MICHELLE BROSIUS - DESK GIRL

Michelle Brosius lives and works in Los Angeles. She has published essays and nonfiction for online sites, including The Billfold. Michelle is a writer, an occasional actor, a lover of cats and other furry things, and book enthusiast. She also sometimes speaks French. This is Michelle's first piece of published fiction. 

Desk Girl
​

​[Interior: Cherish Hospital – Day]
(Patient 1 [Woman, mid to late 20s, attractive, strong yet fragile, any ethnicity] is lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV. There are bandages covering her neck, arms, and hands. She is asleep.)
 
(Phlebotomist enters [Mid to late 20s, boyishly handsome, any ethnicity]. He is wearing green scrubs and holds a tray with needles and vials. Patient 1 stirs as the Phlebotomist looks wistfully at her bandage-free, beautiful face.)
 
Phlebotomist: “Time for –
 
–

​“Hel-lo, Front Desk Girl!”
 
It’s Armand, my boss. I sit up straight and in one swift motion the TV script is shoved into my purse and pushed all the way to the back of the desk and out of sight. I don’t want Armand (of all people) to know that the reason I’m leaving early today is for an audition.
 
It’s nearly 9am and the start of his shift; I’m already two hours into mine. His piggish eyes scan the desk and land on a stray copy of the Hollywood Reporter, addressed to the VP of Sales, which I’d carelessly left lying open while I switched reading material to my script.
 
His lip curls upwards. “What’s this? Were you reading while manning the phones?” He makes a clucking ‘tsk tsk’ sound with his tongue. The magazine, like the script I’m auditioning with this afternoon, is contraband at the front desk. My only job is to answer the phones and greet people. It’s incredibly easy and boring and Armand knows this, so he’s always on the lookout for transgressions.
 
Armand is scraggly thin, skeletal even, and could be either in his mid-30s or early 70s. No one knows. Everyone is creeped out by Armand and none of us want to be caught by him doing something we shouldn’t be doing. With his skinny black mustache that sticks out in small points from either side of his lips, he’s like a villain from the silent movie era. The mustache is so stiff and straight it looks like he attached two matchsticks to his face. I’d like to light each point on fire.
 
I have no choice but to hand the magazine to him. “It’s Sabrina,” I say, pointedly. Armand never uses anyone’s first name: you are Front Desk Girl or Vault Dude. It’s an exhausting game we play: I remind him of my name even though I’ve worked here for three months, and he acts surprised like this is the first time he’s ever heard it.
 
“SaBreenuh!” he laughs and winks at me. My name in his unidentifiable accent – a dash of Southern twang mixed with a Transylvanian lilt – sounds like a wheezing set of bagpipes.
 
“So,” Armand says, while grabbing the stack of industry magazines sitting atop the desk and crushing the pages against his bony chest, “I’ll just make sure these are delivered to the Tape Vault first thing in the morning from now on.”
 
I grip the edge of the desk and a bead of sweat pops out above my left eye. Line one starts ringing. Armand looks at the phone and then again at me, eyebrow raised, before strolling away, humming.
 
Watching Armand leave, my eyes dim. I imagine hurling the entire desk at his back. I’ve become Bionic Desk Girl, defender of Receptionists everywhere against evil middle management slime!
 
[Enter Desk Girl: she’s mobile on casters, with iron phones for hands, her hair wild. She sees the villain, Armand, in his green suede loafers and leaps into the air]
 
Slam! Desk Girl throws the chair at Armand’s head, sending him flying through the front window in a burst of glass. This is for not allowing your receptionist to read anything interesting and for treating her like a child!
 
Pow! She body slams him against the building like a rag doll. This is for not letting the receptionist go to the bathroom without permission!

Crunch! She shoves an iron fist straight up his nose. This is for calling Sabrina the Front Desk Girl!
 
I hear a ringing in the distance and shaking my head, I shut the fantasy down and answer the phone.
 
“Good morning, Marquee Entertainment?” I say.
 
