Note: The idea for this letter came from my very dear friend, Satan M.D.
Dear Latina Janitorial Staff at Every Corporate Job I’ve Ever Had,
Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Your judgement is wrapped so completely in apathetic boredom that it appears nonexistent but I know it’s there. I know that behind those half-lidded eyes, that gum-chewing maw, those pink Gumy Reggaeton-blasting earbuds, beneath that messy bun of hip length, gloriously lustrous and full-bodied brown hair, deep inside that cranium, you’re judging me. You’re seeing that I’m still working at 6:45 p.m. and you’re thinking, “This perra must suck at her job.”
So now I’m informing you that, on behalf of every corporate employee ever, I don’t appreciate it.
You don’t know me. Maybe I’m so dedicated to my team, my job and my impending promotion that I work twelve hours a day, sacrificing all personal needs and any shred of remaining social life. Or more realistically, maybe I spent half the day sexting that random bartender I finally heard back from and now I’m playing catch-up. Either way, there are important things afoot and I would like to attend to them sans judgment.
I will say though, after my employer decided to force recycling on us and swapped our beloved black trash cans out with hateful cerulean Recycling Only bins, you continue to throw my “recycling” away with the regular trash and for that I am eternally grateful.
I’m not expecting for us to link arms and joyously jerk our torsos in tandem like some giant, demented “It’s a Small World Afterall” situation. I’m also not expecting us to strike up conversation in which I incorporate shoddy and inappropriate seventh grade Spanish class questions like ¿Dónde está el baño? to which you reply “Where is the bathroom? You know good and goddamn well where the bathroom is.”
Or perhaps the conversation goes well: I inquire about the closest biblioteca and it turns out that you’re an avid reader. We bond over trash-talking Janet Evanovich and then you invite me back to a barbeque at your Tio’s house during which you introduce me to all of your living relatives and we eat roast pig and dance the night away.
O.K. probably that doesn’t happen.
I could try to engage you in a brief get-to-know-ya, maybe learn your name, but we both know it’ll just be an irritating interruption for both of us. After all, if every single one of your cubicle occupants stopped to chat with you, you’d never get your work done. Therefore, as a fellow appreciator of well-oiled efficiency, I promise never to speak to you. That’s how much I care.
That said, let’s strike a compromise. Please only conduct your trash emptying and quarterly vacuuming between the hours of 11 p.m. and 4 a.m. If you are unable to commit to the above hours, please go easy on the silent scrutiny. It’s slowly killing me.
Sarah on C-14