Patricia was nervous for her first day at the new job, as nervous as she was for any new job she ever had, anyway, and she’d had a lot of them once she discovered that teaching meant dealing with living breathing human teenagers and pleasing their unpleasable parents, which meant her teaching degree was useless and she had to decide what else she could possibly be good at. Each first day thus far had greeted her with the question as to whether or not she’d adjudicated such talents and dispositions within herself appropriately, and so far the answer had always been, no. At this one, she desperately needed a yes.
“So what is it that you do at this job, again?” her boyfriend Aaron asked without looking up from his video game.
So what is it that you do in this game, again? She wanted to ask him. As far as she could tell, it was about running around shooting people until a scoring table appeared on screen and his ranking on it determined his mood for the next 20 minutes until he was done running around and shooting people again. He only stopped playing when he was near the top of the ranking, but being at the top of the ranking only made him want to play more.
“It’s basically like, schmoozing. Like I deal with donors to the children’s hospital and stuff and basically just see to it they get special treatment and like, whatever else,” she explained, reserving her impatience at having told him before.
“Damn, our healthcare system is so fucked up,” he said, breaking from the game and gazing over her outfit, incongruous with the time of night. Usually they were in sweatshirts and bulky hoodies at such an hour, and he already was, but Patricia was in a pair of black pants, a blue blouse, a black blazer, and tasseled loafers, a dress rehearsal for the morning. “That’s why you look so dressed up?”
“I mean, yeah. You’re always dealing with fancy pants bourgeois people, so you have to look nice,” she said, standing behind his bean bag chair. She wants to snap his head around and turn him to look at her and get some more feedback on her outfit, but last she saw, he was quite low on the leaderboard, and decided against it.
Patricia felt the outfit was too formal and businesslike, although she had little else to wear in the style her internet research told her might be appropriate for such a job in hospital development and donor relations. Being jobless for many months now meant she couldn’t really afford to refresh her wardrobe for purpose.
“Thank you. Ah shoot...I forgot about lunch,” she said, stepping to the kitchen as she affixed her other earring. She pulled down her old, months unused lunchbox from the top of the refrigerator.
“What do you mean? I had lunch today,” Aaron said. He must have been between games because he got up and followed her, stood behind her as she opened the fridge and put his hands on her waist. “Are you trialing this perfume? I like it.”
The inside of the fridge was a bare plastic tundra but for some Tupperware.
“I meant for lunch for me, tomorrow. Can I have this leftover fried chicken from the other day?” she asked, pulling a container out.
“Oh, uh, actually I was hoping I could have that tomorrow...why don’t you just go out to eat?”
Patricia put the chicken back in the fridge.
“I don’t want to get in that habit. Lunch out in Albany every day? That’s like getting your wages garnished.” She picked up another Tupperware. “What’s this?”
“That’s the tilapia from the other day. Probably still good. Got some broccoli in there too.”
“Are you sure? It’s been in there since like...Wednesday...if it’s not good, I’m just going to have to take the chicken, Aaron, I’m sorry but I don’t have time to prepare something else tonight.”
“Oh yeah, for sure. For sure, the tilapia is still good,” Aaron assured her.
“Good enough, anyways,” she said, and shoved it into the lunchbox, then shoved that in the fridge.
Arriving thirty minutes early to work on the first few days of a new job was something Patricia convinced herself she did to reduce anxiety, but waiting in the car and idly browsing on her phone aroused even greater tension, though at least she wouldn’t be late. Besides, it wasn’t like it was her first time there—she’d been given a tour by someone in HR after accepting the position, when she’d gotten her ID badge and parking sticker. She took a deep breath, slung the lunch bag over her shoulder, and crossed the crosswalk to the side entrance that opened with a swipe from her card.
Left and then up the stairs, where she found the break room on her first try. She was surprised to find it devoid of coworkers, which meant was either very early compared to her peers or very late. In the corner was a fridge that would reveal the prevailing scenario.