“Yes, please, I would like to speak to Mr. Charles Gaines?” a male voice asks above the sounds of other phones ringing and people talking rapidly.
 
“May I ask who is calling?” I finger the lid of my coffee cup and keep one eye peeled on the hallway.
 
“Yes, please, I am calling from IT Creative Systems, may I please speak to the CEO?” My finger hovers over the “end call” button.
 
 “Our CEO doesn’t handle anything IT related. I’ll transfer you to the voicemail of our IT department.” I say.
 
“Yes, but, please –“ I transfer him mid-sentence to the generic message box we have set up just for this purpose. As I hang up and slouch back in my chair, I feel a pang of guilt. The telemarketer is just doing his job, no matter how ridiculous, I tell myself, just like you.
 
I inch the script back out of my purse, heart beating faster. That was too close. Armand would love nothing more than to confiscate this script. It’s my golden ticket; a one-way pass to life as a working actor rather than some nobody working at a front desk, a job that an eight-year-old could do with the same amount of efficiency. If he saw that I had a ladder rung to grab onto, he’d make damn sure I didn’t leave on time today. Our late afternoon receptionist, Murielle, will be covering for me. I’m counting on her to show up early for once in her life.
 
My audition at 2pm is a feat. The casting director saw me at one of my showcases and already has me in mind for a role in a TV show. “It’s an arc!” My agent exclaimed. An arc! A whole storyline, featuring me! Four episodes guaranteed, with the possibility of six total. The show is a hospital drama, and I would play a patient who survived a horrible gas explosion and while in recovery develops a budding romance with a phlebotomist before an intern accidentally fills my IV with air bubbles and my heart stops. If producers and writers end up deciding that I die slowly rather than quickly, I’ll get the extra two episodes in the arc.
 
[Scene 2: Int. Hospital - Day]
(Patient 1 is awake. The Phlebotomist sits on the edge of the bed.)
 
Phlebotomist: “So, do you think, you know once you get out of here, we could get a drink sometime?”
 
Patient 1 (smiling): “You don’t mind all this?” (She gestures to her bandages.)
 
Phlebotomist: “I think they make you even more beautiful.”
 
Patient 1: “Wow, I … you’ve been so good to me these last couple days. I might be in here a while, but yes. Yes. I would like to see you, outside of a hospital. Out of scrubs.”
 
(Realizing what she just said, Patient 1 blushes and tries to lean forward. Phlebotomist helps her adjust her pillow. Their faces are close. He leans in for a kiss. She closes her eyes and –
 
 
I am closing my eyes sitting in the chair, my face leaning forward. Since I’m not sure if I’ll be reading with a casting agent or another actor in the scene, I’ve been working on how I’ll do the kiss. Perhaps if I make a small moan in the back of my throat –
 
There is a chuckle. My eyes pop open. It’s a client, Mark, from some Tween show I don’t watch, and I let out a breath. I’m holding the pages in my hands underneath the desk so to him, with my lips pursed, I look like I’m making out with no one. He raises an eyebrow but nods at me before heading to the cafeteria. I glance back down at the script. I wonder if Patient 1 will get an actual name. I suck in air until my belly hurts. What if, just what if, they like me so much after four episodes that casting decides to make a series regular? Patient 1 can become a nurse!
 
My shoulders sag as I exhale. Landing a TV show would be thrilling but I can’t afford to get ahead of myself. Before starting here, I was one bounced check away from having to ask my parents for money. They’d insist I come home. A college professor once told us that it takes at least two years to settle in Los Angeles before an actor starts to see some progress. I am two years and four months in. To leave now would crush me. I needed this full-time crappy slog of a job to get me through some bills. And even though the pay sucks, I keep working at it because that’s how my parents raised me. “The Kincaid’s don’t quit!” is actually the motto on a throw pillow my mother made.
 
Did I also imagine, just perhaps, that working in the entertainment industry, even in post-production, would somehow grant me an “in” with any of the show runners who happened to walk by the front desk on any given day? Yes. I held onto a smidge of hope that it might be that easy. But no one looks twice at the receptionist. It’s not where you find your next big star. Armand keeps a close on me anyway to make sure I don’t “fraternize” with the clientele.
 
