Sneeze in the stairwell

I want to be efficient, I tell Mary Shelton.

She pats the space in between my shoulder blades and says, “No. Successful. You want to be successful. Janette’s on her 5th revision and she’s still sending me revisions. Efficiency is not an option.”

I go out for a lunch break. I do interviews for my article. When I get back, Dustin, the computer hacking genius with a flamboyant voice and a pretty mop of brown hair, guides me over to the side of the building and buzzes up so that I can load my bike into the stairwell, like a VIP, rather than keep it chained to the parking meter on the sidewalk like a deserted puppy dog.

Back in the office, I lurch around the computers. Before lunch I'd already finished my intern-ish task of retrieving data for a marketing report, so I am just here to finish up a perfunctory meeting with Dan. I have been avoiding him all week. He is going to teach me how to do a task that I do not want to do and have no intention of doing.

The other intern, Cheryl, asks me how I am feeling from behind her desk. I mozy over to her. I lean on her desk and sigh. But then she rustles in her seat and says something about "being productive" - a cue to not stay. I cannot dock ship in this harbor, must go back out to sea like the SS St. Louis.

But then, Dan says he is ready to teach me. The way he approaches me is like I am the Queen of Sheeba. I nearly collapse under his hairy potbelly.

Instead, I nod professionally. I say, “Thank you for your patience,” and he talks me through how to input data.

As he stands back and explains each item, that's when it starts to crack.

Something inside of me: yawns. Scrawls. Screeches. Screeching like a baby dinosaur just hatched out of its nest.

“You need to check that box, otherwise it will not go online, and it is also really important to note that the contact information is updated, and there are two columns for that,” Dan explains. The baby dinosaur is screeching.

I try to keep a straight face at him. I feel like I have to sneeze, but it isn’t a sneeze. It is a cry. Behind the façade of my straight eyeballs my eyes are watering.

Finally, Dan finishes. I heave a sigh and collect my belongings. In a daze, I go to the front exit.

“Did you finish this? I was just wondering if you-” Laurie, the front receptionist, holds up some papers.
I keep moving toward the door, as if pulled by a cane off the stage, my head turned back over my shoulder, as I wait for her to finish her unending sentence.

“Okay, sure.” I interject. Then I remember that my bike is not parked in the front so I have to exit through the back stairwell. This means passing Laurie again.

“Don’t have to walk away while someone is talking to you,” she snaps, “Show a little respect.”

“I got it,” I call back. I'm getting out of here! I open the back grey door, and I run down the stairwell in haste to get out of the building. I'm getting out of here! I'm going!

I get to the second to last step, where I completely deflate. My arms flail as I shatter on the step. It is hot and my backpack, yoga mat, and recording equipment swamp my torso. My face cringes into a grimace, and I collapse into a cry.

Nothing is the matter. I’m just sitting at the bottom of the stairwell, the crying erupting like uncontrollable sneezes.

I have no beacon of truth, no paramount moment of clarity, and I am severely sad for all paths that I cannot do at once.