Undercover Boss

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Carly Diaz

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I’ve been secretly hoping the new IT guy is our Undercover Boss.

Brian is about 5 ’10, chubby, and has a very sad-looking mustache, like I bet if he stood still for long enough I could count all the hairs. He wears black plastic glasses, rocks flippy Justin Bieber hair, and oh, he’s absolutely in love with me. 

How can I tell? 

Well I didn’t really notice it until Sonya, my corporate companion, my office confidante, pointed it out.

“He liiikeeess youu. He liiikees you.”

Sonya was in her late forties, had two kids, and was perpetually cheery and energetic.

“How are you so happy, Sonya?” I would sometimes ask. “How are you so happy when all we do all day is move our mouse an inch to the right, an inch to the left!? Click, click, click! How are you so happy when we sit so far from the nearest window that we can’t even tell if it’s night or day!? Click, click, click!? How? How!” I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her.

“Brian and Lily, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”  

When it first started, I just brushed it off.

“That’s silly, Sonya,” I’d say, and sometimes even, “That’s cruel.”

But my IT admin admirer just kept coming ‘round.

“Any issues with the phone today, Lily?”

“Computer working OK?”

“You sure you don’t want a new mouse? That one doesn’t scroll right.”

Always wearing that silly yellow striped polo shirt that made him look like a giant lemon cake.

“No, Brian. Thank you.” 

Smile tightly and cross my legs. Not a shot, pal. Not a shot.

Then, when he’d walk away, Sonya would lean over in her chair and sing in my ear,  “K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

A few weeks later we had our company holiday party. Only it’s November 7th, and a Tuesday. Drinks are not free. I’m not surprised we had such a budget shortfall for events this year – I mean, this place pays me to sit around and click buttons all day. Professional Button Clicker, sourced from an elite button-clicking university. That might be what my business card says. I wouldn’t know, I’ve never opened them.

Sweet, pitiful Brian was not at the holiday party. IT staff was not invited, no, no, this event was only for the “business unit” a.k.a. the big-button-shots. I have to say I hated to find myself amongst this crowd.  

Sonya doesn’t drink, bless her soul, I don’t know how she can bear this party sober, so I find myself amongst the category of clickers that I deem “sleazebuttons.” The vested button-bros, the cheating-husband-with-kids-clickers, those are my sleazebuttons. And there I was, mixed in with the bunch. Ah, that sweet smell of cologne, spilled tequila and strawberry vape. I stood amidst the group quietly sipping my beer, but loudly volunteering to take a shot when another round was brought over, and then quiet again when they asked who’s buying next. I call this my Equal Pay Act.

And “act”  it is.

Because you have to act like you’re having a good time. Sleazebuttons need to feel like they’re funny, and handsome, like the ladies love to be around them. But you also have to keep them at just enough of a distance that they don’t quite think they have a shot with you. Self-preservation. It can get a bit tricky at times but I’ve got excellent credentials and loads of work-experience. So when a sleazebutton shimmies an arm around my shoulder, it’s usually a coy smile, a shrug-off, and a regretful, “oh, but we work together!” It’s ignoring when you hear them whispering about how they want to fuck you, betting they will and betting when. Sometimes I find the whole thing fun, like a game. They look at me like fresh meat to fuck and I look at them like a free fountain of booze. Only one of us is ever right, and it’s always me.  

But I wasn’t in the mood for playing that night. Oddly enough, I was just wishing Brian were there. I was sick of the loud, sexist comments, the spit that gets flung on me when a sleazebutton laughs too hard. So, that night, when Todd put his arm around me and all I could smell was the stench from his pits, I shoved him off of me so hard that his vodka soda tumbled to the ground, his cherry juul almost went with it, but no, with primal instincts he caught that just in time. 

“Damn, Lily. Look what you did.” 

I muttered a curse at him. I didn’t care if I ever got a free drink again. 

I left and sat at the bar by myself to sulk, and after not long, I left.  

When I got back to my crumbling, amenity-less apartment, I opened a bottle of wine and a tub of icecream and turned on the TV. I still have cable, but not for any reason except that the old lady that had lived in this apartment before me died, left her TV, and somehow has still been auto-paying the cable bill ever since. I had to slap the remote against my leg a few times to get it to work because the batteries were melting into the plastic. Once it did, I flicked through the channel guide. The old tenant mostly just had news stations. I hated news because they played it all day at work. And I hated everything about work except for Sonya. 

