Is Your Coworker Going to Kill You?

You know that’s actually a good question. Like, thinking it over, while sitting in the Ford Focus, before your shift starts? At best it’s coming up as a hard “maybe.” In the ten minutes before work, you normally like to center yourself. You vegetate, milk every minute, repeat the oxymoronic mantra that you’re going to have a good day working retail. But when you look across the street—bop!—right there, it’s your coworker, the one who seems at least murder-adjacent. He’s just parked on the bench, watching the storefront. It’s the back of his head but you could pick him out of a lineup. There’s no other entrance to the grocery store. If you want to get in, you have to go by him. Why is he out here? Is he on lunch or something? When’s he going to get up and go back in?

Usually, your day is spent trying to avoid him. Hide in the dairy fridge for a couple hours, spend most of the afternoon rotating potatoes. But if you go in now, you’re gonna run right into him. He’ll be locked onto you. There’s nothing to do but try and wait him out.

Your eyes ping pong between the back of his head and your dashboard clock.

His head.

Ten minutes.

His head.

Nine minutes.

You squeeze the steering wheel until your knuckles turn white. 

* * *

If your coworker kills you and goes on the run, the FBI would totally love the following details:

Item 1: Your coworker is named Richard Charles. He’s probably got a last name, but you don’t know what it is. It’s just two dry, unseasoned names slapped together.

Item 2: Richard Charles is in the hardest, middest of his 40s. To short people, his stature is large. To large people, he’s medium. He was possibly in shape once but now he’s just a flabby, sweaty man. Skin: ashen white. Hair: gopher brown, the scalp and beard forming a unified front. Eyes: blue, flat. They sometimes glint, but never quite gleam.

Item 3: He is the most irritating human you have ever worked with.

Richard Charles exists to stain every free moment and cubic meter of airspace with his presence. He has the grating, sociopathic exuberance of a high-school theater kid. At work, you could encounter him at any time. In the grocery section, among cans of garbanzo beans, he starts shimmying to the store music while making direct eye contact. In the back of the store, he’s thrashing in front of the trash compactor, furiously playing air guitar, mouth wide, head banging to the sound of atonal screaming machinery. In snacks, as you’re wrist deep, shelving blue bags of kettle chips, he makes a wet fart sound with his mouth, looks at you, makes it again and again until you acknowledge him. In the loading area, breaking down pallets of frozen food, literal tons of ice-coated boxes. He is there, unleashing a stream of puns so incessant that your own thoughts sound muted and distant. You don’t just work with him. You are an audience member.

When you’re on the register, he is eternally there, bagging for you. The store could be totally empty, you could be at the furthest register down. It doesn’t matter. He’s going to help whether you like it or not. And he uses this time to spew a breathless slurry of dad jokes to customers.

About a month ago, a customer bought some breadsticks.

“Hey!” Says Richard Charles. “Do you know the best way to beat back hunger? With a breadstick! Let’s go!”

He always says “let’s go” in a high-low, sing-song warble. It’s like his catchphrase. Next, you rang up some jalapeños.

“Well I’d ask you about your dinner plans but I don’t want to get jalapeño business. Hey! Let’s get happy!” He laughs at his own jokes. A high pitched, whinnying laugh. Like a horse.

The braying. 

The grocery standup routine.

You are going to hear this for eight more hours. 

And so what if you do? He’s only killing you metaphorically. Lots of customers like his shtick. You know, sometimes you can be a real negative creep. It’s nice that someone likes their job. They’re trying to spread their own artisanal brand of joy. Are you an opponent of joy? Why don’t you quit fussing and “get happy”?

Actually you can’t. Because the last thing you rang up was a can of corn. You winced, bracing for the impact of the next joke. Instead, Richard Charles paused, examined the can. His face went slack. He turned to you, took a step closer. Then, a step too close. His face only a few inches from yours. You saw the cavernous wrinkles around his flat eyes. His forehead beaded with sweat. A faint smell like expired yogurt emanated from him. In a low, flat voice, he asked: “What did you think about that last joke?”

