Image by Lowell Heddings on Flickr
It was a wonky kind of day. I entered my office that morning to find an entire family. A husband, wife, and two girls, around 4 and 6. That in itself was remarkable, as intact family units were rare sightings for me.
A meal of canned tuna and Hostess cupcakes adorned a blanket, while sleeping bags and piles of clothes were strewn haphazardly throughout the room. Draped over the copy machine was a towel, covered with cornmeal and something else. Little specks of white dotted the carpet.
They’d even set up a camping stove, which the man was operating while the woman handled the cornmeal mix. The girls played with the plastic eating utensils, clashing the knives together like they were engaged in a sword fight.
A smell drifted toward me. Hush puppies? Pork chops? Man, I hadn’t had those in ages. I began to salivate. Maybe I’d wait before telling them to leave.
Still, I had meetings, business to attend to. They couldn’t just hang out here.
“Hello,” I began.
They didn't register my presence at all. It was almost like we were separated by a glass enclosure.
I searched for what to say next. We had no formal protocol for this sort of scenario.
“What brought you here?” I said. Far more polite than what I wanted to ask: What the hell are you doing here?
Still they ignored me. My first meeting was approaching.
After some deliberation, I walked to my boss—Harold's—office. He was always telling me to be more proactive and to stop asking him stupid questions that I could easily figure out myself. Still, this to me seemed like it fell outside of the “easily figure-out-able” category.
When I entered his office, he was bent over his accounting books, brow furrowed, with an expression of such intense concentration I didn’t dare interrupt. Finally, he looked up and caught my eye.
“Ron!” he snapped. “How long have you been standing there, goddamnit?”
“I just got here.” I shuffled in the doorway.
“Well, what is it?” he demanded, ignoring my obvious lie.
“There’s…” How would I even explain it? He wouldn’t believe me, anyway. “I’ll show you.”
“Show me? What is this, some sort of joke? You can’t even form a proper sentence?”
I turned back toward my office. Sighing audibly, he followed.
The woman was now making some sort of powdery orange drink, which she was mixing at my desk. The girls were running circles around the office. The man continued to fry up a storm, grease spraying everywhere.
“Well, what is it?” Harold said.
My heart sunk. I shook my head.
“So now you can’t speak at all?” Harold grunted. “I don’t know what to do with you.”
He continued to stare for a few seconds, making sure his disgust with me sunk in, before leaving.
The smells had grown even more potent, and I could hear the grease hissing in the pan.
Now for the next test. I tapped the woman on the shoulder. It was clearly there, like I could feel something solid below my finger. She did not register my touch, though.
I shoved her. Still, no response.
Resigned, I sat at my desk—pushing aside the cups—wiped down my sticky keyboard, and turned to my first agenda item for the day.
This is my entry to 
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