Natasha Cabot has been published in several journals, including Wilderness House Literary Review, Ginosko Literary Journal, and Gone Lawn Literary Journal.

Debbie from Human Resources (February 20, 2011. Issue 25.)

The day starts at 6:15 a.m., like every day. My alarm screams a vulgar shout and I roll out of bed, already cursing the hours that are waiting to punch me in the gut. Every morning is the same and will be the same until I get fired or death rescues me. Quitting isn’t an option. I need this job or I’ll become the neighbourhood troll living under the nearest bridge.

I cry in the shower while piss flows down my leg. The water slaps me, telling me to deal with it. This is what you signed up for kid, it says. Sometimes I swear I can see it grin and wink as it rolls down the drain. Sometimes. I swear. Drip Drip Drip - droplets of water escape from me and splatter onto the porcelain. Gooseflesh drapes my skin like a dead cloak. Time to get ready. Fuck.

In less than three hours, I’d see her. Debbie. Debbie from Human Resources. Debbie floats around the office like a bad fart. There is no way to avoid her. Her mouth enters a room before she does. Her teeth are see-through and you can see down into her throat and watch words form in her rancid voice box before they are spewed through her decaying mouth.

“You didn’t fill out your vacation form.”
“You clocked in a little late. Are you going to shave off time from your lunch hour or stay late?”
“No, you only have nine days of vacation time left, not 10. Only 9. 9. Not 10.”

These words clawed themselves out from the depth of her throat daily before sinking down waiting to rise again the next day. You can count on her delivering these lines day after day after day.

Debbie from Human Resources pours herself into a uniform of cheap polyester while sausage rolls of fat ripple like overbearing waves, chasing the worker bees to remind them of office rules, regulations, and office pot lucks. She annoys all with her cuntery. She is a cunt.

I first learned of the depths of Debbie cuntery when I first met her five years ago. I thought she was an idiot. I had no idea the level of evil which dwelled within the shell known as Debbie. I mocked her as I stared at the nothingness on her desk:

Picture of husband
Picture of cat (Later I was to find out said feline’s name was Lulu)
A little figurine of a blonde-haired blue-eyed angel looking up at the heavens
A coffee cup that read “I Got This Mug for My Husband – Good Swap, eh?”

Debbie from Human Resources greeted me with the official “Human Resources” packet. It detailed my rights and responsibilities as an employee, my vacation time, matching funds for my retirement, and staff holidays.

She sat there in her grey polyester armour and explained to me how fortunate I was to be working at such a company. Allenson Inc. was named one of Canada’s 50 Best Managed Companies. Such an honour! Every month, Allenson Inc. receives over 200 resumes. People from all over want to work for the company and I was the lucky one chosen. I should be grateful for being hired. The company wanted me and no one else. I owed them for the privilege of working there. I tuned her out and stared at her translucent teeth. She had a dab of pink lipstick on the second top tooth from the left. I wasn’t going to mention it. Years of varying shades of lipstick on the precious teeth of Debbie from Human Resources would eventually greet me, as she bore her fangs to remind me of some trivial transgression. And I never said a thing. Oh and she also had one long black nose hair that seemed to wave at everyone. And I’ll never say a word about that either. That’s my little fuck you to her.

Not a day has gone by during these past five years without Debbie letting me know what I’ve done wrong that day. I get it, Debbie. I’m a loser. I can’t tow the company line. I dress too casually on Casual Fridays. I’m on the Internet too much. I make too many personal calls. I don’t reserve my vacations far enough in advance. I wear too much perfume. I’ve taken home tampons from the office. They are office tampons, for use in the office and not at home. Yes, even my uterine lining that is sloughing off is wrong.

I sometimes have this little fantasy in which I sew Debbie’s mouth shut. I push her and her girth into a chair and lock her in. I shove marshmallows into her mouth and I pull out a large needle, one used to sew leather hide. I take orange thread and thread the needle and then shove it through the skin of her lip. I watch the blood, mixed with a bit of marshmallow, drip out and I continue to sew. Sometimes, I hum. But I always have a smile on my face. And I sew her mouth shut, nice and tight.

Tonight, when I get home, I think I’m going to send out some resumes. Five years of experience at Allenson Inc. should count for something. I mean it is the greatest company in the history of capitalism, so I’m bound to be wanted by a less fortunate company, right? I’ll get home and I’ll dust off the old resume and update it. I’ll craft the best cover letter ever. Cover letters must always be good. It’s the way HR separates the wheat from the chaff. I’ll send them out via email. Thank god for technology! Then I’ll tell Debbie to go fuck herself. I’ll have a better job and not have to deal with her anymore. Yes. This is what I’ll do tonigh—shit. “Survivor” is on tonight.