Our department handed out paper Halloween treat bags for everyone to prop on their desks like emaciated orphans begging to have their bellies engorged by a delicious sugary bounty.
Us night-shifters brought our candy in tonight so that the day shift cry babies won’t throw fits when we’re not here to cap off their bags. I brought in two selections: a bag of Jolly Rancher Creepy Pops and a selection of Movie Time mini boxes (Junior Mints, et. al.).
I followed my boss Kim around because there are some day shifters whose seat locales I’m unaware of, or I flat out don’t know since they work on different projects and are not a part of our monthly meetings.
Each bright and festive bag (rumor has it that mine is the nicest) received one each of my Halloween treats until I made it back to the night shift area and realized that basic arithmatic had duped me once again: I only had enough to give my nocturnal compatriots one delicious confection.
Taking heed the fact that they would be none the wiser anyway, I smiled broadly as I doled out a lolly to Lindsay, gently tucked a box of Dots in Bob’s bag, and visciously chucked a sucker at Collin’s face while Kim looked on. I’m lucky to have such an ambivalent boss, because Lord knows my ears are no virgins to the “Keep your hands to yourself” credo; the first time (by an authority figure, anyway) was after I pushed Sean Murphy over a hill in Kindergarten.
On my way back to my desk, guilt gnawed at my stomach lining. I told Kim my dilemma. “And some of those day shift people, I barely know!” so Kim stuffed me under her wing and stole back three pieces of my candy for me to give the more deserving. Kim would point to various desks and I would say, “Oh yeah, steal it back. Fuck that stranger!”
When I revisited Collin’s area to pass out the purloined candy, he instinctively ducked. Fooling him, I instead set a box of Tootsie mini chews upon his opened palm. As I walked away, he called out, “Hey Erin, check your hoodie.” Apparently in Collin’s world, stuffing a mini Snickers in my hood instead of my treat bag is the obvious way to win the candy-distributing war. I was incredulous that something so devious had gotten past me.
“Magic,” he answered smugly, after I prodded him.
So now here we sit, coating our gullets with a cocktail of partially hydrogenated vegetable oil, dextrose, sugar and all of their piquant partners in diabetic shock. I hope the sugar coma is strong enough to keep Eleanore sated; she’s in such a bitter mood tonight and keeps ranting on the phone about living in a racist society.