Salt

Picking up the boxes of reports is the worst part of my job. The weekly reports are one thing, the monthlies are another, but the year-end reports are the absolute worst. As far as mundane jobs go, mine is the mundaniest. Working for Mallory University was supposed to be my big break, a stepping stone to a career. Instead, I’m stuck in the development office trying to get bougie wealthy alumni to give money to one of the most bougie schools in the midwest so they can crank out more bougie alumni. It’s a vicious cycle with no end in sight.

Back to the boxes. Whether it is the weekly report, the monthly reports, or the end-of-year reports, it is my sisyphean duty to sort, collate, and deliver all the reports to the various grifters who are in charge of loosening the wallets of Mallory’s distinguished graduates. These grifters have titles that legitimize their griftiness: Executive Director of Development, Associate Vice President of Alumni Relations, Matching Gifts Coordinator. This army of con artists needs me, a lowly secretary, to get them their reports that tell them who gave the money, how much money they gave, what is that money designated for, and so on. Some donors are super specific on how they want their money spent. Of course, you have people wanting their names on buildings for the multi-million dollar donations, but when Richard Dickerson requested that a urinal be named after him for a $50,000 donation someone should have said no. I now have the pleasure of reliving myself being made possible because of “Dick” Dickerson. I guess he really leaned into that name.

After a few trips of collecting the boxes from the Printing Department, I head down to the break room for my favorite part of the day, my burrito break. The break room may be dismal, but it has one saving grace, the carousel vending machine. Each shelf has a rotating tray that displays the various sandwiches, fruit, and microwavable provisions that are accessible for the right price behind a sliding, clear plastic window. The prize I’m looking for is “The Bomb,” a 3/4 pound, spicy red hot beef & bean burrito. The spicy red is my absolute favorite. With the push of a button, I rotate through the shelves.

“What the fuck,” I utter much more loudly than I expected. Glad that no one else is in the break room, I start the search again. I must have missed it. Vending Machine Mike comes every Tuesday morning to refill the machines. It’s only Wednesday, so the burrito should still be there. Checking every slot carefully, I take note that there are a couple of empty lots on the top shelf, the typical home of “The Bomb.” It’s not there. Some bitch ass must have snaked my burrito. After several more minutes of looking for an alternative, I finally settle on a cheeseburger. I reach into my pocket to grab the $1.50. Again, “What the fuck.”

My pocket feels like it is full of sand. I grab a hold of a load of this sand and the quarters I had set aside for the burrito, which are now designated to the inferior burger. When I open my hand, I realize that my pocket is not full of sand; it is full of salt. How in the world did salt get into my pocket? It was not there an hour ago. I had thumbed the change in my pocket to count the quarters before I made it to the break room. Is someone playing a prank on me? How would someone have slipped salt into my pocket without knowing? Jorge, one of the programmers who creates my beloved reports, is known for his lame pranks. Just last week, he pulled the classic “loosen the top of the salt shaker” when we went out to lunch. When I went to add some salt to my fries, the entirety of the shaker spilled over my plate. He just sat there laughing with a mouth full gyro. The onion and tzatziki smacked me in the face as he guffawed at my embarrassment. At least this time my food wasn’t ruined. Asshole.

Returning to the office, I notice Jorge looking in my direction. There is a familiar smell as I approach his desk. It couldn’t be? Not wanting to show him I’m annoyed, I play it casual, “Hey Jorge, nice prank.”

Acting confused, he replies, “What prank?”

“You know, the salt. I have no idea how you did it.”

Again his face plays confusion, “That was a week ago. I did it when you went to the bathroom.”

“Right, when I went to the bathroom.” I’m about to end the conversation because he’s so annoying, but I finally see where the familiar smell is coming from. Right there on Jorge’s desk is a half-eaten Bomb burrito. “Hey, did you get that out of the vending machine?”

“Yeah, but it tastes like ass,” he answers as he does the unimaginable. He tosses the burrito in the trash. I’m about to lose it, so I walk away with my now lukewarm vending machine cheese burger.

I finally start working on organizing the reports. I absolutely hate this part of the job. It can take all day just to get through them all. The printers are supposed to print multiple copies of the reports so that I can get them to each recipient. Inevitably, they get it wrong, so my whole system is delayed when I have to make copies. I’ve applied for a couple of other positions at the University, but they have invariably gone to outside candidates. Loyalty at a pretentious university works only if you’re pretentious. I attended a blue-collar school in the city. The degree from my school allows me to be a secretary here, but it doesn't let me rise in the university’s caste system. All of a sudden, I’m super itchy. It feels like something is in my shirt. There is no fucking way!

I run to the restroom 2 floors up. Mostly women work on the 5th floor, so the men’s restrooms are a little more private. I untuck my shirt and lift it up. Twisting my neck and waist, I try to confirm my suspicions. It’s too hard to tell with the fluorescent hued lighting. I reach my hand behind my back and swipe it with my palm. I feel it! It’s like grains of sand, but I know that’s not what it is. I peer at my palm with microscopic focus. White specks dot my palm, but there is only one way to be sure, so I lick my palm. Fucking salt. I start to run down the fire stairs ready to whip Jorge’s ass. One flight down, I stop. This doesn’t make sense. There is no way Jorge could have dumped anything down my shirt. Besides my conversation with him earlier, I haven’t been near him all day. I think I need to go home for the day, but those stupid reports need to go out. I decide to take a walk around campus to clear my head.

