Simpatico
by Scott Pedersen
Tippy the dachshund, tail wagging and belly sagging, approached the precipice one tiny step at a time. After peering down over the edge of the bluff, he looked back with the quizzical expression only a dachshund can do so well: the single raised brow ridge, the lowered snout, the slight lateral tilt of the head. Margie, his owner, crouched, used her outstretched hands to coax him away from danger, and scooped him up. Cyn, watching from a safe distance, resumed breathing.
Derrick, the organizer of this “team building” outing, muttered something congratulatory and resumed admiring the view. The beauty of the conservancy was lost on Cyn, who could think only of the unfair performance reviews Derrick had given her the last two years. “Lacks initiative”? Give me a break. I’ll show you initiative.
Having seen enough from High Point Outlook, the others headed back into the woods while Cyn, in a boho-chic dress and black boots, remained behind Derrick. When the last person in the group disappeared, she took four bold steps forward and pushed him square in the back. Over the edge he went, no doubt too surprised to yell. She inched forward and craned to see where he landed. He was motionless on a large rock, blood pooling around his head. Satisfied he was dead, Cyn hurried to catch up with the others.
As they strolled along, Cyn imagined what would happen. There were about twenty of them, so it was unlikely anyone would notice Derrick missing until they reached the parking lot, 200 yards down the trail. With the passage of that much time and considering all the conversation that would ensue, there was little chance anyone would remember exactly where she had been. Plus, she was so petite; after Derrick’s body was discovered, Cyn would be the last person of the group suspected. And that’s not to mention it was clearly an accidental slip and fall—much more likely than murder. Once they reached the parking lot, the three employees Derrick had driven in his car would figure out he wasn’t around and send someone back for him.
In fact, Bruce seemed annoyed as he tugged on a door handle of Derrick’s ’74 Volvo. “I’m starving. Carl, go back and get him. You’re a runner, right?”
“That’s not a good reason,” said Carl. “How is that even a reason?”
“Well, somebody has to get him.”
“Get who?” All heads swiveled as Derrick reached into his pocket pulled out his car keys.
Cyn regularly imagined things she wished could be true. It was part of her embroidered view of her workplace—and life in general.
At the café where the “team” gathered for lunch, Cyn sat across from Arthur, another hapless handler of computer punch cards. “How’s the liver?” she asked.
“Good,” he said, before stuffing another piece into his mouth, probably to avoid further discussion.
Arthur had small dark eyes buoyed by generous cheeks. His cherubic face so attracted attention that few noticed his thick, black, impossibly shiny curls. Cyn did notice and tried not to stare. The physical attraction alone, though, was not enough of a catalyst for an amatory pursuit. Maybe someday he would say something charming. Or do something to spark her interest further.
She didn’t have to wait long. Two days later, on her usual foray to the mail room during break time, she saw him in the business office—pilfering. He glanced around while reaching into the coffee can where the petty cash was kept. Petty cash—the “floor sweepings” of currency, funded by loose change, the return of purchased items, various unknown sources. She could understand his targeting it. She stood in the doorway in a state of near rapture. Arthur, you devil.
Then he looked in her direction and froze.
She walked up close to him as he trembled slightly, his eyes locked on the can. “Arthur, you go ahead. I’m all for it. I’ll stand watch by the door. If I see somebody, I’ll cough.” When she was halfway to the door, she looked back and said, “Leave about half of it. And fluff it up.” He gave her a questioning look and mouthed, “Fluff?” She nodded and took her position in the doorway.
She didn’t understand why he was taking the time to count it. Are you new at this, Arthur? When he finished and put the can back, she waved and headed for the mail room.
The next day, Cyn, wearing her favorite boho-chic dress and black boots, stood behind Arthur at the data center window, waiting to drop off punch cards for processing. What is he plotting today? Maybe he’d like to have a co-conspirator. Her thoughts were interrupted by the familiar sound of dozens of shuffling feet and hushed talking. The two moved against the wall to make way for another pack of visitors touring the research facility. Cyn stepped closer to Arthur as they passed. Then, with her arm already pressed against his, she impulsively took Arthur’s hand in hers and held it tightly until the crowd was gone.
