CONVERSATIONS I HAD IN MY HEAD WHILE SMILING IN REAL LIFE

 

The holiday party was a gaudy, cramped trap. My supervisor, whose laugh was a rusty gate, had me trapped against the food table. He was talking about synergy and deliverables, but I heard only the chaotic hum of my own thoughts.

"Great quarter, Mark. You hit it out of the park," he said, whacking at my back with a bit too much enthusiasm.

Is he sarcastic? That isn't praise. I blew through half of the quarter watching cat videos. Did he even see me? Does he have a record of my browser history? Oh God, he knows.

I smiled, a wide practiced smile. "Thanks, sir. The team really gelled."

The team? They're a bunch of glorified coffee gluggers. I'm the one who stayed late, living on stale vending machine coffee and the grim resolve not to screw it up. And a team doesn't 'pull together.' They get 'dragged' together, screaming and kicking most of the time.

One of my colleagues approached, Sharon, the woman who was always scented with lavender and passive-aggressive tactics. "Mark, have you heard about the new project? It's a massive opportunity."

An opportunity to lose one's mind, probably. And why is she even talking to me anyway? Is she just pretending in front of the boss? Don't be a fool, Mark. Don't bite. Just smile and nod.

"Aha, indeed?" I drawled, my voice as smooth as cream. "That does sound fascinating."

Fascinating? It sounds like a seven-headed hydra of a problem. Cutting off one head just means two more will sprout in its place. And you're telling me it's an 'opportunity'? This is no opportunity, this is a gentle slide into madness.

My boss put his hand on my shoulder a second time. "I've got a feeling you're going to be a key player on this one, Mark."

A key player? A key player is just a nice way of saying 'the guy who gets blamed when it all goes to pieces.' This is a trap. I'm stepping into a trap. And I'm smiling. Why am I smiling?

"I'm privileged, sir," I replied, the smile beginning to wear thin at the edges.

I am not privileged. I am terrified half to death. My soul is shrieking, but my face is a tranquil, professional façade. I am a master manipulator. A silent player in my own personal tragedy.

I was finally free, sprinting to the relative safety of the bathroom. I stared at the mirror—a guy in a gaudy suit sporting a forced smile on his face. The smile that said, "Everything's fine," while the hell within roared, "Help."