Smoothing my dark brown hair, less frizzy today thank god, I mentally chant: “Don’t blow this, don’t blow this, don’t blow this.” Like others who have this job, it is never intended to be permanent. The front desk is a way station, a blip on the journey to success and freedom, a necessary task we fulfill for the time when we can claim that we paid our dues. After three months of Armand, I’ve paid my dues.
 
“Oh, Front Desk Girl.” Speak of the devil. I drop the script at my feet and nudge it forward, pulse racing, grateful that nothing below my head is visible from the hallway. The soft whir of the machines in the editing rooms barely covers the sound of his footsteps.
 
“Flanagan tells me you were ten minutes late from a bathroom break today,” Armand’s shoulders are bouncing. He loves this.
 
“The Tape Vault staff have important deadlines and can’t waste minutes waiting on you to do your job, even if, you know, you have ‘girl issues’.” His voice is sing-songy and light, but his eyes are flashing.
 
I resist the urge to grab his mustache and bash his face into the desk. Desk Girl, the fearless heroine, however, would.
 
Swallowing, I say nothing. Fury and fear roils around in my belly. To have me chained to this desk everyday would be Armand’s wet dream. He’d give me a headset and put the entire desk on wheels so that anytime I have to go pee I can roll myself right into the handicapped stall.
 
He smirks, looming over me while I sit. “See me after your shift is over today.”
 
“Well that will be soon. I’m leaving early today. Remember? Murielle is coming in to spell my shift. I sent you an email last week about it. I’m not taking a lunch so I can leave at 2pm.” I jam my lips together to keep from rambling further.
 
Armand looks at me in mock surprise. “Email? I don’t remember seeing an email!”
 
“But,” I pause, treading carefully now, “Yes, there was an email. You said, ‘Okay’.”
 
It’s a struggle to keep the panic from my voice. This has happened before to others. He pulls this type of shit, like conveniently forgetting a personal request or forcing someone to stay late to finish some nonsense task.
 
Armand nods slowly, but doesn’t answer. His expression is blank and hard to read, which can’t be good. The phone rings, startling me. I am ashamed by the shakiness in my voice as I answer it. When I look up again he is gone.
 
Desk Girl hoists up Armand by his armpits and hauls him into the street. She’s formed a union, The United People’s Front for the Ethical Treatment of Front Desk Workers. Receptionists from all over the country (the world!) roll out in their custom, form fitted desks, and beat him with handbooks, stab him in every orifice with pencils, and crush his balls with the desk chair casters. Picket signs scream, “We cut the cord on bad managers!” and “All hung up for better pay!” Desk Girl cheers as we hurl staplers and spit in the direction of anyone who dares to cross us.
 
**
 
Hours pass. The wave of call transfers and client arrivals at least makes the day shorter. As the end of my shift draws near and I expect Murielle to breeze through, a cigarette dangling from her lips, my palms go clammy. The more I build this up in my mind the more I have to lose. I remind myself that it’s just any old audition and that I am prepared! But I know if I don’t get this role a vital chunk of my soul will shrivel up and turn to dust. If I’m still at this desk at age forty-five, as bitter as an aspirin, I don’t know what I’ll do. 
 
At 2pm on the dot, I pick up my purse, the script safely tucked inside. My eyes are glued to the door. Jeff, a colorist, is at the desk, now asking me to call one of the sales execs on her cell phone. “I can’t find this client, he’s late,” Jeff says peevishly. “Come the fuck on, Murielle,” I mutter as I punch numbers into the phone.
 
Jeff’s mouth is moving, telling me something, but all I hear is the thrum of blood in my ears. Glancing at the clock on the computer screen, I work out how late I can possibly leave here and still arrive at my audition on time. Biting my lip I watch the time tick past 2:15pm.
 
