Turncoat
"Kingmob, the reception area is for clients only."
"Oh, okay."

That's how it started.

After a mindnumbingly long period of separating, compiling, and assembling quarterly reports, I figured I was entitled to a little respite, a brief amount of time to decompress before moving on to the next task in what is becoming a veritable routine of the mundane. It was a little less than a half an hour until the place closes officially, but that's not to say that a good portion of the staff, including those I work for, don't stay later. So, I grabbed my coffee cup and waltzed upstairs where I returned it to the kitchen. After washing the cup, which wasn't required but seemed like the right thing to do since the washing machine was already in the midst of its last cycle, I walked back down the hall and glanced at a copy of the Wall Street Journal, which this business receives multiple copies of daily. Instead of standing at the counter, I decided I could take it to the sofas that are arranged around the room for clients to wait for their appointments with their financial advisors. I sat down, looked at the first page, and was suddenly interrupted by the receptionist.

She knew my name, which was the first surprise. Clients only, eh? I may be exaggerating, but this sounds an awful lot like some form of segregation in effect. I have to admit I was taken aback by this, but I figured, being a lowly temp and all, that it was best just to return the paper and go back downstairs, which I did. I went back to work and thought nothing of it but that it was a tad strange. A few minutes later, I was summoned by one of my superiors.

I have to admit that I was half tempted to tell them about it immediately, but I refrained, not out of fear, but I figured there wasn't any real point. She asked me to take a box of envelopes upstairs that were ready to be mailed out. She then uttered in an obviously sarcastic tone, "No more reading newspapers." I was floored.

"Did she call you?"
"Yes."
"Oh, man, I can't believe that. She's ratting me out for reading a paper."

Needless to say, I was full of rage. I wanted to storm back up there toss the box at her and demand an explanation why she was compelled to call about my transgression almost immediately. Of course, I did neither of these things, but I had to act as if I didn't know she just told on me, and, unknowingly, she had to abide by the fact that she didn't know that I knew.

What kind of person begrudges someone five minutes to leaf through a paper close to the end of the day when, in all likelihood, there was little or no chance of any "clients" coming in? A sick person, that's who. This woman is a little loopy, and I'm not saying that out of pure rage at the fact that she is nothing but a tattletale. I told my coworker, and she wasn't surprised. She told me she wasn't very friendly anyway, so, in other words, don't worry about it. It didn't surprise her in the least.

What irks me beyond the fact that it happened is the reasoning behind the action. What purpose did it serve? I wasn't likely to sprawl out on the couch and take a good leisurely read of the paper. I was simply going to leaf through it. Five minutes, tops. But what bothers me the most is that it ruined my day. No matter how much I thought about ignoring it, I couldn't. No matter how many wisecracks I made about it to my superior, about not taking too long in the bathroom or going up to the sofas, now that everyone is gone, and taking a nap, I couldn't help but feel nauseous. No matter how much it appeared that she didn't care in the least, I was still pissed off about it. I was having a really good day up until then, but that killed it, which is, obviously, my reason for writing about it here. This woman, who probably told on her classmates about their misdeeds the days the regular teacher was out and replaced by a substitute, is a rotten excuse for a human being. She's a wolf in sheep's clothing and a vile disgrace to humanity. The worst of the worst, at least in the office world. Someone who minds everyone else's business except their own.

Of course, I'm filled with all manner of responses I would have liked to have said to her now that I'm removed from the situation. I won't say a word, but I'm through being nice to this woman. I was nice enough to make sure that door to the stairwell didn't slam when I was coming or going. No more. Slam away, baby. I can't believe it happened, but it did, and there's nothing I can do about it but stew. Oh, and let the door slam.