Camille Jacobson

Support Group

Excerpt

Tuesday morning. In a skyscraper facing west, women sit around me in designer desk chairs pulled up to gleaming workstations. I do my best to smile and nod at my coworkers as I walk past them pecking at their keyboards—tedious women in their late twenties with bleached hair hanging down their backs like slabs of wood, their rubbery faces creased in concentration as they skim the latest media campaign calendar, refresh their email, praise the newest ad buy. They drink lemon water and wear faux leather ankle boots with cheap button-down shirts that pull at their chests, polyester office sweaters flapping at their sides as they gesture to each other. Their bodies sway with exaggeration as they discuss the latest earnings call and what the cafeteria menu is for lunch. They speak quickly, with excitement. They’re always cold. One of them pulls her hair into a ponytail. Another raises her desk to standing. Someone starts playing Soulja Boy’s “Pretty Boy Swag” from the speaker. They make their own playlists. 

A few start talking about their PTO. Paid Time Off, I’ve slowly gathered. One of them is taking a personal day tomorrow, she needs to spend some time taking care of her. She wants to clean out her closet. I’m like, a minimalist now, she says. Zen. None of it brings me joy. And you know I’ve lost so much weight. 

A small group gets up and goes down to lunch. They walk like they’re falling forward and hold their laptops against their sides like trays.

I’m several months into the job and only a few of them know my name. My pits are slick from the effort of keeping my mind and face entirely blank, careful to only occasionally glance up, interact as little as possible. 

Which isn’t easy, given the layout of the office, a vast open floor plan designed to mimic some sort of eager, energetic start-up: long white tables slice across a massive, carpeted room. Shining computer monitors line each desk, their bouncing screensavers in the company’s rounded green font perpetually proclaiming its mission: to bring the world closer together. Lounge areas with couches and beanbags and minibars take up swathes of the multi-floor office, basketball hoops and pool tables enticing employees to come hang out together, play some ping pong, crack open a beer. You’ve been working so hard. 

The building has floor-to-ceiling windows so that from wherever you’re sitting you can look out from your monitor in any direction, down toward the streets, the sidewalks filled with strangers, or out at other buildings rising from below, slim structures that stand tall, sharp like teeth, jutting into the sky. There’s a certain anxiety that all this creates: the lack of enclosed offices, the abundance of glass, means everyone can see everyone at all times. There’s a pervasive feeling of being exposed, the constant threat that someone could be standing behind you, watching as you type, check your email, open a new tab. 

O

My boss Monika shuts her computer and gets up from the desk across from me.

“Hey Audrey, we’re going down soon, are you coming? I heard it’s ramen today.” She laughs eagerly in my face. 

I take a sip of coffee and feel dizzy. I usually time my lunch so that I go downstairs once they all come back to their desks with their containers of food. We’re such workaholics, they laugh. Who has time to just talk and eat? While they blink into the glow of their screens, chewing their dry lettuce and grilled chicken breasts, I take the elevator to the cafeteria alone and sit at a far table in the corner of the room. I pack my lunch every day instead of eating the free meals the office provides: two slices of white bread with mayonnaise, iceberg, and a slice of turkey packaged in tin foil, sometimes an apple wrapped in a square of paper towel. It tastes like the refrigerator. Consistency is important.

“Oh my god, ramen sounds so good,” I say to Monika. My voice goes up a register. “I’m just, like, not really hungry yet,” I shrug. 

“OK girl, well don’t work too hard!” Monika says. “Check in later, girl!” We smile at each other. I chew a piece of ice and scratch at my wrist.

There’s definitely something embarrassing about Monika, in her total lack of self-consciousness. It’s her unadulterated joy that gets to me. I wouldn’t be surprised if she got up and started twirling around, even hugged herself. “We’re so lucky to be here,” she says. “It’s so nice here. We’re so lucky.”

Monika with her frizzed bob and white teeth, her big head balanced on her shirt collar, that chipper meteorologist voice in my ear. She’s the type of person who schedules free time into her calendar and addresses people by name in conversations, who changes from running shoes to ballet flats once she gets into the office. She is constantly showing me photos of her husband’s newest Lego project—the Millennium Falcon or some battleship droid—and playing videos of her gurgling baby full volume at her desk. 

I’ve spent a fair amount of time trying to determine how old she is and have concluded that she’s at least forty, maybe forty-five. A solid decade older than the average employee, she could easily be my mom. Maybe that’s where her false enthusiasm comes from, a need to make up for lost time. She’s always preaching the mission of the company, often wears logoed T-shirts under her ill-fitting blazers, sends me headlines whenever we’re in the news. Glad just to be a part of something. 

I look up at her face. Though generally this type of eager attitude repulses me, it’s true that there is something dear about Monika. In the way she’s always checking in, asking me about my goals.

  “Actually, girl, before I forget,” Monika whips herself back around. “I have an extra little project for you.” Adrenaline fills me up and suddenly my need to impress her feels real and strong. 

“What’s up?” I say. “Happy to help!” I say.

  “So sorry, do you mind mailing that package?” She gestures to her desk and I look over my monitor at the box. “You’d be such a lifesaver—it’s for a client.”

“No problem at all!” I respond, trying to match her enthusiasm. 

“Branded coasters,” she adds in a hushed whisper. “Can you believe?”

“Amazing!” I say, and for a second I really do believe that it is amazing. I watch her turn and slap down the hallway, her plastic water bottle tucked under her arm.  

I take the package from her desk, making my way towards the mail center. A simple task like this makes me feel accomplished, like I’m making an impact, contributing to the team. This has to do with the fact that at work, I only ever do the bare minimum of what is asked of me. I have no ambition to succeed at the company, grow into the team as Monika says. I’d rather quit than be promoted, have to do more work, prove myself in some way. So I try my best to promptly execute simple tasks—the speed at which I can accomplish things seems to signal passion and enthusiasm for the job. No one can fault me for not doing what I’m told. I try to win approval where it’s easiest.

Back from the mailroom, I check my email for life-changing news. I can feel my jaw clenching. I lower and raise my chair. Anna is describing her favorite store’s holiday sale—how it’s more respectable, smarter, to shop online. The one with the ponytail is having some sort of conniption about last night’s date. For a second I wonder then if I should jump in, commiserate, tell her that yeah, men really are trash. But before I can, she starts describing the way he ate—so heinous, repulsive—and I watch her suck loudly at the remains of a green smoothie. I tell myself I wouldn’t have wanted to join in anyway, not really. Boring office small talk. 

Finally, I see Monika getting ready for her afternoon meeting—slowly, slowly pushing her chair back, gathering her notebook and pens, checking her phone. She eventually turns and pads back down the carpeted hallway, and I exhale with relief. At last, I can use the hour alone to scroll through the message board, catching up on the morning’s posts.

I’m new to the forum, just diagnosed. Anybody else have blisters?  

Long time lurker, first time poster...does it make u tired when u have a flare?

My teeth are becoming discolored. Has anyone had this?

Are anyone’s lesions tingly? I am experiencing this for the first time on my thighs.

I have the marks all over my body. How long do they take to lighten?

Will I ever manage spicy food again?

About the Author

Camille Jacobson is a writer whose work has been featured in Catapult, the Paris Review, Ploughshares, the Missouri Review, the Atticus Review, the Porter House Review, the Cleveland Review of Books, and elsewhere. Originally from LA, she received her BA from Harvard University and now lives in Brooklyn, New York.