by Nino Cipri
The bathrooms in receiving and assembly were, by contrast, terrible. One toilet didn’t have a seat cover. Another stall had lost its door. The third toilet was an unsettling shade of avocado green with a carpeted lid. Management had covered graffiti left by disgruntled employees in mismatched patches of brown paint, which dotted all the walls. The only source of light was a buzzing fluorescent bulb, which tinted everyone’s skin a cold and sickly blue, and the mirror was scratched across its surface with the graffiti-ghosts of long-ago employees. Derek kept his gaze on his reflection as he pulled off his LitenVärld polo shirt and stuck its sleeve under the faucet, running it under the too-hot water. Faint swirls of red curled in the basin as it filled with steaming water. Against his bluish, washed-out skin, the blood flecking his chin stood out, almost black.
His reflection looked strange, unfamiliar—like a word repeated over and over until it sounded like gibberish, his face suddenly looked like something he had never seen before. He stretched open his mouth, trying to angle his chin up to see down his throat, but he couldn’t make out anything in the terrible light.
He should call the number in his employee manual. The instructions were very clear: If you experience any signs of illness, injury, hallucinations, personality changes, phantom limb pain, sudden hemorrhaging, inexplicable subdermal growths, or other physiological abnormalities, call the following number immediately and await further instruction.
Derek’s hands clenched against the sodden fabric of his uniform polo, anxiety temporarily overriding the pain in his jaw and throat. He had to call the number. Something had gone wrong, and whoever was on the other end of the line would tell him how to make it right again. He did not want to call the number, though, somehow sure that the cure would be worse than what he was feeling.
There was a cautious knock at the door. “Derek?” Jules called through the wood. “Are you okay?”
Derek’s throat was clenched too tight to answer. He spat into the sink, rinsed the thick, dark material that came out of him down the sink without examining it. If he didn’t see it, he wouldn’t have to report it.
“I’m fine!” he said. His voice was hoarse, but hopefully his tone was normal. All that practice in the mirror was coming in handy. “But would you mind getting me a fresh polo?”
There was a pause, then Jules said, “Alright. Medium?”
“Large, please.”
He couldn’t unclench his fingers until he heard their footsteps retreating from the door. Derek turned his eyes back down to the sink. Most of the shirt was sodden navy blue, but a red-brown stain stood out on the right sleeve, where he had covered his cough. “Dang it,” he hissed.
Jules didn’t bother knocking when they returned, and their reappearance badly startled Derek.
“I could only find a medium and an XXL, so I brought . . . Are you okay?” Jules said, staring at Derek. “You look really messed up.”
“Must be the light,” Derek said nervously. His throat felt like it was on fire, but he didn’t dare try to cough again. “I’ll take the medium.”
Jules didn’t stop staring at him. “You still have some . . . something on your jaw.”
Derek pawed at his face.
“Other side. No, it’s—alright, it’s gone.”
Caught red-handed, Derek thought to himself. He wiped the blood discreetly onto a paper towel.
“Shirt?” he asked. He always felt naked without his uniform, and the feeling was more acute with someone staring at him in his threadbare undershirt. Jules tossed him the sky-blue polo. Derek slipped it over his head, the fabric stiff and starchy against his over-sensitized skin.
“Sorry,” he said. Jules seemed wary of him now, suspicious. He was used to being functionally invisible to his coworkers, and their scrutiny made him feel hotly embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I’m fine, really.”
“Maybe you should go to urgent care or something?” Jules said. “You’re on the company insurance, right? I know you got hired before me.”
Derek opened his mouth, then closed it. Was he on LitenVärld insurance? Tricia had never told him, and insurance wasn’t discussed in his employee handbook at all.
“You should at least go home for the night,” Jules insisted.
“I need to find an employee handbook,” Derek said. “There’s a phone number to call.”
Jules looked at him sidelong, a single eyebrow perking up in disbelief. “If you don’t have money for a co-pay, I can spot you—”
“Just help me find the book, please?” he pleaded.
Jules looked like they wanted to argue more, but put their hands up and shrugged. “Pretty sure there’s one in the breakroom.”
* * *
The breakroom was all the way in the back of the store, furnished with the same worn, patchwork, utilitarian style as the receiving and assembly area. There was a row of dented metal lockers painted an industrial gray, a table that wobbled on the warped linoleum floor, with mismatched chairs scattered around it. On the wall opposite the lockers, there was a bulletin board with Department of Labor–issued flyers in English, Spanish, and Arabic. A battered blue binder hung from some twine on a peg, the word HANDBOOK written sloppily across it in fading black marker.
Derek grabbed it, flipping to the page that he knew included the number to call.
Policies for new hires: the importance of maintaining boundaries against fraternization outside of work.
Derek stared blankly at the page, his brain refusing to parse the words. “There’s supposed to be a phone number,” he said, flipping back. “That you call if you feel unwell.”