Well you want to say you can’t stand his jokes, that you’re basically a hostage audience. But when he’s right there, looking soulless as a reanimated corpse, you sputter. Why did his demeanor change so fast? Why is he so close? You try to make eye contact with the customer, but he’s playing with his phone. All around are people, but they’re a blurry mass, buzzing from one line to the next. It is crowded, yet you’re totally alone. Before you could formulate a sentence, Richard Charles raised the metal can to eye level. Cocked his arm back, like he’s going to swing it at you. Your chest tightened. You shield your face with your hands.

“I-it was great,” you stutter.

“Are you sure it wasn’t too…corny?” He points to the can. He smiles again.

“Let’s goooooo!”

The customer looks up from their phone.

“Wow! You guys are having fun. Do you take apple pay?”

You nod. Your hands shake as you push the credit card button on your checkout screen.

* * *

Your fingers drum against the dashboard.

His head. 

The clock. 

Five minutes. 

What’s he even doing on that bench? He’s not eating and doesn’t seem to have headphones in. Is he trying to come up with new dad jokes? Are his thoughts concepts, or just abstract blobs of color? You know, he’s never missed a day. It’s been almost a year. Why won’t he take a vacation?

Allegedly, Richard Charles has a wife. You’ve seen no concrete evidence. But you believe that he believes he has a wife. When forced to consider Richard Charles’ home life, you picture a white-walled studio apartment, illuminated by a dangling bare bulb. The floor is carpeted with sunflower seed shells and moldy food containers. Tufts of hair, like tumbleweeds, are everywhere. Is it human? Is it animal? It’s impossible to tell. The air is thick with this sweaty, sour, yeasty smell; mildew and fermented food and clothes, unwashed since the Obama administration. And laying atop an unadorned, soiled mattress, is a cardboard cut out of a bikini-clad woman holding a six pack of Budweiser. The door creaks open. Richard Charles takes a few steps across the sticky floor.

“Hi Honey,” he bellows at the cardboard cut out. “I’m home!”

Plausible, no?!

If this bozo would turn 45 degrees left or right, there’d be some kind of view of the horizon. He could look at the sky and the land and contemplate the enormity of existence but no, he’d rather watch people. Like a predator in a nature special.

Well, if you look to the right, there’s a small mountain about a half mile away. Clouds are rolling over the top, like an overflowing pot. The road squiggles through the ridges and canyons, up through the cloud bank and over to the next town. 

Your coworker.

The clock.

The road?

* * *

The two hour anti-harassment training module you took was a road trip themed quiz titled “The Road To Tolerance.” In it, you are driving a car, taking a trip to Oregon or something. Every chapter consisted of a detour, where you were given questions like this:

Kathy says hello to you when you enter the office. Which of the following is an acceptable greeting:

A: “Good morning, Kathy.”

B: “You’ll speak when spoken to.”

C: A series of pelvic thrusts and loud grunts.

D: All of the above.

In order to keep the trip going, you had to pick the least insensitive answer. If you failed, it just kept repeating, over and over. Everyone, apparently, completed this training.

* * *

Sometimes Richard Charles gives you an elevator stare. Sometimes he makes eye contact and rubs his nipples. Sometimes he splays his fingers into a V, raises them to his mouth and mimes cunnilingus at you. Sometimes he does this wiggly thing with his hands, which isn’t obscene, and yet to see him display any capacity for limberness feels like an overt violation of decency. He loves dubstep. You can always see his ass crack when he bends over. Once, you were just fucking walking to go do some fucking shit. Who cares what. You should be able to move without impediment. You felt a chill as Richard Charles sidled up to you.

“I’d like to suck off whoever invented Lululemon.”

