CONTENT WARNING: Sex, gross humour, ageism, mild racism — this story has it all. If you’re cool with that, then you’ll love it.
I think I’m in trouble again.
Which is a real shame, because I’ve been having a pretty great day so far. I woke up early enough to shower before work. Then on my lunch break, I devoured an entire pack of cookies while reading a magazine I “borrowed” from a resident, and still had time to nip to the toilets and finger-blast myself into oblivion. I’m nothing if not productive.
Of course, great days never last in this shithole. Someone always comes along to spoil it.
Angie’s office looks as much of a tired riot as she does. She’s hurrying around, struggling to clear a space for me and Valerie to sit. Mountains of paper and folders everywhere — piled in corners, on chairs, some cluttering her desk with an empty coffee cup being used as a flimsy paperweight, which has left a ring-stain on the top piece.
I mean, what is all this shit? Isn’t this why she has a computer? If this was my office (they’ll never give me an office), I’d just throw it all in the trash and start again. Even the important stuff. And I’d open a fucking window. Angie spends half her day in here, drinking coffee and, judging by the smell, farting. She probably can’t even smell it, immune to her own scent. Someone should tell her.
“It smells like farts in here,” I say, twitching my nose.
Angie goes chalk-white. “Really?”
I feel bad, but figure that, if I really am in trouble (I definitely am), then I might as well go on the offensive — play dirty, change the subject, accuse people of farting. Anything to save my own skin. “Yes. Really. You can smell it too, right, Valerie?”
Valerie’s been trying to avoid my gaze, no doubt because she’s pissed at me, but my question catches her off-guard, forcing her to look at me. “No,” she says, violently shaking her head. “I—I don’t smell any, uhm… wind.”
“Wind?” I scoff. “Are you too much of a prude to say ‘fart’? And you definitely can smell it, which is why you’re blushing. Jesus, Angie, if you’re gonna sit in here and fart all day, you might wanna invest in a scented candle.”
“It wasn’t me!” Angie grabs some perfume from her bag — looks like one of the fake ones you get from a cheap store that claims it smells just like the hundred-dollar bottle you can’t afford — and sprays that shit until my nostrils sting of overripe fruit (and farts). She gives me a sheepish look. “Henry wandered in here five minutes ago. Said he had a sore stomach. It was probably him. Anyway, take a seat, ladies.”
Blaming old Henry, now that is fucking low, but I admire her quick thinking. I sit in the creaky plastic chair in front of Angie’s desk, with Angie sitting opposite me. Valerie takes a seat in the only vacant spot — the little cuck chair in the corner, arms folded and pouting like an infant.
Throwing a pile of papers on the floor, along with a plastic container that’s stained orange from the pasta it used to hold, Angie leans on her desk, hands clasped. “Before we get into this, I just wanna say that I know how tough working here can be. Tensions and frustrations can easily simmer to the surface, but it’s important to remember that we’re all one big—”
“Oh, spare me the bullshit, Angie. Why am I here?” If she’s going to chew me out, then get fucking on with it. Or maybe she’s going to fire me. Not likely — but if she did, I’d kiss her. With tongues.
“Okay, fine. Valerie came to me earlier with some… concerns, shall we say, about a couple of things you did yesterday. Any idea what those might be?”
Wow. Tough question, and my answer depends entirely on how much they know about what I’ve been up to. The smoke breaks. The alone time “bathroom” breaks. The half-assed cleaning. The snapping at residents. The stealing of pills. Best to just play dumb. I give an innocent shrug. “Not a fucking clue.”
“Alright.” Angie sighs, and turns to Valerie. “Would you mind explaining your concerns to Tracy?”
“You took a sticky old candy, a-and put it right in my hand!”
I’m about to crack up here. Valerie is almost fucking crying. You’d think I’d punched her. I can’t laugh though — not until I get out of this.
Angie goes tight-lipped, like she’s perhaps holding in a snigger. Surely she sees the funny side of this. “Tracy, is that true?”
Okay, defense time. “She held out her hand for it. I thought she was offering to get rid of it.”
“That’s not true!” Valerie screams, sort of. She has a quiet voice, so it’s a scream for her.
“You didn’t hold out your hand?” Angie asks.
“No… I did. But they were playing Monopoly. I thought it was the dice.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I did too, when Lorraine handed it to me.”
“It took me ages to scrub the stickiness off.” Valerie almost retches as she speaks, holding up a reddened, thoroughly-scrubbed hand. “And the hair.”
“Okay,” say Angie. “This sounds, to me, like a little misunderstanding. Now, I’m hoping you two ladies can move past this. You’re my A-Team, and I need my A-Team bringing their A-Game.”
