The New, Improved Carole

Jamming down the brake pedal, Carole threw the gearshift into Park and pressed the ignition button to stop the car. If only she could stop the chattering voice in her head that reminded her of her failure. She grabbed the brocade cross-body bag from the passenger seat and muttered a few choice expletives as she stomped to the door of her mother’s apartment. Mom had asked her two weeks ago to come for a visit, so here she was, but Carole was in no mood for parental advice. Not after the humiliation she’d been through.

“What happened?” Melanie asked when she opened the door to her red-faced daughter.

Carole just shook her head and groaned. Following the instructions in How to Win Friends and Influence People, she’d approached June at the coffee hour after church. It was a situation peppered with landmines—people just chatting casually with no guidelines, free-form conversations. She didn’t know how to navigate these mixers without getting headaches. She’d asked June to go for a bagel with her.

“She said she had to go grocery shopping.” Carole paused and spread her hands. “Like I asked her for a loan or something. She couldn’t look me in the eyes.” And I tried my best to laugh it off, but it hurt.

Her mother took her hand and led her into the kitchen, where a mug of coffee with almond milk and cinnamon awaited her. “Come on, honey. Don’t take it personally. The thing is, you need to socialize, get some friends, and get out more. I worry about you.”

“I try,” Carole muttered, nursing the mug in both hands. “I asked June nicely. I even smiled and made sure I didn’t curl my arms around my chest. Everything the book on nonverbal communication told me to do. It took me five minutes of pep-talking to work up the courage to even approach her. I can’t do this conversation thing, I can’t. Not for a million dollars.” She thumped the mug on the table, making the coffee spill.

Melanie blew out a loud “Phew,” and jumped up to snag a paper towel. “Well, you always were a shy girl. Even in elementary school you wanted to blend into the woodwork like an octopus that makes itself invisible.”

“That’s the superpower I always wanted, Mom.” Carole sipped the now-lukewarm coffee with a frown. “I’m an introvert. You just have to accept it. My ideal social time is reading a book or crocheting with my cat on my lap. Alone.” I’m like the cat that walked by itself, in that children’s book you read me when I was six.

As she threw up her hands in defeat, Melanie said, “Okay, hon. I just want you to be happy.”

“I know,” Carole said, her voice softening in response. Then she grinned, defiance cloaked behind a smile. “Sorry, I have to go. Grocery shopping.” She slid the strap of her bag over her shoulder, gently this time, and headed for the car.

The conversation circled her thoughts like an earworm of a pop song as she drove, and she was still rehearsing the clever comebacks she only thought of too late when she pulled into the supermarket parking lot. I’m glad I kept my mouth shut about the office party next Friday. The dreaded team mixer masquerading as fun. Everyone else is looking forward to it—free food, time off from work, and a chance to get to know each other. To me, it’s lukewarm encounters over weird hors d’oeuvres and fancy crackers.

She cycled through potential excuses like a hamster in a wheel: a fake doctor appointment, the proverbial relative flying to town, project deadlines, an appointment with the cable guy. But she knew none of the lies was strong enough to withstand the piercing eyes of her boss, Howard, who had placed “teamwork” on a pedestal so high that an Olympian pole jumper couldn’t touch it. No way out. She had to endure the party.

As if he could read her mind, Howard showed up at her cubicle on that Friday morning, his hornrim glasses glinting in the light from her computer screen. “Carole,” he said, as her stomach flipflopped. “I need to see you making an effort to reach out to your coworkers this afternoon. Team-building—that’s what it’s all about. No more of this lurking in corners. I’ll be watching you.” He pointed both index fingers at her like twin pistols before making a neat 180-degree turn and making his way to the break room.

And just like that, her chest turned into a deep-freeze. Did he just threaten me? Is my job on the line? She stole a look at her watch. One hour to turn herself into a social butterfly or risk the perp walk of a fired employee. She’d seen enough of those stunned people with their cardboard boxes being escorted by security guards to know that her boss wasn’t bluffing. She was up the creek, no paddle in sight, and if her guts didn’t calm down soon, she’d need her plastic-lined trash can for some internal housecleaning.

Desperate, she pulled out her phone and connected to her favorite chatbot, the one that helped her with cooking-for-one recipes and recommendations for cat toys. She’d never used it for something as serious as this, but she had faith in technology and typed in her prompt.

I am a shy introvert. What do I need to do to initiate and sustain good relationships with my office coworkers, especially in the context of an office party? Give me specific examples. Think outside the box. You must not include standard, generic, middle-of-the-road advice. I want creative solutions.

Pressing the Enter key, Carole took a deep yoga breath and sent a whispered “Please” to the universe.

After a long few of the blinking cursor, the bot displayed its answer. Some of the suggestions were so far-fetched that she wrinkled her forehead in puzzlement. Bribe your coworkers with pot brownies. Invite them all to dinner at your favorite restaurant and pick up the bill. Ask them about their secret hobbies and whether they thought she should try them. But the last one made her nose itch: Pretend you’re a standup comedian doing a set at an office party.

She blinked. Was this idea genius or madness? Ot both?

Carole pursed her lips and tilted her head. Could all those hours she’d spent watching her favorite comic on YouTube pay off now? Zoltan made it look so easy—you just got up on stage and told stories and people laughed.

