phones ringing, no secretary whining about people stealing her pink pen, no Media Department full of beauty queens talking at high volume about run times, no ka-thunk of the free Coke machine that kept the IT guys awake ands squirrely at their keyboards. She could've gone through the offices, opening drawers and lifting up keyboards and hacking passwords to find out anything she wanted to know. But Lissa was one of the good guys, and she even stopped to lock a couple of screens left on and open by people who'd probably left in a panic to get their kids.
Her first real stop was the CEO's break room for a packet of coffee and an organic granola bar; Dr. Horne had given her the keycode—and his eternal devotion— when she'd saved his ass by pulling an all-nighter for a major client when the original PM had quit in a huff. Next, she went to the far less posh but much more comfortable IT break room to actually brew the coffee to her exact specifications and load it with French Vanilla creamer. Lounging on the couch, she flipped through the TV stations, sticking out her tongue every time some toupee with horse teeth said Snowpocalypse like it was in any way creative and not already splattered all over Twitter. She preferred Hothlanta , anyway. Giving up, she flicked the remote to Cartoon Network and tuned out until her coffee came up empty.
As was her tradition when working during non-work hours, she carefully saved her granola bar crumbs in the package and carried them two halls over to the office of one David Dennihy, chief accountant, where she sprinkled bits of oatmeal and brown sugar in his keyboard, on his chair, and in between the cushions of his visitors' chairs.
“That's what you get for trying to get me fired, dick,” she muttered, dusting the remaining crumbs off her hands and onto the perfectly centered blotter on his fancy, solid oak desk.
It was the most benign punishment she'd concocted. One of the Media girls who'd had a similar experience had encouraged her to leave peanut crumbs, as Dennihy was deathly allergic, but Lissa couldn't have lived with herself if he'd actually come to any harm. She just wanted him to be deeply annoyed and constantly digging itchy, phantom crumbs out of his rumpled slacks.
Skipping down the hall to the nicer of the women's restrooms, she finally heard something that piqued her curiosity: music. The hook was catchy but unfamiliar, and she ran fingers down the textured wallpaper, heading toward the sound of strumming guitars like a moth to flame. She didn't spend much time down here, in the art department; most of her work life was divided between the programmers, the highers-up, and the deep chairs of the high-tech meeting room where she communicated with everyone else. The designers and photographers did their own thing, and when their work was ready, it appeared in FTP folders and magically popped up on her programmers' pages. Other than that, she only saw them when there was cake in the break room.
The programmers were in a cube maze with darkened offices for the veterans and specialists, but the art department was one big room with individual workstations around the perimeter. The room was mostly dark, a few lights shining like spotlights on slanted desks or project boards. Lissa stopped in the door, listening for the music's source so she could find out which of the art kids had good taste in alt rock—and turn it off so they wouldn't get in trouble when everyone returned to the office.
There, in the corner. It must've belonged to one of the more senior designers, with a double-size workstation and monitors even bigger than Lissa's. One side had a stool, the other a yoga ball. Shelves on the wall held action figures, vinyl Pop figurines, framed comics, a Batman mask, and a vintage Godzilla lording over them all. An iPod was parked in a Bose dock, and a single light shone onto a collection of photos on the higher desk. As it was the sort of old-fashioned twist lamp that
Her first real stop was the CEO's break room for a packet of coffee and an organic granola bar; Dr. Horne had given her the keycode—and his eternal devotion— when she'd saved his ass by pulling an all-nighter for a major client when the original PM had quit in a huff. Next, she went to the far less posh but much more comfortable IT break room to actually brew the coffee to her exact specifications and load it with French Vanilla creamer. Lounging on the couch, she flipped through the TV stations, sticking out her tongue every time some toupee with horse teeth said Snowpocalypse like it was in any way creative and not already splattered all over Twitter. She preferred Hothlanta , anyway. Giving up, she flicked the remote to Cartoon Network and tuned out until her coffee came up empty.
As was her tradition when working during non-work hours, she carefully saved her granola bar crumbs in the package and carried them two halls over to the office of one David Dennihy, chief accountant, where she sprinkled bits of oatmeal and brown sugar in his keyboard, on his chair, and in between the cushions of his visitors' chairs.
“That's what you get for trying to get me fired, dick,” she muttered, dusting the remaining crumbs off her hands and onto the perfectly centered blotter on his fancy, solid oak desk.
It was the most benign punishment she'd concocted. One of the Media girls who'd had a similar experience had encouraged her to leave peanut crumbs, as Dennihy was deathly allergic, but Lissa couldn't have lived with herself if he'd actually come to any harm. She just wanted him to be deeply annoyed and constantly digging itchy, phantom crumbs out of his rumpled slacks.
Skipping down the hall to the nicer of the women's restrooms, she finally heard something that piqued her curiosity: music. The hook was catchy but unfamiliar, and she ran fingers down the textured wallpaper, heading toward the sound of strumming guitars like a moth to flame. She didn't spend much time down here, in the art department; most of her work life was divided between the programmers, the highers-up, and the deep chairs of the high-tech meeting room where she communicated with everyone else. The designers and photographers did their own thing, and when their work was ready, it appeared in FTP folders and magically popped up on her programmers' pages. Other than that, she only saw them when there was cake in the break room.
The programmers were in a cube maze with darkened offices for the veterans and specialists, but the art department was one big room with individual workstations around the perimeter. The room was mostly dark, a few lights shining like spotlights on slanted desks or project boards. Lissa stopped in the door, listening for the music's source so she could find out which of the art kids had good taste in alt rock—and turn it off so they wouldn't get in trouble when everyone returned to the office.
There, in the corner. It must've belonged to one of the more senior designers, with a double-size workstation and monitors even bigger than Lissa's. One side had a stool, the other a yoga ball. Shelves on the wall held action figures, vinyl Pop figurines, framed comics, a Batman mask, and a vintage Godzilla lording over them all. An iPod was parked in a Bose dock, and a single light shone onto a collection of photos on the higher desk. As it was the sort of old-fashioned twist lamp that
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