H-2-Woes: An Undercover Expose

Recently, I was cornered at the water cooler by THAT coworker of mine, the one whose name consistently eludes me until I remember the helpful memory trick we came up with -- Shut The Hell Up Dorris. I chivalrously motioned for her to fill her flimsy coned cup first, a move I shortly discovered would trap me in her presence all that much longer while she took her time collecting her thoughts.

What's-Her-Face then turned to me and confessed without invitation that her weekend had been horrible, that her sister's boyfriend from out of town stayed over and tracked dirt all over her brand new curtains. I became aware of her pausing, just long enough to allow me a chance to follow-up -- curtains??? -- but then I remembered I really didn't care.

That's when she exclaimed she had been awoken at three in the morning by the sound of what she believed to be two, maybe three, chainsaws and the gut-wrenching echoes of a neighbor screaming bloody murder.

Naturally I asked, "Was she really screaming 'Bloody Murder,' or was it just loud and scary?" Seriously-What's-Her-Face stared blankly at me for a while, caught off guard really, because as it turned out, no one had ever spoken TO her before. Sure, they smiled and nodded and pictured tiny lizards eating her head and choking on the layers of ill-shaded make-up caked upon her face in uneven levels - like man-made mesas that rubbed off when she double kissed your cheeks good bye. But no one had ever actually responded to something she had said.

The rumor was that during her employment interview she rattled on about how she collected miniature see-saws from e-bay, something about how her cat once swallowed one and almost died but her training as a certified public accountant gave her the skills to not only save his life but bake the perfect banana cream pie. They never actually said, "you're hired." It was more like she was passed off from Human Resources to the receptionist to the mailclerk and somehow made it to an empty cubicle where she moved in and set up shop, framed photos of the Siamese and see-saws abound.

The silence was eerie. We eyed one another, each waiting for the other to speak, but neither daring enough to do so. She just sipped her water, slowly, swallowing in large gurgles, matched only by the cooler rebalancing the oxygen in the tank.

I stood there in awe as I realized I had broken through. I had discovered the antidote. Both the battle and the war were mine for the winning. I almost reached up for a high-five but couldn't bare to break the silent barrier forged now between us. I was the champion. I was the man. I was the stuff legends were made of.

"They found her body sawed in half, her head shaved and painted green. Got the dog too. French poodle, it was. Just took off his legs and tail, split the body in three. They're still looking for his head."

I was an asshole.

I stood a while longer, thankful I had abandoned the quest for a high-five, but cursing myself for being thirsty all the time. At lunch I would buy a case of bottled water and bury it under my desk.

That was the last time she and I ever spoke. The next morning I found a news clipping from the local paper folded on my chair. The headline read, "Woman Murdered Sawed In Half." I read through the gory details trying not to picture the murder scene. The last line of the article had been highlighted in pink:

"A neighbor wishing to remain anonymous recalls literal cries of 'Bloody Murder.'"

Her harrowing tale was all everyone was talking about at the water cooler from that day forth. I didn't dare tell anyone I knew how to silence the beast. I'd just sit there at my desk with my luke warm Poland Springs watching them wipe discontinued Cover Girl off their cheeks, bracing themselves for support, wishing they could remember her name, or the names of the lizards wheezing as they crawled out of her nostrils and feverishly flung themselves to the floor in botched suicide attempts.

One day, Dear-God-What-Is-Your-Fucking-Name, one day...