Secretary Day

"Oh that looks delicious!" declares Thelma looking into a large metal salad bowl, "what's in it?"

"I don't know," replies the woman mixing the salad, "my butler made it."

"It looks great!"

Thelma steps out of the lunch room. The woman with the salad continues mixing. She steps to the counter, tears open a package of croutons, and pours them into the salad. She mixes a bit more, and then carries the salad out of the room.

"Ever find yourself needing a butler?" I ask Rupinder.

He laughs, and takes a bite of curried chicken.

"Neither have I."

The salad woman comes back into the lunch room. She scrambles about with a fussy matronly air, gathering plates, plastic forks and knives, and napkins. The heels of her shoes clack against the floor. Her tight, blue, dress slacks ride up the crack of her buttocks.

"Do you need help love?" asks Thelma stepping back into the lunch room.

"Oh shit!" the woman exclaims.

She pulls the sleeve of her dress jacket, inspects it.

"I spilled some dressing on myself," she says taking a napkin.

"Let's see," says Thelma looking at the woman's arm, "oh, it's nothing love. Just a drip. It won't show."

The woman shakes her head, and wipes off the dressing.

"Could you take the plates and silverware into the meeting?" the woman asks.

"Sure thing love," Thelma replies.

Thelma props open the door, takes the supplies and walks into an adjacent room. The woman follows behind with a stack of napkins. Voices echo through the hall. Some one is giving a speech somewhere. Administration employees walk past the open door of the the lunchroom. They look in at Rupinder and I, but say nothing. The faces are blank, some smiling, some not; some laughing, some not.

"What's going on?" asks Rupinder.

"I don't know," I reply, "something for administration employees I suppose."

I pack up the refuse of my lunch and stand up.

"Your break over?" Rupinder inquires.

"Yeah," I answer, "I started it late."

Rupinder nods. I throw away the remains of my lunch, and walk toward the open lunch room door. A couple administration employees walk past me. They look at me and smile and say nothing. I watch them as they step into the board room next door to the lunch room. I try to look inside, but see nothing. I walk down the hallway toward the plant. I reach the factory doors, and step through. The noise of production fills the air. Women work the lines in white coats, hairnets and aprons. To a stranger it would be hard to tell them apart, but I work with them every day, and I recognize all their faces. A lady pushing a small cart full of product walks past.

"Hi Nelson," she says with a smile.

"Hi," I reply.

I walk toward the warehouse doors, kick them open, and step on through.