Uh-oh, she said A-Team. Now I’m compelled to say it, even though it won’t help. I lower my voice till it sounds gruff. “I pity the fool that gives me sticky candy!”
Angie gives me an exasperated look, to which I smile. It’s her fault though. When someone references The A-Team, then you have to do a B. A. Baracus impression. It’s practically the law.
Valerie is crying now. Like a rage-cry. She looks like she wants to kill me. Get in line, sweetheart. “She’s not taking this seriously!”
“No,” says Angie, drawing me another dirty look as she comforts Valerie. “She’s not.”
“Oh, come on, Angie!” I protest. “She’s crying over a fucking candy. I’m sorry, but this seems like complete waste of your time.”
Angie’s face softens a little. She knows I’m right.
“It’s not just the candy!” sobs Valerie. “You should hear the way she speaks to our dear residents. So vulgar — she’s such a potty-mouth!”
Potty mouth? Are we five years old?
“The way I speak to them? What about the way they speak to me? Last week, old Frank asked me if I’d ever suck-started a leaf blower!”
Angie winces. “He really asked you that?”
“Fucking right he did! And for months, he’s been calling me “Lungs” and trying to cop a feel of my tits. But have I complained? No, because I don’t like to cause a fuss, and I know how busy you are.” I place a solemn hand on my chest. “I just like to get on with my job.”
I deserve an Oscar for this performance. Angie is eating it up, but what she doesn’t know, is that I agreed to let Frank give my ass a little spank if he took his pills without complaining. Never seen him swallow them so quickly. And the spank wasn’t entirely unpleasant if I’m being honest. What can I say? It’s been a while.
“Okay, well that’s just…” Angie shakes her head, horrified. “If he speaks to you like that again, you let me know.”
“Thank you, Angie. I will.” I can play the victim when I need to. “May I go back to work now?”
“Sure.”
I stand up and, when Angie looks away, give Valerie a sly “fuck you” wink.
Aaaand the waterworks start again. “Wait… so that’s it?”
Angie rolls her eyes. “Well, I’m not sure what you want me to do, Val.”
“It’s Valerie!” she half-shouts.
I try to sound delicate and concerned. “I think she’s just a little upset because some of the residents have been talking about her. I told them it wasn’t very nice, but… they said she’s boring.”
“No they did not!” Valerie flies out of her chair, fists clenched. Like she’s going to do anything with those dainty little hands and manicured nails. “Who’s been calling me boring?”
No one. Absolutely no one, but this is too funny. “Oh, I really wouldn’t like to say. The residents can be cruel at times.”
Angie nods in agreement. “That they can.”
“Valerie,” I say. Time to bring home the win. “I feel just awful that I upset you. But I really wish you’d come to me with your concerns — we could have resolved this like adults, instead of bothering Angie.”
“Yeah,” says Angie. “Did you even try speaking to Tracy?”
Valerie opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again, but nothing comes out. Reminds me of that time when I was a kid that I took my goldfish out of the tank so we could watch Sesame Street together. RIP, Flounder.
“Next time. Talk to Tracy first, okay?”
Valerie sniffs, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “Okay then.”
“Good. And Tracy — no more potty mouth in front of the residents.”
I give a casual salute. “Yes, boss.”
Angie’s office door is one of those ones that slams shut as soon as you let go of it. I hold it open for Valerie, till she’s almost in reach — then, boom. I let go, and walk away grinning.
It’s a shame it doesn’t open the other way. Then I could have knocked her perfect teeth out with it.
Author’s Note:
This week, I wanna talk about a few of the traditional writing rules I’ve intentionally broken so far during this story.
Don’t have an unlikeable protagonist.
Save the cat? Fuck the cat.
Keep it concise. Avoid long meandering thoughts.
Tracy’s internal monologue is so much fun. If I kept it concise, we’d be done in five pages and everyone would be miserable.
Don’t overuse pop culture references.
Sorry, I didn’t hear you — I was too busy watching YouTube clips of In The Line of Fire.
Each chapter must advance the plot.
Tracy is the plot. And she’s giving you the finger right now.
When I first started writing, I tried to follow so many rules that I ended up tying myself in knots. So this time, I made a conscious decision to do the opposite: light plot (almost non-existent), fully character-driven, and most important of all — trust my gut.
I think it’s working pretty well so far.
I’m not saying you should ignore every rule in the book. But you should absolutely question them. Ask yourself: Do they fit my story? Would my story be better without them? Do I actually give a shit?
Be like Tracy. Break a few rules. You might like it.
Next week, the plot will advance (probably).
Avoid long meandering thoughts? So much for the classics... 😂🤷♀️
Finger blasting?! 🤣🤣
I really don’t get how you can be THAT turned on that you’d flick the bean at work 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤦🏻♀️🤦🏻♀️ I love my job but no way in hell would I do that!!