Jules pried the book out of his hands and flipped to the table of contents—which was definitely not the same as Derek’s. It had dozens of chapters, all of which had much more plainspoken, descriptive titles than the ones he remembered: Equal Opportunity Employment and Non-discrimination/Non-harassment Policies; Benefit Schedule for Non-Exempt Workers; Clearance Sales, Special Inventories, and Other Notable Changes in Normal Procedures. Jules seemed to find what they were looking for toward the bottom, and paged through the book until they were nearly at the end. “Is this what you mean?” they asked, tapping the top of the page with their finger.
LitenVärld Wellness Helpline
Call for free professional medical advice! Open 24/7/365!
“I guess?” Derek said. There was no mention of phantom limb pain or hallucinations. He must have a newer version of the handbook at home; this one looked old, a photocopy of a photocopy.
He fumbled his phone out and dialed the number. There was a pleasant five-tone jingle when the call went through.
“Välkommen! You have reached the twenty-four-hour LitenVärld Family Wellness Helpline! Please enter the store number where you work.”
Derek entered the six-digit number he’d memorized on his first day.
“Thank you! Our team of medical professionals are currently getting their daily recommended seven-point-five hours of rest, but leave a message and a callback number, and we’ll get back to you ASAP.”
Derek stammered out his phone number, then added, “I’ve been having some symptoms. Uh. A cough and sore throat.” He glanced at Jules. “Some other symptoms that I’d rather not talk about over the phone.”
Jules’s eyes widened a bit, and they took a step back as Derek left a callback number and finished the message.
“Thank you! We can see that you are calling from . . .” There was a brief pause, then an entirely different voice intoned, “COOK COUNTY, ILLINOIS.” The other voice popped back, calm and cheerful. “Please be advised that all employees in COOK COUNTY, ILLINOIS, are granted a minimum of ONE HOUR OF PAID SICK LEAVE FOR EVERY FORTY HOURS WORKED, UP TO A MAXIMUM OF FORTY HOURS IN A SINGLE YEAR. If you feel under the weather, please let your manager know—they’ll be able to calculate how much of your sick leave remains. We encourage everyone in the LitenVärld family to take their health seriously, and to utilize their sick leave in a responsible manner. To rep
eat this message, please press—”
Derek hung up, and absently wiped away the sweat that had gathered on the back of his neck.
“We get sick leave?” Jules asked. They must have overheard the recording. “Since when? Nobody ever told me that.”
“I don’t know,” Derek said. He couldn’t recall the topic even being mentioned in his handbook.
“You should definitely take tomorrow off,” Jules said.
“I’m fine to work,” Derek said automatically. The anxiety in his chest pressed down, heavy and leaden. “I’ve never missed a shift before. I can’t miss a shift.”
“None of us can afford to catch whatever you’ve got. Seriously, call in tomorrow. I’ll tell Tricia you were coughing up blood.”
Derek tried to scoff. “That wasn’t—I didn’t—I’ve never missed a day before, and I’m not going to start—”
“Don’t be a fucking tool, Derek!” Jules shouted. “Just take a day off!”
A blush was spreading across Derek’s face, and shame squirmed in his chest.
Derek hoped that squirming was shame.
“I’ll go home,” he said.
“And call in sick tomorrow,” Jules said. “I’m working tomorrow and I will snitch on your bloody cough if I see you.”
“Fine!” Derek said. “I still think this is a huge overreac—”
He choked on the last word as something moved in his throat again, jumped up and squirmed against his soft palette. Derek gagged, clapped a hand over his mouth, and sprinted toward the closest bathroom—the VIP restroom. Derek ducked through three showrooms and hurdled over a kitchen table before slamming open the door and shouldering open one of the stalls.
The egg chair toilet stood before him, greeting him with strains of one of Debussy’s Études. Its armrests stretched wide and welcoming, the beautiful curves of its bowl ready and waiting to receive him.
* * *
Derek’s conversation with Tricia was . . . odd.
“I need to take a sick day,” he told her, once he’d nervously run through his compulsive pleasantries. His hands had been shaking since he’d pushed himself away from the egg chair toilet, wiped red-tinged foam from his lips, and had to breathe through several minutes’ conviction that his entire world was ending, accompanied by tinny electronic piano music.
“A what,” she said flatly.
“A sick day,” he repeated. “I did the calculations, and I should have saved up at least twelve hours according to Cook County law.” It should have been more than that, but Derek decided to only calculate hours when he was officially on the schedule, not just clocked in for extra time or subbing in for a missing coworker.
There was an uncomfortably long pause. Derek’s resolve buckled under the silence.
“I can still come in, if you—”
“Derek!” Jules hissed; they’d refused to go back to work until he called Tricia. They swiped their hand across their throat.
He cut himself off and waited to hear Tricia’s answer.
“Did you call the number, Derek? In your handbook?”
“Yes. They told me about the sick leave and encouraged me to use it.”
“I see,” Tricia said doubtfully.
“I should be fine for my next shift,” he said. “I’m sure it’s just a, a passing thing. A twenty-four-hour bug.” He was pretty sure he’d heard other workers say that. He’d never been sick a day in his life, so this was all new to him.
“Okay,” Tricia said. “I . . . hope you feel better.”
She said it with the same absence of conviction, like this was strange, unnavigable territory for the both of them.
“That’s great, thanks so much, have a good night.” The words slipped out automatically; it was one of the phrases he’d practiced in the mirror.