If a clear Human Resources structure existed, you’d file a misconduct report against Richard Charles. Your company, though, has some policy about being “opposed to bureaucracy”, re: there is no discernible HR department, the best you get is a two hour training module and the honor system. Your only method of appealing to authority is to tell management. That is a waste of time. They adore Richard Charles. Important: Your supermarket is a Pseudo-Hawaiian themed business-cult whose highest selling good is canned friendliness. Employees are encouraged to ask customers about their day, how they’re doing, if they have evening plans. Managers wear Hawaiian shirts. The store is full of off-brand goods, all sporting a vague south pacific theme. There are no active branches of your store in Hawaii. Richard Charles’s freakish stream of dad jokes and frenetic outbursts apparently achieve one of the store’s core values: Create a “wow” experience for the customer.

Sometimes, after closing, the store’s manager will hold a mass employee meeting. Everyone will circle up as he paces around and proctors a pop quiz regarding the store’s values. Whenever this happens, you feel an urge to run. Everything about the store meetings reads as a trap. The circle, the recitation of values. The fact it happens out of sight of the public. Richard Charles dominates these moments of mandatory unity.

“What is store value number 7?” Asks the manager.

A stubby hand springs up.

Richard Charles, with the brassy bombast of Kate Smith, declares “The ‘Grand Finale’! Creating a memorable, life changing experience while ringing up the customer!”

“That’s absolutely correct,” says the manager. “And he knows because he lives it. I always hear you engaging with the customer, really making an impact in people’s lives. You guys could learn a lot from Richard Charles. He really embodies what this place is all about.”

The manager declared Richard Charles the employee of the month. The circle applauded. Impact. Lives. What level of hell is this. Where are you supposed to go? Who can you talk to? What are you supposed to even do?

* * *

Three minutes.

He is still there.

You know, you could drive off. Really! No law stops you. Well ok you’d get fired, you’d be a no-call no-show, you would provide a negative “wow” experience. But there it is! Literally up the road is a world free of disturbing coworkers, of Jonestown-style work reviews. There’s freedom up that mountain! The training module was right. The way to avoid workplace discomfort is to just get in your car and freaking drive.

You know what else you’ll find on that road? A total lack of income! If you went up, you’d have to come back down again! And go home! And if you checked your mailbox, there’d be interesting letters from the loan people! They really like money, just like you! Wow! 

The Ford Focus probably couldn’t even make it. The check engine light is covered with a Chiquita banana sticker. You can see a tiny speck of visible pavement under the driver’s side floor. Sometimes you pretend it’s a glass bottom boat. There’s also something wrong with the starter. A guy from AAA had to hit it with a crowbar to get it to start. Going over 65 is an adventure. You need to get your car fixed.

Time is getting tight. You put on your name tag, attach your boxcutter holster to your belt. You take one last look up the mountain and sigh. You’re going to have a good day at work. The sky is getting dark. The sun is a golden yellow half eye, submerging behind the mountaintop. The hillside speckled with dark, green shrubs.

* * *

One time, Richard Charles casually walked out of some bushes. He did not make eye contact. Sometimes he will emerge from a bathroom sopping wet, as though he’d been dunking his face in the sink. He dries off as he works. Sometimes, when you finally clock out, you’ll see him standing way off by the dumpster, just barely poking his head around a corner. Even that far away, obscured by night, he’ll stare at you and watch you leave. His smile, a set of barred white teeth cutting through the dark.

* * *

Yeah yeah yeah. He’s killing you. But is he gonna KILL you? 