It was not so barren as the one at home, the opposite, actually. It was packed as could be with lunch boxes of the same in vogue, modern design of Patricia’s, which unfortunately did not put a focus on economy of space. There was not a single cubic inch of frigid air to spare.
She wondered what to do. Displace one of the lunchboxes? What if she accidentally crushed the food inside? Not good to make an enemy the first day, or any day. Find another fridge? She wouldn’t even know where to look, and it seemed like everyone was already working and she was late. In the end, she sat her lunchbox on the counter (the main function and purpose of the lunchbox was to keep its contents cool; it’d be fine right?) and headed out to the office floor to find her cubicle.
There was not a soul around, or certainly not a number of souls equating to the volume of lunchboxes. When they showed up, many were wearing dresses, heels, and toting Starbucks iced coffees.
The day went on. Eventually lunchtime came.
“Do you want to go out for lunch with us? We’re going to The Merchant’s,” one of her coworkers asked over the edge of her cubicle. The Merchant’s, a twenty-two dollar chicken sandwich. Patricia watched her mind do the mental gymnastics required to justify her acquiescence, only to adjudicate the performance a 5/10, despite the energy expended.
“Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry, no, I brought my lunch today, I should probably eat that. I saw a bunch of lunchboxes in the fridge in the breakroom, do most people eat here?” Patricia asked.
Her coworker tilted her head as she sipped her Stanley straw. “No, I don’t think so. But I kinda went through a kick of clean eating a while back when I like, packed my lunch every day. I think I might have left my lunchbox in there.”
“Oh me too! I should really grab that,” another lunch-going coworker said. They threw their heads back and laughed.
Patricia went to the lunchroom and grabbed her lunch from the counter. A couple of older coworkers ate in the corner, and she kept a special awareness to see if they acknowledged her, because if they did she needed to smile and wave, but they did not, which was fine by her. She considered putting the tilapia in the microwave, but would she then forever be considered the smelly break room fish woman? The tilapia was eaten in its less than warm state, along with the broccoli.
It started with horrible stomach pains that woke her at 3 a.m. as a cool sweat tried to pour itself on whatever was burning within her.
“Should we go to the hospital?” Aaron asked half-heartedly as he rubbed her back while she was on the toilet. She shook her head, pale and green at once, a duality that mirrored the nature of her excretions from both ends, sometimes simultaneously.
“No, no, I know what it is. It’s fine. Just a little bit of food poisoning.”
“Food poisoning?! From what...oh no. Not the tilapia? I’m sorry babe, I’m so sorry, I should have never let you take that...”
Patricia puked again with a shudder and shook her head. “No, trust me. It’s my fault. I did something really dumb. I can’t even tell you.”
“I just hope you’re okay. Are you going to go in tomorrow?”
“Are you kidding? It’s my second day. I have to go in tomorrow. You can’t call in sick the second day.”
Patricia did go in the next day, and that day she wore a dress and heels. She went out to eat for lunch, but only ordered breadsticks and soup.
It turned out that Patricia was very good at this new job.
thanks for reading this story involving some bad fish. even if you didn’t like it, maybe click the little heart button so that people who might will find it.
BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS:
What do you think Patricia is actually really good at and why might it help her in this new job?
thanks for reading PNP, where we practice good food safety. if you liked this story, you might also like my novel, the big T, posted here on Substack:
This isn’t a story about a new job.
It’s a story about how quietly a person disappears.
Not all at once. Not in some big, cinematic break. But through the slow negotiation of self—microwaving cold tilapia, laughing off a $22 chicken sandwich, talking to someone who never really looks up.
It’s resignation masked as routine.
And you nailed that. Without ever having to say it.
The power here isn’t in a twist or a flourish—it’s in the truth.
That sometimes “being good at the job” is the saddest possible ending.
Because it means the costume finally fit.
And the scariest part?
It didn’t feel like a tragedy.
It felt… familiar.
You wrote something honest. And it stayed with me.
Patricia has a new job. She'll be good at it. Now she needs a new boyfriend. If you ask me.