Arthur gave Cyn a quick, uneasy look and handed his cards to the attendant. Cyn hurried to hand over hers and catch up with him. “Wanna take our break outside? It’s warmer today.”
“Okay.”
The two sat at a table in the outdoor courtyard, facing each other. Cyn studied Arthur’s blank expression and flashed an encouraging smile. “Um, about what happened inside—you seem kind of shy, so I thought I would make the first move.” Trying her best to soften her naturally scratchy voice, she asked, “You didn’t mind, did you?”
Arthur shook his head. “I liked it.”
Cyn rocked in her chair, a habit of hers when feeling confident. “You know, Arthur, we’ve worked together a long time, but we’ve never had a real conversation. I see you in the hallway and think, ‘There goes Arthur with another load of punch cards. He has really great hair.’ That’s it. Maybe if we got to know each other—”
“I was thinking about you, too.”
“Really? That’s nice. It’s not like I’m swimming in friends.” She laughed. “I don’t even know why I’m working here. I have an art degree. If I could just figure it all out—like you.”
“Me? I’m just trying to pay the rent.”
“Anyway, when I saw you with the petty cash yesterday, I realized, we are so simpatico!”
“How so?”
“We can take only so much abuse before we strike back. Wouldn’t it be great if we could do performance reviews of Derrick? Give him a taste of his own medicine.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know. The way he finds excuses every year to write a bad review. He picks out one little mistake and blows it up. Uh, why are you shaking your head?”
“I get good reviews.”
You are such a liar, Arthur. “Whatever. I just wish I had the guts to strike back for real— like you. Stealing that petty cash—that was righteous.”
“Stealing! I was just reimbursing myself for office supplies I bought. We needed the stuff and didn’t have time to order it.”
“You waited until everybody was gone. Give me a break.” Cyn looked away.
“Submitting a reimbursement form is a big hassle. It takes forever. I just cut out the red tape.”
“Red tape. Uh-huh.”
Now Arthur’s face was bright red. “You saw me. I didn’t take it all, which is what a thief would do. I saved the university a bundle on labor!”
He seemed so adamant, she started to believe him. Further conversation seemed pointless. “I better go back to work,” she said, getting up.
“Cyn, I don’t know what’s bothering you, but I think you should figure it out and do something about it.”
“Just stuff it, Arthur.”
Despite her rebuff, Cyn knew he was right. She went back inside, paused to steel herself, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. She marched toward Derrick’s office, then stopped short of his door. There, clicking along the tile floor as he waddled, was Tippy, tail wagging.
Margie sometimes brought him to work, even though it wasn’t allowed. Maybe she hoped to get fired. Tippy gave Cyn the same quizzical look he’d had at the bluff’s edge.
Now Cyn was teetering. She looked at Derrick’s door and back at Tippy. “Don’t worry, fella, I got this.”
She stepped into Derrick’s office and plopped onto his visitor’s chair.
“Hi, Cyn,” said Derrick. “What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you what’s up, Derrick. Do you remember the first year I worked here? You gave me a great review. But ever since we broke up, you’ve given me crappy reviews. You know it isn’t right. My performance has been exactly the same the whole time I’ve worked here.”
“You’re right,” said Derrick. “Exactly the same.”
“Then change my last review! It’s only been two weeks. You can do it.”
“I stand by that review. I’m not going to change it.”
“Why not?” She slapped the top of Derrick’s desk. “Come on, do the right thing.”
“Cyn, there’s another possibility you’re not seeing. Think about it.”
Another possibility? She remembered how happily she’d signed her first review, on that very desktop. “Oh. So, you were doing me a favor that first year. Now I feel like shit.”
“Sorry.”
“You know what, Derrick? You suck at team building!”
Cyn found Tippy still in the hallway, his tail no longer wagging. She dropped to her knees and hugged him. “You’re just the cutest thing. From now on, I’m going to listen to you.”
She lifted Tippy’s snout in her palm and kissed it.
“There he is,” said Margie as she picked up Tippy. She offered Cyn a tissue. “Want to come to my office and talk about it?”
