Thu, 19 May 2005

Eggwhite
The things we gain a sentimental attachment to are small, but they hold us within the world, they give us a place and a purpose and allow us the comfort of habit and trust, things which many people think of as moral failings, but things I have always had an affinity for, things I believe in. At a place where I used to work, there were a series of communal mugs to be used for coffee, to be washed and set on the drying rack at the end of one’s shift. There was a woman (whose real name was not Shelley) who drank coffee religiously, and as such had developed an affinity for a particular mug, not so much because of the picture on its outside (a picture of Bill the Cat with his own cup of coffee) but because the other employees knew it was her cup, and would leave it for her, as she was one of the last people to come in at night. When I first started, all this prior history was invisible to me, and so (among other transgressions) I began using Shelley’s cup. The first couple days went by without notice, as Shelley used a secondary cup, but on the third day another employee informed me this was Shelley’s cup, and not to be a pill, but maybe I could use a different cup? I said sure, definitely, and didn’t think any more of it. Then there was the weekend, and that Sunday night, when I went back in, I had forgotten all about Shelley’s cup being Shelley’s cup, and poured myself some coffee into the Bill the Cat cup, and the rest of the night a certain percentage of the employees glared at me, then turned away as I tried to make eye contact.

I am a very petty person. I never let go of a grudge, and the only things I don’t forget are moments of shame. Rather than realizing that I have fucked up, and doing the adult thing of admitting my wrongs, I tend to burrow in, consider the entire circumstance a joke at my expense, and lash out when nobody’s looking. I mean, it’s not her cup. She didn’t buy it. I have as much right to it as anyone. So I made it an issue to take the cup every day, as I always came in before she did, even on the days when I barely sipped at my coffee. Shelley began coming in earlier and earlier, so I did the same, staying a good fifteen minutes up on her, until I was coming in while first shift was still working, when I’d sit in the breakroom, sipping my coffee from Shelley’s mug.

On the birthdays of employees, everyone would go to the breakroom and have cake and/or ice cream and receive some nature of small gift. On my birthday, everyone had chipped in and bought me a mug of my own, with DARREN’S MUG across the front in black bold letters. People mostly laughed, but I noticed Shelley didn’t laugh. She just watched me from behind her bowl of ice cream, waiting. I smiled and laughed and dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands beneath the table.

A couple days later, I set the mug among the other cups, picked up Shelley’s cup, filled it with coffee, and went to my desk.

A week went by, and just before I punched out for the night Shelley walked up to my desk and asked me what my problem was. I told her I didn’t know what she was talking about. She said I knew damn well what she was talking about, only she slipped on the word what, and began to stutter. I had never heard her stutter before, and she seemed to be surprised, and flustered, that she had done it, and the more angry she got the more she stuttered, stammering through variations on why I wouldn’t just let her use her cup, until she turned on her left heel and walked away, trying not to run. I felt like everyone was staring at me, so I swiveled around in my chair, but nobody would look at me.

About a month later the majority of us were laid off, and my first impulse was to loot the supply room, but they had locked off the rest of the building from the room where we worked. I did, however, manage to get to the breakroom, where I shoved a whole shitload of cokes into my backpack, along with Shelley’s cup. I then walked out the door, didn’t say goodbye, and have not seen Shelley or any of my other coworkers since.

For about a month, I had Shelley’s cup on my desk, which I used to hold pens. One night, while blindingly drunk, I smashed the cup into pieces, which I then buried in the garden, hoping it would make me feel a little less disgusted with myself, but nothing changed.
(12:07.05.19.2005) [/alpha] #