Sarah Smith - Faker

Blinking is underrated. At least I think so. Not only does it keep your eyes from drying out, it serves as a momentary break from unpleasant sights and sensations. Harsh sunlight, a gory scene in a horror movie, a sudden gust of dust-ridden air. Close your eyes, and for a second, youre safe and shielded.

I blink to protect my eyes from the blinding white figure invading my peripheral vision. Behind the black of my lids, I feel relief. As soon as my eyes open again, the nagging brightness is back, whiter than ever.

That whiteness is a pale coworker I dont particularly care for. I pretend like I cant see him. Its no big deal. I fake almost everything else when Im here.

I have to as a twenty-six-year-old woman working at a power tool distributor called Nuts & Bolts. The company is staffed mostly by middle-aged gruff men who prefer to plaster their cubicle walls with photos of bikini models rather than pictures of their wives or girlfriends. On any given workday, I shift between a limited range of fake emotions: confidence, assertiveness, boldness. I am none of these outside of work. If I were my real self, Id be roadkill.

When I took this job two years ago, I ingrained fakeness into my work DNA. From 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., Monday through Friday, I force myself to be steely and unflappable. Theres no room for softness here. Everything is literally nuts and bolts, hard metals, gears, blades. The parking lot is gravel. The halls are covered in a film of dust and dirt.

I have to be hard because working here is no walk in the park. Like when the managers nearing retirement age mansplain information I already know but never do the same to the male employees. Or whenever new hires in the warehouse ask me if I have a boyfriend seconds after they meet me. My pretend toughnessboss-bitch mode, I call itkeeps it mostly at bay. That, along with a strict antisexual harassment policy.

Why would I work in such a place? Because things like money, food, and shelter are important to me. Also because a journalism degree only goes so far when you dont actually want to be a journalist.

And to be honest, I like the work. Im a copywriter who somehow managed to secure my own tiny office in a building full of shared work spaces. I write descriptions about power tools. I manipulate words all day, every day. I make the most industrial, harsh objects sound enticing. I falsify how interesting they are, which is easy for a faker like me.

We all do it. Feigned interest in conversations. Phony hair color. Dishonest proclamations about penis length. Fake orgasms. Im guilty of that one too.

Fake can be empowering. Its human nature. Its necessary.

And then theres Tate Rasmussen, the pale figure bleeding into my line of sight. The one person at Nuts & Bolts whose presence doesnt require me to pretend. I feel genuine emotions for him, all of which are rooted in frustration, anger, and irritation.

Thankfully, we reside in separate offices. The downside? His office is diagonally across the hall from mine, which means I have an unobscured view of half his facejust as he does of mineforty hours a week. Only a narrow hallway and two flimsy doorsthe equivalent of four pacesseparate us.

Shutting the doors would offer more privacy, but neither of our shoebox offices contains vents. Unless we want to roast in the summer or freeze in the winter, we have to keep our doors open.

Tates in charge of social media for the company. Its an amusing example of irony, as he is one of the most antisocial and eerily quiet people Ive ever met. Luckily, we dont interact much. Most of our communication is done via email. Face-to-face words are not often exchanged unless it is to bicker or criticize.

Most days I can ignore him, but this afternoon is proving to be a challenge because Im enduring Tates loud pen tapping. When hes not typing or on the phone, its tap, tap, tap, all day, every day.

Be quiet, please, I say.

He scribbles something on a sheet of paper before crumpling it and tossing it on my desk, zero trace of emotion on his face. I open it to find a NO scrawled in black ink, taunting me. Already I can feel the heat making its way to my face.

Thats Tate. Cold, calculating, and hostile. His rude, dismissive behavior is his currency, and Im the store he chooses to shop at. Im paid in frowns, grimaces, scowls, and blank stares.

Hes never once stepped foot in my office. Im convinced its yet another one of his passive-aggressive digs at me, since he waltzes with confidence through every other space in this building. The closest hes ever gotten is hovering around my doorway. I wonder what it would take for him to cross that invisible boundary. Would I need to be choking with bloodshot eyes, begging for him to administer the Heimlich?

I toss the paper into the trash can. It wasnt always this way. Before he started, I was asked by the hiring manager to email him a product catalog so he could familiarize himself with the inventory. His reply was nothing short of impressive.