Cyn wiped her eyes. “Maybe later. Is the personnel office still in the administration building?"
Derrick, the organizer of this “team building” outing, muttered something congratulatory and resumed admiring the view. The beauty of the conservancy was lost on Cyn, who could think only of the unfair performance reviews Derrick had given her the last two years. “Lacks initiative”? Give me a break. I’ll show you initiative.
Having seen enough from High Point Outlook, the others headed back into the woods while Cyn, in a boho-chic dress and black boots, remained behind Derrick. When the last person in the group disappeared, she took four bold steps forward and pushed him square in the back. Over the edge he went, no doubt too surprised to yell. She inched forward and craned to see where he landed. He was motionless on a large rock, blood pooling around his head. Satisfied he was dead, Cyn hurried to catch up with the others.
As they strolled along, Cyn imagined what would happen. There were about twenty of them, so it was unlikely anyone would notice Derrick missing until they reached the parking lot, 200 yards down the trail. With the passage of that much time and considering all the conversation that would ensue, there was little chance anyone would remember exactly where she had been. Plus, she was so petite; after Derrick’s body was discovered, Cyn would be the last person of the group suspected. And that’s not to mention it was clearly an accidental slip and fall—much more likely than murder. Once they reached the parking lot, the three employees Derrick had driven in his car would figure out he wasn’t around and send someone back for him.
In fact, Bruce seemed annoyed as he tugged on a door handle of Derrick’s ’74 Volvo. “I’m starving. Carl, go back and get him. You’re a runner, right?”
“That’s not a good reason,” said Carl. “How is that even a reason?”
“Well, somebody has to get him.”
“Get who?” All heads swiveled as Derrick reached into his pocket pulled out his car keys.
Cyn regularly imagined things she wished could be true. It was part of her embroidered view of her workplace—and life in general.
At the café where the “team” gathered for lunch, Cyn sat across from Arthur, another hapless handler of computer punch cards. “How’s the liver?” she asked.
“Good,” he said, before stuffing another piece into his mouth, probably to avoid further discussion.
Arthur had small dark eyes buoyed by generous cheeks. His cherubic face so attracted attention that few noticed his thick, black, impossibly shiny curls. Cyn did notice and tried not to stare. The physical attraction alone, though, was not enough of a catalyst for an amatory pursuit. Maybe someday he would say something charming. Or do something to spark her interest further.
She didn’t have to wait long. Two days later, on her usual foray to the mail room during break time, she saw him in the business office—pilfering. He glanced around while reaching into the coffee can where the petty cash was kept. Petty cash—the “floor sweepings” of currency, funded by loose change, the return of purchased items, various unknown sources. She could understand his targeting it. She stood in the doorway in a state of near rapture. Arthur, you devil.
Then he looked in her direction and froze.
She walked up close to him as he trembled slightly, his eyes locked on the can. “Arthur, you go ahead. I’m all for it. I’ll stand watch by the door. If I see somebody, I’ll cough.” When she was halfway to the door, she looked back and said, “Leave about half of it. And fluff it up.” He gave her a questioning look and mouthed, “Fluff?” She nodded and took her position in the doorway.
She didn’t understand why he was taking the time to count it. Are you new at this, Arthur? When he finished and put the can back, she waved and headed for the mail room.
The next day, Cyn, wearing her favorite boho-chic dress and black boots, stood behind Arthur at the data center window, waiting to drop off punch cards for processing. What is he plotting today? Maybe he’d like to have a co-conspirator. Her thoughts were interrupted by the familiar sound of dozens of shuffling feet and hushed talking. The two moved against the wall to make way for another pack of visitors touring the research facility. Cyn stepped closer to Arthur as they passed. Then, with her arm already pressed against his, she impulsively took Arthur’s hand in hers and held it tightly until the crowd was gone.
Arthur gave Cyn a quick, uneasy look and handed his cards to the attendant. Cyn hurried to hand over hers and catch up with him. “Wanna take our break outside? It’s warmer today.”
“Okay.”
