FuNnY OfFiCe: The Rodent

I had only seen Mr. Acme's office secretary once or twice. I didn't know her name, since Mr. Acme never used it, and the other Acme employees simply referred to her as "The Rodent." That was why I answered my phone when she called me. She gave me her real name. She didn't tell me that she was the infamous Rodent, Mr. Acme's stooge, and that she was about to endanger my life.

"Who?"

The Rodent's voice was twitching with tension. "I'm Mr. Acme's office secretary and in your employment file it says you did a newsletter once."

I began to be wary. "W-hy do you ask?"

"I usually do the office newsletter but I can't this time because I broke my hand coming back from the ladies' room when I fell down the stairs because Mr. Acme only gives me 5 minutes to go and it takes 3 to run it in heels if you go as fast as you can. And he said if I'm going to have to humor you while you lie on the couch for a week and take 25 good dollars out of my pocket you can at least go find someone else to do your job while you're gone."

"Mr. Acme says that if you're not up in his office with a pad and pencil in 5 minutes..."

But I was already scrambling for the elevators, screaming as I ran.

I had never, in all my time with the company, seen Mr. Acme up close. I had, however, heard all the rumors: that there was a body stuffed behind his office wall; that the mark on his neck was where the aliens had implanted the control chip; and that if you caught a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror, it would show the body of a man with the head of a white goat.

I hesitated outside his office door as if it was the chute to an alternate dimension. Only the fear of what would happen if I didn't, gave me the courage to knock.

"It's about time!"

Mr. Acme's voice was not what I expected. It was high, squeaky and irritable, like an angry munchkin's. He was sitting at his office desk with the chair swiveled around toward a big picture window, so that I couldn't see his face. An unreasoning fear that it was disfigured seized me. I imagined a long, pale scar from a foiled murder attempt -- possibly two.

"It's a p-leasure to..."

"Sit down and shut up. It's an outrage when I have to pay my secretary to stay at home and eat pralines and watch soap operas. You can write that down."

I scribbled obediently on the notepad.

"Let's get down to business. I'm writing an article for this issue of the Acme Newsletter. Write down what I tell you."

Mr. Acme began to dictate his article. It was extremely direct.

"Mr. Acme comments that the new foodservice professionals in the cafeteria are two-headed carnival escapees and probably also wanted convicts. He expresses his deep conviction that the names they gave him are aliases and promises that if he finds one more cat whisker in his chicken almondine, he will hand them over to the police, whom he is sure will be glad to have them back.

"Furthermore, Mr. Acme warns the bloodsucking deadweight in Sales that if their numbers don't improve this month, they will soon open an office in the nether regions of Anarctica, where they will stay so for long that their descendents will grow fur. He also has his eye on those mushroom-eating delinquents in Tech, and invites them to build a robot that says "You're fired."

"He reminds Acme employees generally that Chinese slave labor could achieve a better result than his present workforce, and that if the prices for slave labor come down, he will avail himself of their services."

I wrote down every word, but couldn't help thinking -- very uneasily -- of the employees who would be reading Mr. Acme's article, especially those in foodservice. They weren't going to find any humor in his article at all. I recalled that all of them had access to knives, and that it was just possible that they might see me as Mr. Acme's new Rodent. I tried to introduce a more positive editorial tone.

"In other news, Acme announces a new employee orientation film entitled "Welcome to the Acme Family." It features 30 minutes of cartoon animation and is narrated by Oprah Winfrey."

I left Mr. Acme's office feeling faint. My first impulse was to run out of the building and never return. Once Mr. Acme's incendiary article was printed, I would be guilty by association and would never be able to look my co-workers in the eye again.

That was going to be because both of them would be black and swollen shut.

There was only one way out for me. I made my way down to the bowels of the building, to the cafeteria. It was past lunch, and there was only one foodservice lady in the serving line. She stared at me out of one beady eye and blew a contemptuous puff of smoke from a stubby cigarette.

I stared her down. "Give me the chicken almondine."

She took a ladle and slapped the watery meat onto a plate. I looked down at it. It was sprinkled with cat whiskers and dusted with a light coating of cigarette ash. I lifted the plate with both hands and drank it like a Shakespearian actress.

The foodservice lady suddenly realized what I was doing and cursed me like a sailor as I dropped the plate, staggered across the dining room, fell down, and crawled out the cafeteria doors.

Thirty minutes later the chicken almondine had the expected effect: I was violently ill. I was allowed to go home, and I stayed there for a week.

After a few days my supervisor called, asking about the notes I had taken in Mr. Acme's office. I told her, quite truthfully, that they had perished.

Mr. Acme seized his third stenographer, this time with successful results. Wiley Brookman from Human Resources transcribed and published Mr. Acme's comments in the company newsletter. I learned on my sickbed that the day the newsletter came out, an angry mob expressed its impotent rage against Mr. Acme by chasing Mr. Brookman through the office building and overturning his car when he tried to escape. When he stole another vehicle and fled to his home, the mob followed him there and pelted the house with rocks and rotten eggs. He has since departed the company to pursue his dream of working on the International Space Station.

When I returned to the office, weak but otherwise whole, The Rodent came down to my cubicle. The sight of her made the blood drain from my face, but she had come on her own.

"I heard you were sick," she whispered. "I just wanted to say that I'm glad."

I nodded once, in perfect comprehension, and off she ran, teetering on her precarious heels. I spent that whole day reflecting on the truth that even the most hapless and furtive underbrush creature has one small survival trick up its sleeve.