Panicked, I slam the phone down. I told Murielle yesterday, practically begged her, “Please, Murielle, please come right at 2pm, okay? I’ll even buy you lunch!” She knows what this means for me. Jeff throws up his hands. “Well, if sales calls back let me know right away,” he says, but I’m already moving around the desk. My tongue quivers against the inside of my cheek. The window to leave and not be late is closing fast. I scurry past the desk, hitching my purse over my shoulder.
 
Am I doing this? Walking away without anyone at the front desk to cover me? This is against protocol. I’m still hopeful that as soon as I cross the threshold I’ll see Murielle trotting in from the parking lot and it will all turn out all right; no bridges burned.
 
Almost to the door I hear, “Where do you think you are going?” He’s somewhere in the distance behind me.
 
I face Armand and attempt a confident smile, but my face feels all twitchy, like I just got shot up with Novocain. I say, “I’m off. I don’t know where Murielle is but she’ll be here. I have to go. Now.”
 
He is almost next to me; my back is to the front door. His pale white hands are folded across his chest.
 
“I looked at your email again. I believe I said ‘okay’ as in, ‘let’s discuss’. But I didn’t give you actual permission. I called Murielle and told her she needn’t bother coming in early,” Armand says, voice as thick as maple syrup. He’s sidestepping ever so slightly towards the exit to block my path.
 
Swinging the purse in front of me like a shield I glare at him, wishing I had laser beam eyeballs that could split his head in two.
 
“Listen, Armand. I’m sorry but I don’t want to make a case of semantics here. I have to go and I got what I understood as, ‘Okay’, to mean ‘Yes’.”
 
A group has formed, his solid band of Vault Dudes and a few stray dailies editors who were walking by. The shootout at the O.K. Corral comes to mind. Only I don’t have a posse. It’s just me, quaking and unarmed, in this dustup. Most of the Vault guys point and whisper. Flanagan’s face is bright and alert. I spy one guy with something in his hand and gasp, “Oh my god, you brought popcorn out here!” He’s cramming huge fistfuls into his mouth, eyes wide, not wanting to miss a thing.
 
My fists curl into a ball. It’s now or never get out with guns blazing! Armand is so close I can smell his aftershave – burnt almonds and something grassy, like moss. Can he really force me to stay, I wonder? How far is this going to play out?
 
As if reading my mind, he says, “If you leave, don’t plan on coming back. I can talk to HR, you know. You won’t get unemployment and I’ll make damn sure you aren’t even paid for today.”
 
At that comment, I want to wave my middle finger in his pinched face, spin on my heel and waltz out, but I’m frozen. Fuck, my feet won’t move. My brain shrieks, “What do you care?! You hate this place! You don’t need this!”
 
And still, I don’t move. The more I stand still, the more Armand has me. I can already feel his tentacles reaching for my ankles.
 
I imagine my ending as Patient 1:
 
(Patient 1 is administered the IV. She watches fluid course through the line, sees the intern push the valve all the way up. It’s coming too fast and the bubbles are too large. Within seconds, the clear liquid travels down to the needle in her arm and enters her bloodstream. Pain wracks her chest after a minute and she can’t breathe. She tries to scream. Her last image is of a man wearing green scrubs reaching for the needle. But it’s too late.)
 
A quick death then, I think. I’ll get the speedy death in four episodes if I’m late. Or worse, I’ll lose the role outright by not showing up. This should be the moment when the hero swoops in. My mind scrambles for a solution, a life line to get me out of this. Every speech my parents ever gave about “Don’t go putting your eggs in one basket!” plays before me. Some latent strain of my DNA, a Midwesterner gene perhaps, the kind that controls ethics and honesty and duty is kicking in. Kincaid’s Don’t Quit!
 
My heart feels close to explosion. Armand is grinning. The ringing phone pierces my ears; maybe it’s Murielle finally calling to warn me.  From somewhere deep inside I hear the words: GO!
 
I’ve never just quit a job before. But I owe Armand nothing.
 
I run out of the front door.
 