The December air cools my forehead as I walk toward the library. Being outside helps, but the weirdness of today still lingers. Possible explanations run through my mind: contaminated laundry, a prank, random coincidence. As I get closer to the library, I’m distracted by Mallory’s students. I’m only a couple of years older than the kids at Mallory. Compared to them, I look pretty shabby. Tommy Hilfiger, Calvin Klein, and Guess adorn their bodies while I’m laden down with some Bugle Boy jeans from JC Penney. These kids have it so easy. From what I can tell, most of them don’t even have jobs because mommy and daddy pay for all of their needs. They’ll leave school debt free. As for myself, I owe Uncle Sam $30,000 for my education. Even with the cold, I’m sweating. Heat is emanating from my head as if I’ve eaten the “burn them at the stake” wings from The Wing Shack. I can feel the wetness on the back of my neck. The sweat runs down the side of my nose edging the corner of my eye, stinging it more than it should. As it reaches my lips, it’s as if I dunked my head in the ocean. I wipe my brow and run my fingers through my hair to discover why my sweat is so salty. My hair is encrusted with coarse salt. Shaking my head, I head back to my apartment.

Unlocking the door, I realize I can’t remember the bus ride home. Before I cross the threshold, I am already taking off my clothes. Clumps of salt drop from my pants legs as they turn inside out as I pull them off. I feel the salt peel from my shoulders as I rip off my shirt. The trail of discarded garments leads to the bathroom. Try as I might, my reflection is unavoidable. The visage of a dry, crusty ghost looks back at me. I turn on the shower and turn off the lights. Not waiting for the water to get warm, I jump in. The cold shakes me to attention. I turn the handle to speed the warmth I so desperately need. The water gradually warms until a shotgun of scalding water blasts my back. Instead of moving away, I let the heat sear my body. I can feel the salty scales wash away, so much so, the drain clogs, and the water pools and boils my feet. The intensity is too much; I turn off the shower. Without drying myself, I bury myself in my bed. Exhausted, I hope that this is just a bad dream. I close my eyes and drift off.

Opening my eyes is difficult when I wake up. Dry residue collects under my fingernails as I scratch my legs. I pick away the nocturnal crust that glues them shut. Still dazed and groggy from the day’s events, I stare at the ceiling. I remember I left work without telling anyone. Maybe, I’ll be lucky enough, and they’ll fire me. It’s just after 3 a.m. when I get out of bed. A muffled “mrrrrooop” echoes through the empty room. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. I put on a pair of shorts and head to the kitchen. I may have missed out on “The Bomb” at work, but one is waiting for me in the fridge. Finally, I can savor the liquid, magma goodness. I expect the apartment to be in the chaotic state I left it in, but it is remarkably neat, not quite clean, but not trashed either. I find a note from my roommate on the counter:

Dude, what the fuck happened to you? Sick or drunk? No worries. I cleaned up. What’s up with all the salt? I’m headed over to Stacy’s tonight. I owe you a burrito.

Later,

Josh

I swing the refrigerator door open and it bounces back at me as I peer into it. My burrito is gone. It’s pretty much empty, since there wasn’t anything of substance in it. Scanning the room, I see the wrapper next to the microwave. That bitch ass mother fucker! I can’t believe he ate my burrito. That guy can afford to eat out every night, while I’m eating 10 cent packets of ramen. The burrito is my big splurge. Josh represents everything that I hate. He’s a “rich kid” whose parents pay all his bills while he’s working on his master’s degree. He’s only my roommate because I can’t afford this place on my own. He’s not even working on a real degree; he’s studying philosophy. What is he going to do with that? He’s just one more example of a spoiled . . .”ahem, kof, chkk . . . “ My throat burns . . . “khak, khaff, khaff.”

The coughing becomes more violent. I go to the sink to get a drink of water. “KHOFF, KHOFF!” Spit shoots out of my mouth onto the window above the sink. Lodged in the phlegm are flecks of salt. I can taste it in my mouth. My vision begins to blur as tears stream down my face. Grabbing a towel, I try to wipe away the tears. The salt acts as sandpaper as I wipe it away. It keeps building in my eyes. I feel my eyelids laden down by its weight. “KHOFF, KHOFF, KHOFF, KHOOF.” My lungs burn. Each cough brings up a clod of salt. I try to take a drink, but it won’t go down. My lungs are going to burst. I hear cracking as I lift my arm to cover my mouth. A crust of salt has formed on my skin. Each movement creates a microcosmic fissure. “KHOFF, KHAFFFF, AAAHKKK, KhhhK.” Only a sliver of light reaches my eyes. I stumble and fall. Heavier and heavier, the crust thickens around my skin. The little light that remains begins to darken as it becomes harder to breathe. Despite the heaviness holding me down, my head feels light. The violence subsides as all I can muster is a whisper of a cough. “Khffffff, hfff, hss . . .” My eyes, sealed shut, close.

Of course. Figures.