Created by Diane Brown, Buena Beach is an online soap opera, giving up all the juicy details of some of the hottest guys and gals of Buena Beach, a small town in Southern California. Check back everyday for a new episode here on HelloBeautiful.com.
Diane
Sigh. Another Thursday. They come up so quickly, yet not soon enough. They keep me upbeat because they’re only a day away from the weekend but they’re also just three days away from Mondays…and who needs another Monday? Mondays just offer another week’s worth of coffee refills, paper cuts, ridiculous copy jobs, hours of dictation, and hundreds of calls. My job has gotten to be so monotonous and uneventful that I started making up new duties for myself, like developing a “Staff of the Month” award and assigning myself as the selection committee chair (and sole member). I’ve also been snacking like crazy, so bored that I’ve begun doing my own personal taste tests on chips, fast food breakfast sandwiches, frozen entrées and more so that one day I can write my own book or start a blog telling the cubicle dwellers of the world about my ratings.
Speaking of food, it’s time for lunch. I’ve been testing various reduced-calorie lasagnas this week. Tuesday’s wasn’t so bad, but the vegetable one I had yesterday tasted like ketchup-covered cardboard. I’m looking forward, however, to today’s selection, a three-cheese lasagna with sun-dried tomatoes that I got from the overpriced health food store. If it doesn’t rate any better than the $2.00 cardboard I had yesterday, I might sue.
Unlike the right side of the refrigerator, the employee lounge freezer is bare and iced over. Most days, my pre-fab lunches share the space with only a couple bags of ice; so I’m momentarily perplexed when my lasagna’s not on the top shelf where I left it just this morning. In fact, there’s nothing on any of the shelves. Thinking that, perhaps, I’ve somehow lost my mind and placed it elsewhere, I root around for the box; first under the bags of ice, then in the packed refrigerator. And of course I don’t find it because there’s no way I would have put it anywhere but on that top shelf of the refrigerator where I always put my stuff. And even still, I’m looking around the room, thinking that maybe I set it down on the counter or the microwave or on the small table, neglecting to put it away because I was too concerned with getting the last bit of coffee left in the carafe.
A good five minutes later, I come to terms with the fact that my sweet little lasagna has been abducted. Abducted and certainly digested by now.
I’ve got my ideas on the perpetrator. Number One on my list is Sue from tech services. I know it sounds awful, but the woman eats ALL THE TIME. And it shows. I mean REALLY shows. When she bends over, when she yawns and her shirt lifts, when she claps her hands while wearing a sleeveless shirt. That woman alone helps the vending machines turn their minimum profit. Not that she hasn’t tried to lose the weight. For awhile, she was doing really well, opting for the no-carb thing. Then, she saw some biography on Pamela Anderson and arrived to work the next day as a bonafide PETA-card carrying vegan. Unfortunately, it meant she would eventually trade in her medium-rare steaks and buffalo wings for hot buttered garlic bread and veggie spaghetti and fried rice. And then weeks later, quoting an article stating that many vegetarians don’t receive the necessary amount of amino acids their bodies require, the meat returned and she was right back at her pre-no-carb weight. Plus ten. So with that, I label her a suspect.
Of course, that’s going with the obvious. Could be that new guy in accounting, just in from corporate America. Maybe he’s used to private companies showering their employees with perks like free microwaveable lunches, so he simply helped himself. Or maybe it’s that skinny girl in H.R. – Sandy always said she was bulimic. Could be that my meals are the perfect binge for her purge.
Whatever happened to my lunch, it’s gone now, surely never to return to the staff refrigerator again. One thing I do know, however – if I ever find out who ate my food, I’m gonna go a little crazy on the person. Especially because this is not the first time this has happened. Early on, I blamed myself for not labeling my items. But there’s no excuse now, each side of my box inked clearly with sparkly purple pen displaying my name – first, middle, and last. It’s happened with other things, too. Creamer, jelly, toaster pastries, cream cheese. I guess these folks figure that anything in here, labeled or not, is deemed community property.
As I slam the refrigerator for the umpteenth time, I’m joined in the lounge by Veronica, who smiles and greets me. Since our double date on Monday, the two of us have been extremely civil with each other, perhaps even friendly. I still can’t stand her for taking my job, but I guess I should stop blaming her. I also can’t stand her for dating the fine-ass brotha I’ve been flirting with during my breaks in front of the building, but can’t be too upset since I do have a brotha of my own. Basically, I’d be pleased as punch if the two of us could simply swap men and trade jobs. Yes, that would make me very happy, so much so that I wouldn’t even care about one of my colleagues enjoying a meal on me.
“I’m so glad I brought my lunch today,” she tells me as she opens the fridge and pulls out a fine piece of Tupperware. “This going out to eat everyday gets expensive after awhile, doesn’t it?”
I nod and tell her that I’ve been bringing my lunch for weeks and that it makes a big difference, especially with gas being so high. “But someone stole my lunch today.”
“What? No way.”
“Yes. I’m so…pissed. Not because I was so looking forward to eating a meal cooked by microwave; but…it was mine, you know? It’s like, can’t you go and get your own lunch?”
She shakes her head, seeming to be getting as worked up as I am. “That’s really f—ed up. If I were you, I’d do something about it.”
Well of course I want to do something about it. But what am I supposed to do, mount a video camera and watch a live feed from a monitor at my desk? “Do something like what.”
She does that thing I’ve always wished I could do, arching one eyebrow for a wicked yet sexy glare. Then she gives an innocent shrug. “I don’t know – perhaps spike the food somehow.”
Really?
“And when someone responds – screaming when they find a hairy spider in their spaghetti or spitting their coffee across the room after we’ve added vinegar to it – that’s when we’ll know who the thief is.”
Damn – she’s O. G. with hers. I was just thinking about sending a nasty e-mail. She’s giving me all sorts of ideas. The longer I talk to her, the more I think that she’s employed some of these tactics before. I still can’t say that I like the girl, but I definitely respect her. Could probably enjoy a Happy Hour with her if I really wanted to. And in all honesty, the lunch we had with our respective men on Monday, although initially uncomfortable, was actually sort of nice. Seeing this side of her now, I might possibly have her join me for lunch one of these days – without the guys. Seems like she’d be good for a laugh or two.
“Well, just let me know when you want to take care of this,” she tells me as I head back out to my cubicle to grab my car keys so I can go waste my money on some cheesy and fried fast food. On my way down the hall, Chris waves me down.
“Oh, you’re here. Some guy just came by looking for you with a package.”
Guy with a package, huh? “For me?”
“Yah. I left it on your chair.”
I thank him and hustle a little more quickly, all too curious about what I might find. I never get packages.
But what I discover is not really what I’d call a package; more of a large envelope. Potatoes, po-tah-toes, I suppose. Going in like it’s Christmas morning, I rip it apart before even looking to see where it came from. Inside, I find another envelope marked ‘Confidential’. I’m a little more refined when I open the second one, emptying the contents on my desk. All sorts of papers fall out, mostly photocopied documents.
It’s the results of the background check I ran on Veronica.
Flipping through before anyone sees while trying to prevent yet another paper cut for the week, I spot the words “indicted” and “prostitution” and “methamphetamine” and “probation.” And then I pull up a picture, which isn’t quite telling a thousand words – perhaps just one: Damn!
Missed an episode of Buena Beach? Click here to catch up!