The bright sun hits my face and I’m dazed by the glare. My legs are colt-like, wobbly, as though I haven’t run in a long time. I can hear footfalls and shouts behind me as I sprint around the corner. Turning my head, I see Armand is almost at my heels. The bastard is actually following me! He’s crouched down low, wolfish, almost galloping. Trailing behind him are the Vault Dudes and Editors, swept along in Armand’s wake like a pack of dogs eager for an easy meal.
 
Digging in my elbows, I push harder. I’m almost to the parking lot. Armand growls, “You. Can’t. Just. Leave!” Oh yes, I can! I increase my speed, when all of a sudden my purse stretches out before me, the strap elongating and coiling before my eyes. What the hell? As I run, my legs begin to feel heavy and sink into the concrete. I lurch to a stop and my black blouse billows in front of me, though there isn’t the slightest wind. The shirt stiffens and my knees lock in place. I stare at my blocky lower half, stunned: I’ve created a version of the front desk with my own body. The once soft leather of the purse is hardening and molds itself into a phone handset; the purse strap melting into my arm, turning it into a limber and springy phone cord.
 
“Oh my god!” I screech, looking down. Buttons glow from where my right hand used to be. Using my left hand I press the knobs, fingers recoiling immediately as I strike solid plastic instead of warm flesh. A strong current pulses through my veins – I’m electrified!
 
The gate to the outdoor parking garage is just beyond my reach. Armand’s cold hand clasps my shoulder.
 
I spin around as swiftly as if I were sitting on the rolling chair. My breath is lodged somewhere in my rib cage. I’m not sure what is going on, except I know I am a cornered animal in the shape of a desk about to be slaughtered.
 
Armand is cackling. His teeth are bared, a jumble of uneven yellowish fangs. His once hazel eyes are almost black, the pupils fully dilated and saliva pools at the corner of his mouth.
 
He hisses, “It looks as though you aren’t leaving after all.” His cronies are grouped around him, gnashing teeth and out for receptionist blood. My heart thumps in my chest, as loud and clear as a tribal drumbeat.
 
Mouth agape, Armand is now staring at my former arm, which is beeping and glowing a fierce red and, for a second, he hesitates. As I try to turn away, the phone handset bangs against the parking gate. I look at it again, at my immobile feet, at the sturdy black surface extending from my stomach. And the realization hits me right the gut, or at least where my gut used to be: I am Desk Girl. My mouth cracks open wide.
 
I’m Desk Girl!
 
“I’m coming, Patient 1!” I roar into the sky.
 
            (Her eyes snap open, full of tears. “I’m Josie,” Patient 1 whispers.)
 
Gripping the cord in my left hand, I lasso it into a tight circle. Whipping the whole length of cord and phone into the air, the handset slams Armand squarely in the face. His nose spurts blood and he falls. The Vault Dudes bellow, necks straining, before scattering in all directions.
 
Cradling his face, Armand grunts and writhes on the ground. For good measure, I lasso the cord around his neck and twist. Eyes bulging he bleats out, “Flerk Meh!” No one pauses to help him. The last of the Vault posse turns tail and slinks towards the facility.
 
Armand crumples into a ball, hands covered in blood. My voice is low and steady as I linger over his limp body. “I said – I had to leave early today. If you give a shit about the phones, you answer them yourself!” With a jerk of my wrist the cord breaks, still tied around his neck.
 
I can see my shadow visible against the gray cement. Startled, I see my hand is back to being a hand. The phone handset is again my battered purse, lying on the ground. My arm is no longer a cord. I wouldn’t have believed any of it if not for the dull ache stemming from my right shoulder blade to the tip of my pinky.
 
“Don’t even think of fucking with Desk Girl,” I snap at Armand. He’s blubbering something, and, after a moment, I realize he’s saying my name. “Sabweenuh!” A bubble bursts from his nose.
 
I grin and say, “It’s about time you learned my name.” I turn to leave, and pause. “Oh, one more thing.” Bending down, I pull at one side of his mustache. He winces as the mustache peels off as easily as clear tape. I knew it! I grab my bag and push open the parking garage door. It clatters shut behind me and I strut to my car. I don’t look back.