Here:

A few weeks ago, you were working the section with prepackaged sandwiches. That’s called the “fresh” section. The section with actual fresh food, like vegetables, is unflinchingly called “wet”. As you knelt on the hard, concrete floor, fishing out moldy fresh food, a shadow spread over you. Richard Charles loomed, smiling wide and open mouthed, enough to show he’s missing a molar. It looked like a combination of pain and laughter. His eyes were clenched hard, his face a knot of wrinkles. He shuddered like a shaken soda bottle. Backlit from the fluorescent lighting, he looked like a giant, peering over the town walls of a medieval village. And coming from him, more aggressive and defined than ever, was the smell: yeast and sweat so strong that you gag. His shuddering intensified, his face turned red, his neck veins bulged. His hand slid down to his waist. Right where he has his boxcutter. He clenched the handle of his knife. The tendons in his forearms flicked. He squeezed the handle so hard his knuckles seemed to pop from his hands.

You scooted back on your butt, trying to scramble onto your feet. Is his face going to go slack again, like he did at the register? Was that a foreshock? Is this the earthquake? As his knife rattled in its holder, you realized the permeability between “Let’s get happy” and “Let’s get stabby.” Is this how it happens? Is this how you die at work? Richard Charles could just pull out his boxcutter and start slicing people. As you struggled to get up he stumbled toward you, lurching closer. Your breaths were short. Halting. Your hand found a rack with the Unexpected Cheese ™. You pulled yourself up, ran across the store, used a greeting card display as a shield. Richard Charles fell into the fresh section, knocking over sandwich wraps.

A customer came by, smiled, shook his head.

“Oh man,” he said. “This must be a great place to work. You guys are just a couple of goofs!”

Your eyes were wide as silver dollars. Richard Charles let out a long, dry hiss from his open mouth. His jaw seemed to nearly unhinge.

“Yup,” laughed the customer. “Just a couple of goofs.” He put some Unexpected Cheese ™ into his basket. Richard Charles abruptly got up, ran to the bathroom. He emerged twenty minutes later, soaking wet. 

“Cheesey does it,” he says to you, before letting out a high pitched laugh.

* * *

Whenever someone goes nuts, there’s a news report with a neighbor or friend going “I never suspected a thing. He always seemed so nice.” But the dead person is probably out in the aether, swimming across timeskips in the universe, going “Bruh I saw that shit coming from a mile away, y’all need a better HR system.”

* * *

There’s one minute left. 

The bench is empty.

Where did he go?

You were watching the mountain, you didn’t see him leave. This is your chance. The wind is stronger than you realized. You struggle against it to open the car door. It’s strange fall weather, hot-cold, the kind that dries your sinuses. Flu weather. You look up and down the street one last time. Nothing. Did he go back to work? You start walking. The clouds are rolling in. Street lamps pop on. Nobody is out. A can clatters along the ground, echoing.

The single best day you ever had at work was when Richard Charles ate unwashed fruit in the break room. He got some kind of acute food poisoning. He could barely move. He just sat on the ground and shuffled the same few cans back and forth for the remainder of his shift. He couldn’t even talk. You felt feather light.

Your coworker could be a murderer, but you could also have a good day. There might be another bowl of unwashed fruit in the break room. Something will come up. You know? A couple more checks and you can take your car to get fixed up. Yeah! You could spend a whole day applying to jobs. It could be a thing! You could get coffee, put on some music. No dubstep.

You get to the intersection and wait for the light, like a friggin’ square. Down the street, there is a dull thudding sound. You look and see nothing. It’s probably just the wind. Streetlights pop on. You’re gonna have a good day. The light should change any minute now. The wind picks up again and you fold your arms. There it is again. That sound. A little louder. You press the crosswalk button again, the hollow metal clank.You should drink less coffee, you’re too high strung. You’re gonna have a good day. The wind picks up, a forceful gust. You take a deep breath but the air doesn’t feel clean, there is a mustiness to it. The bushes rustle, you’re working yourself up, you’re making a lot out of it, you’re going to have a good day, your eyes fix on the glowing red hand of the crosswalk, that sound is a series of heavy footsteps, press the button, that button doesn’t actually do anything, every time you think about running across the street, a car whips by too fast, you process the gaps but act when it’s too late, you should have probably gone with your gut, that sound keeps getting louder, there’s a creepy smell out here, you should have just run.