but I know all the lyrics to “Happy Birthday.”

If I could sing, I would sing it perfectly.

I wouldn’t miss a word.