The two sat at a table in the outdoor courtyard, facing each other. Cyn studied Arthur’s blank expression and flashed an encouraging smile. “Um, about what happened inside—you seem kind of shy, so I thought I would make the first move.” Trying her best to soften her naturally scratchy voice, she asked, “You didn’t mind, did you?”
Arthur shook his head. “I liked it.”
Cyn rocked in her chair, a habit of hers when feeling confident. “You know, Arthur, we’ve worked together a long time, but we’ve never had a real conversation. I see you in the hallway and think, ‘There goes Arthur with another load of punch cards. He has really great hair.’ That’s it. Maybe if we got to know each other—”
“I was thinking about you, too.”
“Really? That’s nice. It’s not like I’m swimming in friends.” She laughed. “I don’t even know why I’m working here. I have an art degree. If I could just figure it all out—like you.”
“Me? I’m just trying to pay the rent.”
“Anyway, when I saw you with the petty cash yesterday, I realized, we are so simpatico!”
“How so?”
“We can take only so much abuse before we strike back. Wouldn’t it be great if we could do performance reviews of Derrick? Give him a taste of his own medicine.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know. The way he finds excuses every year to write a bad review. He picks out one little mistake and blows it up. Uh, why are you shaking your head?”
“I get good reviews.”
You are such a liar, Arthur. “Whatever. I just wish I had the guts to strike back for real— like you. Stealing that petty cash—that was righteous.”
“Stealing! I was just reimbursing myself for office supplies I bought. We needed the stuff and didn’t have time to order it.”
“You waited until everybody was gone. Give me a break.” Cyn looked away.
“Submitting a reimbursement form is a big hassle. It takes forever. I just cut out the red tape.”
“Red tape. Uh-huh.”
Now Arthur’s face was bright red. “You saw me. I didn’t take it all, which is what a thief would do. I saved the university a bundle on labor!”
He seemed so adamant, she started to believe him. Further conversation seemed pointless. “I better go back to work,” she said, getting up.
“Cyn, I don’t know what’s bothering you, but I think you should figure it out and do something about it.”
“Just stuff it, Arthur.”
Despite her rebuff, Cyn knew he was right. She went back inside, paused to steel herself, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. She marched toward Derrick’s office, then stopped short of his door. There, clicking along the tile floor as he waddled, was Tippy, tail wagging.
Margie sometimes brought him to work, even though it wasn’t allowed. Maybe she hoped to get fired. Tippy gave Cyn the same quizzical look he’d had at the bluff’s edge.
Now Cyn was teetering. She looked at Derrick’s door and back at Tippy. “Don’t worry, fella, I got this.”
She stepped into Derrick’s office and plopped onto his visitor’s chair.
“Hi, Cyn,” said Derrick. “What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you what’s up, Derrick. Do you remember the first year I worked here? You gave me a great review. But ever since we broke up, you’ve given me crappy reviews. You know it isn’t right. My performance has been exactly the same the whole time I’ve worked here.”
“You’re right,” said Derrick. “Exactly the same.”
“Then change my last review! It’s only been two weeks. You can do it.”
“I stand by that review. I’m not going to change it.”
“Why not?” She slapped the top of Derrick’s desk. “Come on, do the right thing.”
“Cyn, there’s another possibility you’re not seeing. Think about it.”
Another possibility? She remembered how happily she’d signed her first review, on that very desktop. “Oh. So, you were doing me a favor that first year. Now I feel like shit.”
“Sorry.”
“You know what, Derrick? You suck at team building!”
Cyn found Tippy still in the hallway, his tail no longer wagging. She dropped to her knees and hugged him. “You’re just the cutest thing. From now on, I’m going to listen to you.”
She lifted Tippy’s snout in her palm and kissed it.
“There he is,” said Margie as she picked up Tippy. She offered Cyn a tissue. “Want to come to my office and talk about it?”
Cyn wiped her eyes. “Maybe later. Is the personnel office still in the administration building?"
Scott Pedersen is a writer based in Wisconsin. His work has appeared in Fiction International, The I-70 Review, Louisiana Literature, The MacGuffin, and many other journals and anthologies. When not writing fiction, he enjoys performing in a traditional Celtic band.