fertilizer
Today, I was sitting in my cube, have a pretty bad coughing fit. I have been getting over a cold this past week and with the return of dry Santa Ana winds, I wish my post nasal drip would evaporate post haste. I was making a lot of progress actually. I have been spooning this truly hateful Chinese herbal powder almost hourly, much to the agony of my taste buds. I can’t read the label but I’m sure the ingredients are dirt, powdered fingernails and peppermint because the shit tastes like shit. The first time I ever took it, I practically threw up on myself. Sadly, the shit (there is no word more apropos) works. Well it worked for a while anyway.
So after a hit of the now innocuous dirt, I was sitting in my cube, hacking for almost five minutes, gripping my desk for support, when up over my frosted cubicle window appeared a very concerned, very sympathetic VAL.
“Oh, you poor little kid. Do you need anything? I’ve got some Echinacea at my desk.”
This was NOT a drill, people. This was the real deal. Maybe the dirt had a little shroom in it because I saw Satan walk by wearing a Gap parka, sipping a hot chocolate. This is the new Val. Sadly, this is also the old Val. I believe it is a high time for an update.
A week or so ago, I popped into Foghorn’s office at the end of the day to ask how things had gone when he had his talk with Val. I pretended not to have any preconceived outcomes. He said that it had not been the best experience for her. I told him to get. out. of. town. I then told him how I overheard her wishing cancer on me and being generally cold/worse than before. Foghorn is a good guy. But he is also a lawyer. He negotiates with dodgy assholes all day long and works with sums of money in the millions. He hears people whine for a living. He could give two farts what I had to say about Val. I’m sitting there with genuine concerns and he’s sitting there with one eye on his email and a dismissive sigh teetering on his lips. He had haltingly done his part and now he was washing his hands of it. Yeah, wash up buddy, I'm sick. Wouldn't want it to spread. He told me he never named names. He told me to just give Val time and that she would calm down. I knew this would be the last time that I would ever go to him for help. My mental health was my own deal, not the type to be brokered by Foghorn Leghorn, the chicken.
Elizabeth however, the executive who had been tasked with confronting Foghorn was much more proactive. I came in to the office on a Monday morning and found a potted plant on my desk. Val had one on her desk as well and so did Lacey. Turns out that the weekend after “the talk,” Elizabeth bought flowers for us. When her husband asked her why she was including Val, she said that it might help open up a dialogue. I thanked her for mine, an amaryllis. Val got paperwhites, a favorite of my mom’s and Lacey got something purply. I thought it was a beautiful gesture. Flowers mean no harm. They bring tranquility and life into a place. It was exactly what we needed. What woman doesn’t like to receive flowers? Val. Someone stopped to admire her plant and I overheard her say “Well, we’ll see how long they last. This place sure can suck the life out of you.” I think I saw a petal fall, along with my hopes. It was only a matter of time until Val was left with nothing but a shriveled garlic clove withering on a wisp of desiccated potting soil. I schemed to water it in secret.
Plants are constantly growing. Every second of every day, they grow silently in their pots or in their gardens and it is only after an absence that you can appreciate their effort. This is Val. A few days after our garden was in place, she said good morning to me but nothing else for the rest of the day. The next day, she came to admire my plant. No more. But, every day since then, she has come over to talk with me about my plant which is flourishing in a white frenzy. She has been smiling and cheerful and although I suspect it might be attributed to an increased dosage of Paxil, I will happily delude myself with the prospect that it is the old Val, blooming again. I want to borrow paperclips from this Val. I want to chat with this Val. Dare I say, I want to hug this Val. I want to hug her and tell her that I hope her cancer never comes back and that I know she didn’t really mean to wish it on me and that she’s more special than any breakfast combo the cafeteria could concoct.
Brother asked me why it bothered me so much that Val was mean to me. I honestly can’t figure it out. Now that she has become the kind Val whom I once knew when she started working here, the mean Val seems like a bad dream. It’s like when you feel better after kicking the flu. You almost can’t remember what sick felt like. Me, on the other hand, I am still sick. But, the best medicine tastes the worst and every gardener knows that shit helps flowers grow.
So after a hit of the now innocuous dirt, I was sitting in my cube, hacking for almost five minutes, gripping my desk for support, when up over my frosted cubicle window appeared a very concerned, very sympathetic VAL.
“Oh, you poor little kid. Do you need anything? I’ve got some Echinacea at my desk.”
This was NOT a drill, people. This was the real deal. Maybe the dirt had a little shroom in it because I saw Satan walk by wearing a Gap parka, sipping a hot chocolate. This is the new Val. Sadly, this is also the old Val. I believe it is a high time for an update.
A week or so ago, I popped into Foghorn’s office at the end of the day to ask how things had gone when he had his talk with Val. I pretended not to have any preconceived outcomes. He said that it had not been the best experience for her. I told him to get. out. of. town. I then told him how I overheard her wishing cancer on me and being generally cold/worse than before. Foghorn is a good guy. But he is also a lawyer. He negotiates with dodgy assholes all day long and works with sums of money in the millions. He hears people whine for a living. He could give two farts what I had to say about Val. I’m sitting there with genuine concerns and he’s sitting there with one eye on his email and a dismissive sigh teetering on his lips. He had haltingly done his part and now he was washing his hands of it. Yeah, wash up buddy, I'm sick. Wouldn't want it to spread. He told me he never named names. He told me to just give Val time and that she would calm down. I knew this would be the last time that I would ever go to him for help. My mental health was my own deal, not the type to be brokered by Foghorn Leghorn, the chicken.
Elizabeth however, the executive who had been tasked with confronting Foghorn was much more proactive. I came in to the office on a Monday morning and found a potted plant on my desk. Val had one on her desk as well and so did Lacey. Turns out that the weekend after “the talk,” Elizabeth bought flowers for us. When her husband asked her why she was including Val, she said that it might help open up a dialogue. I thanked her for mine, an amaryllis. Val got paperwhites, a favorite of my mom’s and Lacey got something purply. I thought it was a beautiful gesture. Flowers mean no harm. They bring tranquility and life into a place. It was exactly what we needed. What woman doesn’t like to receive flowers? Val. Someone stopped to admire her plant and I overheard her say “Well, we’ll see how long they last. This place sure can suck the life out of you.” I think I saw a petal fall, along with my hopes. It was only a matter of time until Val was left with nothing but a shriveled garlic clove withering on a wisp of desiccated potting soil. I schemed to water it in secret.
Plants are constantly growing. Every second of every day, they grow silently in their pots or in their gardens and it is only after an absence that you can appreciate their effort. This is Val. A few days after our garden was in place, she said good morning to me but nothing else for the rest of the day. The next day, she came to admire my plant. No more. But, every day since then, she has come over to talk with me about my plant which is flourishing in a white frenzy. She has been smiling and cheerful and although I suspect it might be attributed to an increased dosage of Paxil, I will happily delude myself with the prospect that it is the old Val, blooming again. I want to borrow paperclips from this Val. I want to chat with this Val. Dare I say, I want to hug this Val. I want to hug her and tell her that I hope her cancer never comes back and that I know she didn’t really mean to wish it on me and that she’s more special than any breakfast combo the cafeteria could concoct.
Brother asked me why it bothered me so much that Val was mean to me. I honestly can’t figure it out. Now that she has become the kind Val whom I once knew when she started working here, the mean Val seems like a bad dream. It’s like when you feel better after kicking the flu. You almost can’t remember what sick felt like. Me, on the other hand, I am still sick. But, the best medicine tastes the worst and every gardener knows that shit helps flowers grow.
posted by Katie at 5:25 PM
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