But could she do it? Carole Miller, who practiced smiles in the mirror and wrote scripts before making a phone call? She froze sometimes when placing her order at a coffee shop. She was as much of a comedian as she was an astrophysicist.

The idea, however outlandish it was, wouldn’t let her go. If she could just transform her awkwardness into art, she’d be golden. Besides, with fifty minutes to go until lunch hour was over, it was time for desperate measures. There wasn’t even a chance to refresh her coffee mug. She had to start now with a title for the new document:

Office Party Jokes.

Her first effort fell flat. You know why they call it the breakroom? Because everything is almost broken. The microwave heats your food until it’s almost hot, the fridge produces air that’s almost cool, the soda machine almost delivers the right can, and the coffee machine is almost empty almost all of the time. Sometimes I wonder whether we should have ritual sacrifices to the breakroom gods. We could give them burned popcorn or melted ice cream as offerings. They should call that room the Danger Zone, not the Oasis.

Too much? Try again.

They call our cube farm an ‘open concept.’ The thing that’s open is the architect’s brain pan, because his brains must have fallen out. There’s so little privacy that when my phone’s Carmina Burana ringtone comes on, heads pop up like prairie dogs. Makes me feel like I’ve been transported to Nebraska. In my little padded cage, the only way I can see daylight is by calling up a screensaver on my laptop. I’m not complaining, but the whole thing is based on the idea that you can’t hear what you can’t see. Crazy, huh?

Better. Keep trying. Her fingers danced over the keyboard, typos abounding, but who cared? Carole had opened a door to a mischievous prankster hidden inside her for years, a wise-cracking observer with a lot to say about her life. Soon she was joking about the company’s “flexible” deadlines that only worked if you read a lot of science fiction. She jotted down one-liners about the statues in front of the building, the water fountains that tried to wash your hair, and the candy machine that couldn’t count money. But when she wrote about her cat, the humor started to flow.

My cat Tigger loves to bring me gifts. He gave me a tennis ball and a toy mouse last week, a dead cricket on Sunday, and, yesterday, a shoe he’d crapped in. But the craziest thing he brought me—and he looked so innocent when he dropped it at my feet—was a huge grasshopper. A live one. Just to test my reflexes, I guess. We two chased it all over the living room. But it really cracked me up when Tigger started jumping just like the grasshopper. I sat down on the floor and stared in wonder as the pair of them like manic Slinky toys on speed. The whole thing ended when Tigger jumped over the couch and the bug teleported into my lap. I screamed and Tigger jumped even higher. Somehow, I got the thing to the door and threw it out. But you should have seen the look on my cat’s face. They say cats can make almost 300 different facial expressions, and this one said, ‘How could you do that to me?’ in no uncertain terms. I’ve never felt so guilty. Tigger is a hunter, and I took away his prey. Unforgiveable!

It was ridiculous, and wild. In some strange way, it was a Carole she’d never met coming to the fore.

The party started at 1:30 that afternoon so they would have a legit excuse for going home early. Her boss Howard circulated around the room, trying to raise morale with his creepy combination of compliments and threats. Arriving a little late, Carole was surprised to discover the spiked punch. It was clear that her coworkers had already availed themselves of the potent elixir as the noise level in the conference room swelled.

Now for the acid test. She couldn’t wait to try out her newfound superpower. If she managed to remember the punchlines and used a casual, relaxed delivery, she’d be home free. At least, that’s how it worked for her favorite comic, Zoltan, who made comedy seem so easy. She loaded her plate with snacks and headed for a group of three silent people. Her nerves were tingling, but she imagined she was walking onstage to the microphone stand to thunderous applause. Okay, Carole, showtime! You can do this.

“Hi,” she said with an almost confident smile and trembling hands. “I’m Carole, from Customer Relations. I know you, Tom, but I haven’t met you two yet.”

‘Martha, from Accounting,” the woman said. “And this is Frank, from Strategic Marketing.”

“Happy to meet you,” Carole said. Drawing in a deep breath, she took the plunge and told her first lie. “I’m practicing for a gig at the comedy club on Broad Street. Is it okay if I try out some of my stories on you?”

Martha and Frank shared a quick glance, but Tom gallantly said, “Sure. Go ahead.”

And something strange happened. She opened her mouth, and Zoltan took over.

After starting with a couple of one-liners that got some chuckles, Carole moved on to longer jokes. Where was this energy coming from? She could hardly believe she was doing this. Before long, the three were telling her she was good, and two more people drifted over. They broke through the convention of forced fun with genuine laughter, like gamers reaching the ultimate goal, as she broke the confines of her own personality. She was running out of material, but she had one good story left for a closer—the Tigger story.

And that’s when she caught a dark suit out of the corner of her eye. Nodding his head, her boss gave her a smile and turned to go. Carole felt the breath she’d been holding leave her in a long exhale. Her job was safe after all. She thanked them all and headed over to the cookie tray for a reward.

“How do you do that?” Martha asked when she came over to snag a cookie for herself. “I mean, where did you come up with all those jokes?”

“They’re mine,” Carole said. “It’s all original material. But honestly? It started with a prompt to a chatbot. I told it to think outside the box.”

“You smashed that box to smithereens today, Carole. Let’s trade numbers. I’d love for you to text me some more jokes.”

Carole smiled as she took out her cellphone. She’d learned to stand up and stand out all at once.

(2,237 words)