When I walk into the office the next morning, the new department receptionist greets me with a beaming smile. “Good morning, Jordan.”
I have my professional mask in place this morning and manage not to bristle at the familiarity in her tone. “Good morning, Jessica.” I’m no longer the “new guy,” even though, technically, I’ve had more experience in the department than many of my coworkers, if you count my previous time working there.
I’m not usually in this early. Normally, I slip in while the receptionist is out at lunch, because it means one less daily human interaction I’m forced to engage in. Any calls I receive, or mail, or papers from students, are left in my box. Most everything is done electronically, thank goodness.
Jessica started working here only last week. She completed her undergrad the previous semester, and she’s twenty-one but looks like a fricking baby.
Not that I’m one to speak, I suppose. I’m twenty-nine but I feel decades older despite my youthful appearance. I have a level of real-world experience that most people in our department who are older than me sorely lack.
I also resist the urge to scold Jessica about her short, tight jeans shorts and FSU football T-shirt as not being “professional” attire, because I remember that’s notmyjob.
No, I don’t wear a suit every day anymore. I usually wear a button-up with a tie, and khakis, or jeans, and am frequently mistaken by students and faculty alike for a professor. It no longer feels right to me arriving to work in shorts, despite the fact that the department manager said I can dress exactly that casually, if I wanted, unless I’m teaching a class.
How sick is it that if it wasn’t for the fact I want to save on laundry and dry cleaning bills, and don’t want to sweat my ass off on the walk to and from work every day, Iwouldwear a suit on the regular?
They’re all hanging in my closet, along with my tux. I doubt I’ll be wearing them soon, but I can’t bear to get rid of them.
Or my neckties.
Many of which are exact matches to neckties Elliot and Leo have. Sort of a secret code Leo used to help keep us all connected.
Matchies.
I stop at the wall of inboxes next to Jessica’s desk and set down my travel mug on the table there so I can sort through the contents of my box.
I’m vaguely aware of her holding something out to me. Without thinking or looking, I reach my hand back while I’m still sorting through my morning mail. “Call sheet?”
“Sorry?”
An unexpected and tsunami-esque wave of irritation sweeps through me, that she’s keeping me waiting and not justputtingit in myfrickinghand. “Is that. My daily. Call sheet?”
“A what?”
I’m about to turn and snap at her for being stupid when I realize she’s holding a small, pink message slip, and she looks genuinely confused.
Fuck.
I also realize I’m an asshole.
I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” I pluck the message slip from her fingers without touching her hand and offer what I hope is a genuine-looking smile. “Old habits die hard. I’m used to someone putting my morning call sheets in my hand before I even ask for them.”
She still looks like I hurt her feelings and I feel shitty about that. “I-I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what that…is?”
Yeah, of course she’s confused. Also, ironically, it feels weird as hell having her call me “sir.” I was Mr. Walsh for so long, and addressed like that mostly by people older than me, that I almost don’t know what to do with it from someone so much younger than myself.
Along with the wistful pang that hits me in the soul over the term.
Jesus, she looks like a damnedkid.
Okay,yes, Igetthe fricking irony.Happy?
“It’s all right. Again, I’m sorry. Kinda dropped into autopilot there for a moment. I handled a lot of calls on a daily basis. Call sheets are how we organized them. Still trying to readjust to civvie life after six years.”
Having one lone pink message slip awaiting me is…
Depressing.
The word I’m looking for isdepressing.
