The sky is overcast, casting the office in a dreary half-light. By our requests, the fluorescent lights have been kept off.
I stand around the coffee pot, making small talk with the people from the fourth floor. They tell me about a blow-up from earlier in the day, and I just shake my head. The manager on the fourth floor is a knob. I thank my stars I don't work up there.
"So they fired Natalie but kept Josh on," mutters Bill. "Which is an objectively terrible decision, but we all know that Josh is only here because the company is sticking it's tongue up his mom's ass."
"Well that's a new one, but yeah," I say. "I see what you mean. I hope he gets fired soon."
The three of them shake their heads. I shake mine, too, understanding that they probably know more about how impossible that is than I do.
I pour a bit of coffee into the frustratingly small insulated paper cup, and dump a spoonful of dried condensed creamer in, then sugar, stirring it fruitlessly on my way back to my desk. The doorway into the cubicle area is packed with people, mostly my coworkers, loitering just outside of the bathroom. I look down at my watch and realize it's 1:28, which means most people are just about to get done with their break.
Pushing through the small crowd, I navigate my way to my workspace, three blocks up, four blocks left. I brush my fingers against the picture of my wife, Laura, on the wall, and smile at the picture of our dog, Jefferson, next to that.
She looks a lot different now than she looked when that picture was taken.
Her hair is longer now, and lighter. She has more wrinkles, and deeper, in her face from age. She's pregnant, now, with our first child. She's gorgeous. The camera doesn't do it justice.
But her smiling face makes me smile as I turn back to my computer, sliding my headset onto my ears and situating the microphone close to my mouth. There's a tiny button on the phone, lit up green, meaning there's a customer waiting on hold.
I press it. The next four hours become kind of a blur. Different voices, over the phone, different devices and problems need fixing. Sometimes I ask one question and then they laugh and tell me it was as simple as restarting the device. Sometimes I schedule someone to go out and see if they need it replaced.
Finally, I look up to the sound of someone calling my name, and there is Wendy, leaning over the wall of the cubicle with a huge, goofy grin.
"Quittin' time, pardna'," she says, in the most awkward-sounding Southern drawl I've ever heard in my life.
"Quittin' time?" I ask, glancing at my watch. 4:56 PM. "It seems to be, partner."
Wendy walks around the cubicle to stand in the doorway. "How far along is Laura, again?"
"9 months, she's ready to pop. She looks like she's got a semi-inflated beachball under her blouse. Gorgeous, though. She's doing so well," I tell her, unable to control the smile that breaks out across my face.
"You look so proud already. You'll be a great father, Nick. How did you guys get the morning sickness under control?"
"She started taking an anti-nausea every night before bed. Thank god, it made the mornings so much nicer for both of us. Happy wife, happy life, y'know?"
"I think that saying is just for cynical old married people. Not for people like you."
I smile to myself. "I'm glad you think so."
"We 'ought to go, pardna', it's time to head home. Tell the missus I wish her the best," Wendy says, taking up the off-putting Southern drawl again.
I mimic her robotic delivery and awkward pronunciations, "I'll be sure to tell her, pardna'. It's sure been a pleasure conversin' with ya's."
She grimaces. "Yeesh. I can see why you'd hate that, now."
"Have a nice evening, Wendy. I gotta get home to make dinner."
"See you on Monday."
She walks away, and I turn back to my desk, packing up a few things to go home. I don't bring work home with me anymore, not since my wife told me that she was pregnant and I realized I'd have to pull a little more weight in order to make this go smoothly.
The drive home is nice, just a quiet moment with music and the road. Traffic doesn't get too bad, but there's still buildup and long lines.
I pull into my driveway and my wife is standing on the porch, pacing back and forth, breathing heavily. Rachel, my older sister, is there, too, holding her arm gently and speaking to her in a soothing voice. Jordan, my second-youngest sibling, stands in the doorway to my house, arms crossed, barring my dog from shooting out the door and bowling my wife over.
"Niiiiick!!" Laura yells at me. "It's really happening."
I step out of the car and stare at her, confused for a moment. It comes in slow waves, and then smacks me in the face like a wrecking ball, all at once.
It's happening. What's happening?
Labor. She's in labor. With my baby.
I'm gonna be a fucking dad today.
"Oh my god!" I yelp, slapping my hands over my mouth. "Oh my god. Okay, get in the car, let's go. Right now, we're going."
"Where?" Shouts Rachel. "Where are we going?"
"The hospital! She's in labor, we're going to the hospital."
She takes the steps nice and easy, gripping Rachel's hand until her knuckles turn white and Rachel's fingers are tinted purple. Jordan shoves the dog away from the door and locks up the house behind us, then makes their way over and hops into the car.
"Exciting! Had a good day at work?" Jordan asks.
"Some good, some bad, slow it goes."
"Paternity leave is gonna be a nice vacation, huh?"
I nod. "Yeah. We're thinking about going out to Mom's cabin."