Free Spooning by Darri Stephens

do?”
    “Well, Santo, our head stylist, came up with these cellophane bags for Jane's trick-or-treaters.” After hearing the screaming from Jane's office, I couldn't help but wonder what evil creature she transformed into once the sun went down.
    “We stuff her candy bags? You mean for the candy bowl at her house?”
    “Oh, she doesn't use a bowl. She, I mean we, stack the bags in old-fashioned washtubs. It's quite effective.” I couldn't wait to tell my mother that I, being one of the talented employees at
S&S
, could use my newfound skills to open bags of discountminiature candy bars. You know, just in case Jane couldn't handle the stress of it.
    Having nothing else to do, I joined Julie at the craft table. We proceeded to mark up the cellophane bags with stamps (hand carved out of potatoes by the art department) and metallic orange ink. With a flick of the wrist, Julie dusted each wet imprint with silver glitter. We then filled the cellophane bags with classic types of candy. No slimy gummy snots in these bags! Only quality old-fashioned root beer barrels, Sweet Tarts, Mary Janes, and bull's-eye caramels filled these sweet sacks.
    “Oh, that won't work,” Julie informed me.
    “What?”
    “That bag of candy you just put down. Those rolls of Sweet Tarts need to be vertical.”
    “What?”
    “Seriously.” She giggled at my incredulous look. “Untie it and put the candy in a new bag because that one can't be reused. It will be too manhandled after you untie it and rearrange the candy.” She spit out these rote instructions as if she was describing how to pour milk on breakfast cereal. After we stuffed the candies into their “proper” positions, we adorned each bag with a pumpkin cookie and a bit of raffia. For the last century, kids have been warned about eating homemade Halloween goods. However, mothers would be clamoring at the Diva's door in the New York suburbs, ready to shove these yummy handmade treats down their kids' throats.
    Over our candy-stuffing bonding, Julie told me that I probably would never have a formal introduction to Jane. The rule of thumb around the cubicles was that she didn't like to be bothered by the lower staff. Speak when spoken to was thestrict policy. Of course, this hadn't been included in my HR new-hire packet. Julie also quickly warned me about Jane's pet peeves:
    No personal photos on desktop.
    No colored push pins (only brushed silver).
    No live plants.
    No bananas anywhere in the office (it was known as “stupid fruit” to the Diva).
    No wearing jeans.
    No folders labeled by hand—only by a professional labeling machine.
    No long stringy college hair (the Diva liked cropped, cultured dos).
    I giggled nervously after her last point and played with my below shoulder-length locks. And God was I craving a banana (I was always the type to want what I couldn't have).
    “What are you doing?” someone barked from behind me.
    “Excuse me?” I answered with the utmost grace. It was Margaret.
    “I think you can find something more productive to do with your time. If I were you, I'd make myself appear just a tad busier on my first day.” Then she turned on her pointy shoes and went back to her cubicle.
    “Sorry,” I mumbled, “I thought I was helping.” Shit, I was helping. Julie and I had stuffed at least seventy-five goddamn little trick-or-treat bags (all with vertically placed rolls of Sweet Tarts), and Maaargaret would rather see me inflating my newly donned corporate ass at my computer. I shuffled back to my cubicle in candy-stuffing shame.
    I decided to keep low in my new little six-by-six space.Back inside the compound, I dug through some of the more fun items on my desk. There was a fresh box of
S&S
stationery, a box of hot pink
S&S
pens, a name plate with my title strategically placed on the outside of my cubicle. I snuck a few pencils for Syd inside my bag. If my parents could see me now they'd be so proud. I was officially part of the workforce.
    That night, so