Good on Paper

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Twelve thousand envelopes wanted stuffing, there were twelve thousand labels to affix. Mr. Ferguson, Administrative Manager of Legs-R-Us, had particular ideas about proportional folding, and straight affixion.

Affliction? Durlene asked.

Affixion! I said.

Never heard of that, Durlene said.

Exactly! I said.

Why are you whispering? Durlene asked.

I was hiding in the supply closet, but Durlene didn’t need to know that.

You need to airlift me out of here, I said.

You need to stick it out, Shira. I can’t keep placing you if you keep quitting jobs.

I never managed to stick. I couldn’t look at the walls of the schlock gallery, I couldn’t bear the boss who kept telling me to smile or the funny smell in the church-office lunchroom.

I blamed Clyde. We’d gotten together last spring, as Good Scents prepared for Winter Wonderland. As a joke, the flavor techs threw a holiday party, complete with an inflatable Santa, and a menorah for me and the ancient receptionist. Clyde explained over imitation-raspberry-flavored eggnog that a woman’s sense of smell is more acute than that of a man. Allowed to sniff a variety of sweaty T-shirts, a woman will naturally be attracted to the one with the most compatible DNA. It was only when he dabbed soy sauce behind my ears that I realized I was being seduced. We French-kissed under the mistletoe: I guess I liked what I smelled.

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