“Good,” Jules said when he hung up. “Go home. And go to urgent care if anything else happens. You looked real bad there for a second.”
Derek nodded wearily, too worn down to fight anymore.
Derek felt himself warm. He’d assumed that Jules was too much of a transient soul to ever really be part of the LitenVärld family. But maybe they weren’t such a temporary worker after all.
He tried to convey some of this sentiment to Jules, but he felt a little loopy, dizzy, like when he stayed awake too late assembling and disassembling shelving units in his apartment to relax.
“I’m just trying to say that you’re family,” Derek said earnestly. “The LitenVärld family. That means a lot to me.”
Jules smiled uncertainly. Maybe he’d been too earnest. He’d been cautioned against that; nobody liked a robot, but nobody liked Derek’s occasional frightening, intimidating sincerity, either. Still, saying the words aloud soothed something in him, coolness spreading through the rawness in the back of his throat.
“Thank me when you’re better,” Jules said, the last time they ever spoke to Derek. “If that’s what you’re trying to do.”
Derek stumbled back to the other side of the building, past the loading dock where they’d been working, down a small, narrow path to a series of shipping containers that stood in spreading rings of rust on the cracked pavement. There was a smaller one toward the back; that was where Derek lived. Not a home, per se, but home enough.
Derek crawled up into his loft bed and slept for close to thirty hours.
Our corporate values
1) Change is the only constant.
We are constantly looking not just ahead, but up and down, side to side, and around corners. You never know what new strangeness will be waiting for you on the other side of this moment.
Change is often uncomfortable, until it isn’t anymore.
As a member of the LitenVärld family, your job might not always be pleasant, comfortable, or easy. By taking this job, you agree to step out of your comfort zone. We are not looking for acceptable people, or even good ones—we are looking for the extraordinary. Working for LitenVärld means working in an ever-changing flux. You already know if that is something that thrills you.
2) The worth of loyalty cannot be measured . . . but it can be rewarded.
Once you are through your employee orientation, you will enter the exciting, intersecting worlds of LitenVärld. Those that thrive here find a culture that is diverse, welcoming, and completely unique. Many are surprised to learn that our retention rate for the first year of employment is low. Those that do stay, however, find themselves less and less likely to leave over time. Your standards will change; your view of the world, your expectations of reality, your desires and dreams and personality.
To succeed at LitenVärld, you must allow yourself to be shaped by LitenVärld.
Becoming a part of our family may not be easy, but it’s a richly rewarding experience.
3) Innovation over everything.
Change is a constant, and we must always be willing to shift with it, but company innovation means learning to shape change to our benefit. We expect our employees to constantly strive for improvement—not just for themselves, but for LitenVärld and the larger world.
From The LitenVärld Special Employee’s Handbook
Chapter 2: Orienting Our Own Moral Compass
Derek sometimes woke up to crushing loneliness, a shocking sense of isolation that made his chest feel as hollow as an empty cardboard box; as if all that held him together were thin slices of cheap packing tape and inertia. In the middle of that loneliness, he couldn’t remember who he was or what his purpose was, why he was in a narrow bed in a small room, and most pressing, why he was alone. His solitude had mass, and shifted Derek’s personal gravity toward it, pulling him down into a spiral of despair.
It wasn’t every day; sometimes the loneliness was a little bit more distant, or he was numb to it, able to drown out the silence around him by thinking through the tasks that awaited him, grounding himself in what LitenVärld needed. He was necessary; he was part of the LitenVärld family, and he could not lie in bed stewing in his despair. His teammates
and customers needed him!
Today, alone in his bed, he felt . . . okay. For once. He took a deep breath, and felt how it moved through his mouth and airway. Derek rubbed at his throat; it was still tender, a little swollen and stiff, but nothing like it had been. He found himself reluctant to move out of bed and start his routine. The languor pressing him down felt pleasant, like the ache in his muscles from a long shift assembling a new showroom.
Maybe this was why people got sick, Derek thought, then imagined Jules yelling at him that people didn’t choose to get sick. Maybe this was why people took sick days, he corrected himself. Because somehow, it made them feel better.
He rolled out of bed and padded into the bathroom. After showering, he wiped the condensation from the mirror and stared at his reflection, apprehensive as he opened his mouth and tried to see into the cavern of his throat. Nothing moved in the darkness. He wondered if he’d imagined the whole thing, before his eyes caught sight of the sky-blue polo he’d been wearing during his shift, crumpled on the floor by the sink. He uncrumpled it; a wide, brown stain spread out over the shoulder where he’d coughed blood onto it.
Well, he hadn’t imagined that, at least.
He looked back at his reflection. “Can I help you?” he muttered, then repeated it as he spread shaving foam across his cheeks and throat. “Can I help you?” Too aggressive, he decided, even if his voice was barely above a whisper. “What can I help you with today?” Better. “How can I help you today?”
He managed to almost finish shaving before it felt like his throat split open in pain. The razor jumped up over the swell of his Adam’s apple. He dropped the razor in the sink, eyes widening as drops of blood hit the stainless steel basin next to it. He clapped a hand to his neck, smearing blood and white shaving cream.
