The Vial (part 1)

One hot, dull summer day a few years back some co-workers and I were resting in the backroom of a food store of small fame. We were practicing a hobby of ours which was to avoid all work while maintaining the illusion that we still wished to be employed. This was more of an art form than a hobby, an art form where all variables have to be accounted for; can't have too many people congregating in one place at once, don't talk loud enough to draw attention, keep tabs on the manager at all times, disperse of whiny customers in a way that pleases them, pick a topic of conversation, etc. As time would reveal, on this most boring of afternoons, there would only be two true artists in the room.

After any given length of time a manager may decide to wander. It's in their blood. When they do so and there are no employees working the floor they are prone to complain. Especially when they peer into the back of a stockroom and see seven of their employees clustered together and sweeping the same square of tile with the sort of concentration reserved for bomb squad detonators. It bothers them for some reason. However, a boss secretly loves moments like this. Stalking his/her prey in the anticipation of flexing the flabby authoritative muscles they toiled so hard for. Any employee caught catches their fair share of the wide scale attack in this situation. My well-tuned 'manager alarm' started buzzing so I quickly separated myself from the pack and as I did so another individual began floating away as well.

As the boss entered I simultaneously kicked at the hose of the mopping machine, knowing full well that doing so would cause the hose to fall off and unleash its soapy contents all over the floor. Doing my duty, I went right to work cleaning up the mess and repairing the machine while the other artisan ducked away to fake clean the bathroom. The rest of the geniuses never had a chance. Our boss immediately started in on the loafing crew with a speech on free time and responsibility before handing them a list of menial jobs that would take two hours at least. But not to me. Not to Cassandra.

Cassandra's not her real name of course but innocence must be protected at any cost. Even the semi-innocent deserve some. After everyone had gone their separate ways she emerged from the bathroom grinning ear to ear. We had the backroom to ourselves and shared a laugh at our fellow employees' bad luck, Cassie taking a special joy from the sad and defeated looks on their faces. Conversation being what it is this led to a strange talk about the effects of sadness and melancholia. Not exactly light-hearted banter, but I'm sure we all have those good friends in which no topic of discussion is taboo. If not, I recommend getting some. It was while we were happily sharing stories of the bad times when she became deathly quiet all of a sudden. It was obvious something was wrong but I chose not to force the issue, I even offered to change the topic. After all, discussing such uneasy matters can become fairly depressing after a while.

"No, that's all right," she said, quiet as cotton, "I was just thinkin of somethin from a few years back. It fits what we're talkin about, but..."
"Hey, it's cool," I mumbled, trying to reassure her, "If you're uncomfortable talkin about it--"
"Naw, it's not that. It's just, I forgot about it for a long time. Besides, I've never told somethin like this to anyone before. It's not like embarrassing or anything, but you gotta promise not to tell anyone if I tell you. Nobody."

I promised. Unfortunately for her, all writers are liars, plain and simple.
So Cassie, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. You will recognize this betrayal but take solace in the fact that nobody else will figure it out. I hope. The story was too good and too human to keep a lid on.

I never had a notebook at the time, (as if I would sit there and record a woman in pain even if I did), so the following isn't word for word. For simplicity's sake, let's call it idea for idea.