Polly Doesn’t Want A Cracker

Thanks for coming back to the second part of my Intro to Polly! Follow and share if you liked it! Feel free to comment on what you want to see talked about or what kind of story you want me to tell next.

Every great office comedy has an eccentric nutcase that we all can’t help but fall in love with despite their shortcomings. Jim Halpert has his Dwight Schrute. Peter Gibbons has his Milton Waddams. Hell, the whole cast of Workaholics has the whole cast of Workaholics. There’s always at least one in each ensemble that forces you to question what you would do such a situation.

I know exactly what you should do in that situation.

Run. Don’t stop. Just run. Don’t think of the children and go back or think you absolutely need your phone that you left on your desk. You don’t need it and maybe those kids should have tried a little harder in gym. Perhaps then they would have some scrap of a chance at survival. What the movies want you to think is that there is a lovable innocence underneath that quirky exterior. But what if there is no innocence? What if underneath that exoskeleton of broken dreams and filth film theres just evil and cynicism? Like an oyster filled with excrement.

This is Polly.

Polly drags her feet in at around 8:15. I tell, nay, beg myself not to look up but my foolish hope for a decent outcome fails me and I take a glance to be polite and acknowledge her arrival. Mother of God, it’s happening again. There she is in all her glory. Her jeans appear to have been ravaged by lions and the tattered shreds scrape along the floor, encrusted in coarse mud from the parking lot. Her food-stained military-style jacket is in no better shape. Her hair is something of wonderment. It reminds me of a wild person that a scientist found whilst trying to track the yeti. They want to introduce her back into society but she insists on flinging feces at guests. I occasionally question if she keeps her young in a nest of that hair.

Her facial piercings let the world know that she’s still hip and are probably her best feature. I’ve never been one for body mutilation but in this case I am grateful because they serve as a distraction from her torso. Today, like most days, she has decided that a thin white tank top is enough to cover her lady lumps. It is not nor will it ever be enough. It is not enough because she is smuggling what appears to be two large slices of thinly cut bologna under there.

She snarls a crude greeting that I can’t quite make out and hobbles to her throne of refuse at the receptionists’s desk. Immediately she flips on the space heater and takes off her shoes. The smell of hot feet, cigarette smoke, and sweat vapor fill the small space in which I am forced to reside as she logs onto Pinterest and Netflix on her dual monitors, preparing for a hard day’s work of deciding which series she’s going to watch and then ruin for me.

I peel my eyes away from the terror and look back at the notes I had started to work on. I place a tick on a sticky note titled “Bologna Sighting” and remind myself to get more sticky notes from the copy room later. Another smell hits my nostrils and I fight the urge to say anything. I resolve to just cough in attempt to dispel the particles from my body. I understand that she is pregnant but gaseous fumes are becoming more and more horrid with each passing day.

“Does that smoothie have dairy?”

I am startled for a brief moment. Was that spoken to me? I glance at the remnants of my once delicious smoothie.

“No, just coconut water in this one.”

She scoffs. “Really?”

I don’t know what is surprising about that. My waistline is not small but I’m not by law required to only drink lard.

“Yea, just ,uh, frozen fruit and some coconut water. I like to make it befor-“, I don’t even get to finish my sentence.

“WELL, at my house we just went totally Vegan and Gluten-free. Like I don’t eat any dairy and we threw away all our wheat and animal products.”

I look at the box of saltine crackers on her desk and the bag of nibbled white bread and butter dish on her mini-fridge.

“Oh, that’s cool. Good for you on that amount of self-control. That’s pretty impressive”, I feign as I turn back to my notes.

She seems pleased with herself and it appears I’ve appeased the beast as she rises and scuffles to the kitchen. I hear a beep and smell the toaster turn on. Out of curiosity, I glance back at her area. Sure enough, the bread and butter are missing and in their place is a clean crime scene outline in the dust. She begins to talk to me from the kitchen about how easy it is as she flips on the coffee maker and prepares her breakfast. I doodle a volcano in the corner of my notepad, lava slowly trickling towards a scratchy scribbled of a building that looks strangely like our office.

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