The Weird Shit That Happened Because of Tricia Fisher

Having been told by Mrs. Edsen to go wait in her cold office, Tricia Fisher just knew she was going to be fired. This was her third time being sent to the office while Mrs. Edsen smoothed things over with the customer. And no one survived a third trip.

In her teens, Tricia had indirectly learned that fidgeting and looking unsure usually made her various managers’ hearts melt, granting extended probation or a series of one more chances. Somewhere in her early twenties, the fidgeting seemed to trigger a rapid rules-are-rules response.

Holding her left hand in her right, Tricia made a concerted effort not to fidget.

The air conditioning hummed on. A vent blew right down on her. She never understood why they had the A/C on back here during winter. It’d make more sense for it to be kept warm like the rest of the salon.

Tricia hunched her shoulders and pulled her arms tighter to herself.

The salon was at the rear corner of a drab beige strip mall. Tricia often looked on the entire area as she walked from the bus stop. The same beige paint was used on the inside of the windowless office. While the room was just a little larger than the room she and her little Matthew shared at her parents’ house, it felt smaller. And had fewer decorations than any other office that she’d been in.

Black four-drawer filing cabinets lined the back wall, shortening the room a bit. Freshly slicked Mop & Glo wooden flooring created an L-shape that marked two-thirds of the room’s space as off limits. Bosses only. There were two big, comfy-looking black chairs at the desk—one for Mrs. Edsen and one off to the right on the short side of the desk. Invite only.

When Tricia recently turned thirty, her dad had teased her in his non-teasing way—in front of her son—that she was now older than the numbers of jobs that she had had since she was sixteen. Her mom tried to hush him, but Dad had then started to list them all. Every. Single. One.

Sharp laughter came from just outside the oak-framed glass door.

Ivy, the manager, was also the chief nail tech, and had the station closest to the office. The super busybody, and ultimate gossip, laughed her I’m-only-laughing-to-make-sure-everyone-knows-I’m-here laugh. The customers thought it was genuine, but everyone who worked at Nails N’ Thangs got to know Ivy’s laughs.

The client being treated must’ve said something close to funny and Ivy capitalized on it.

Tricia scanned the office again.

Besides three small picture frames on the desk facing where Mrs. Edsen would sit, there was nothing to use.

Through her various jobs, Tricia had learned a few tricks to not get fired. One was never snoop in the bosses’ office because some had cameras. The second was never lie or create a spectacle. Neither tended to work, and both had a way of coming back at you.

While she preferred to strike up a kinship through pictures and decorations, there was nothing here to clue her in. Sometimes she’d try to help the boss relate to her and the troubles of her age, but that—like the fidgeting—was becoming more of a sure way out the door. As a last ditch effort, she’d mention her son or that she had to move back home with her parents to get out of her abusive relationship with Burt. If that didn’t get the boss, nothing would.