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The office is crisp, like the kind you’d find in a commercial for a national coffee chain or an ulcerative colitis medication. You’ve seen it before. People of not-very-varied ages, races, genders, shapes, and sizes toil away in their cubicles until HERO stands up and saves them from PROBLEM (hunger, fatigue, crippling abdominal pain) with PRODUCT A (chicken sandwich, caramel iced latte, expensive healthcare product). Then everyone goes back to work — just for the same commercial to repeat two more times in a 45-second ad break.
I’ve been at this office three weeks now, and the man with PRODUCT A still has not made an appearance.
I’m almost fully ramped, which means I’m done learning dozens of co-worker’s names that I barely interact with and being trained on software platforms with names like Bubu and Heebee to streamline project management. Still, no matter how many names I remember or tricks I learn, the workday feels like a daze. I stumble through meetings and click between tabs on my browser until the clock strikes six and people start packing their bags. Then I sit on the same bus in the same traffic and get off at the same stop — save the rare weeknight grocery run.
Jenn says I’ve been having trouble sleeping (moans, tremors, mumbles, and a fair bit of choking sounds). I actually think I’ve been sleeping great. When I’m asleep, I dream I’m back at the dairy farm where I worked summers in high school. We all got paid by the hour, and the only expenses I had to worry about were athleisure clothing and fast casual burgers.
In my dream, I go to the cheese cellar and crack open a wheel of parmesan, only it’s as big as a backyard swimming pool and it sits on stilts. The cheese is warm and viscous like fondue. I dive into the pool and shovel parmesan into my mouth by the gobful, moaning in ecstasy from the thick umami flavor. The taste of my parmesan dreams lingers all day at work; it complements the mucus that builds up in my throat when I snore.
I liked the cheese dreams at first. It felt like my subconscious was kissing me goodbye before I went to work, giving me butterflies in my stomach that helped keep me sane. Then I told my boss that the sales report was “gouda to go” for our next meeting. I wish I could say it was an isolated incident. Another day, after lunch, I told my cubicle-mate that I have to “brie” instead of “pee.” (I probably shouldn’t have said I needed to pee in the first place, but Jenn thought the mixup was concerning none-the-less). One night, Jenn found me asleep with my head in the refrigerator, sucking on a block of cheddar, and called 911.
I woke up in a hospital bed with an IV in each arm — one bag filled with milk and the other with melted cheese. Lactose Dependency, they called it. The doctors said that most of the time it was genetic, but it could be psychological as well.
“A big move in a short time,” someone explained to Jenn outside my hospital room. “It happens all the time.”
After a week of dairy drips and injections, they finally say I’m ready to go home. I limp through the hospital lobby, leaning heavily on my cane, but the cheese and milk injections made my mind feel sharp. Jenn is waiting outside the hospital with an Uber already, bless her soul.
“Hey you,” she says — as if she hasn’t been by my hospital bed every day for the past week.
“Hey.”
I try to stifle the burp, but it breaks free. It smells like movie theater nachos. “Just get in the damn car,” Jenn says. She helps me into the car and gets in on the other side.
I’m back to work the very next day. I button my good blue shirt over my bloated stomach and kiss Jenn goodbye and whisper a thank you. She tells me it’s no big deal, that she’d do anything for me. I’m careful not to burp this time. When I get to my office, Sherri from HR is waiting at my desk and pulls me into her office for what she calls “a quick chat.” She reminds me that since I’m still in my probationary period, I unfortunately will not get compensated for my time in the hospital — which she refers to as “time off.” After an empty back and forth about how I’m feeling, I stand up to leave her office.
“And Jess,” Sherri says. “I think you have some…umm.” Sherri motions to her mouth.
I touch my lip and sure enough, there’s a milk mustache, thick and sweet. I grab a tissue and wipe it clean. When I return to my desk, my face is fresh and crisp and I toil away on my laptop with everyone else.