On CBS, Undercover Boss was playing. I initially skipped over it but came back later when I realized I’d already seen the Christmas Romcom playing on loop on the Hallmark channel. 

I had a gulp of wine and a swallow of ice cream, and became enthralled.

Larry Gibbons, the CEO of Local Lemonade (it was in fact, not local) was going undercover at one of his own lemonade processing plants, to train like an entry level employee. So many thoughts were racing through my brain as I watched, like: EAT THE RICH!, let’s see how well you last a day in our (feeling a sense of unity with Larry’s entry-level employees) shoes, and, huh, where are all the lemons?

I let it run.

In the next episode, we met Michael Sloot, CEO of a chain called Mike’s Marvels. It only sounds sexually explicit. It’s a children’s toy store. Mike and I were both crying when he explained the idea that started it all – the passing of his sweet infant daughter four long, hard years ago. By the end of the episode, there was so much tear-water in my red wine that it looked like rosé, and Mike had given all of his “team-members” a raise, and the Mexican girl working the cash register even got a full-ride college scholarship. They all embraced – employees and employer – and I felt a warmth within me that I hadn’t felt for a long time. Then, there was the clip that really got me, of one of the female team-members that had been training him. She stared into the camera, tears streaking down her face, and said “I’ve finally found my reason to work!”

I jumped up off the couch. My reason to work.

What was my reason to work? I’d always just assumed it was something society expected of us since we’d all been brainwashed into thinking homelessness was unsightly and something to be ashamed of, but could there really be more to it? Could there be real meaning?

Feeling some bizarre and inexplicable divine intervention washing over me, I throw my empty wine bottle in the recycle bin, and stumble into bed feeling drunk, winged, and weightless.

Brian met me in my dreams that night. He was on his knees tinkering with some wires under my desk, and oh! he tore off his Beiber wig and pulled out a ring from inside the PC! “Lily, you’re the only one that’s been good to me my whole time undercover. Will you marry me?”

Sonya shot white rose petals at us as we ran down the aisle of desks – I was no longer in my gray pencil skirt and sweater but a beautiful white lace wedding gown, with a veil breezing behind me. Brian, in a tux with a white boutonniere, held my hand and led me into the breakroom, where my manager cut and spoonfed us a big yellow lemon cake. The sleazebuttons were watching from afar, pouty and jealous.

I was startled awake by my alarm clock the next morning. Normally I’d snooze, I’d lay awake unable to move or process the thought of going to clicker-hell, but not that day. I threw the covers off, swayed on my feet only for a moment because of my last-night’s-wine-headache, and got ready for the day. 

“Good morning, Sonya,” I say at the office with a smile and a pep in my step. 

“Hey, sugar! How are you?”

“Today, I am great.”

Sonya raised her eyebrows a bit but asked no further questions.

I sat down and straight away focused on my work. Today, I told myself, I will click all the right buttons. I will pay extra attention to not click the wrong button, or even the right button at the wrong time.

Todd, who happened to sit across from me, was talking to a group of female interns: babybuttons. 

They hovered around his desk like flies, buzzing constantly. “Those margaritas were sooo strong last night, weren’t they Todd?” a babybutton said. “That bar was so fun, Todd.”

They must’ve gone out after the holiday party. 

“I think I left my coat there, Todd! Can you believe it?”

I actually hated the babybuttons more than I hated the sleazebuttons. They had never actually done anything to me but assault me with their presence. I hated that the skin on their face was so tight. I hated that their clothes were so hip. I hated that they were still so full of potential, or not full of potential, but people looked at them, so bright and tight and young and happy, and assumed that they were.

But that day, I did my best not to let them bother me. 

A quick movement in my peripheral vision caught my attention. I spun in my chair, and saw Brian, furtively ducking into a meeting room. Through the glass wall I watched him fish his phone out of his jeans, look around to make sure no one was by the door, and answer a call. He never stopped scanning the hallway while he spoke, and the call lasted no more than two minutes. 

I spun back to face my computer. Huh, I wonder…

Sometimes your body makes a decision to act before your consciousness can agree to it, or even acknowledge it. That’s the only way I can explain my actions in the following moment.

As Brian stepped out of the meeting room, my arm jutted up from its resting place on my desk and punched over my mug of coffee, spilling its contents all over my desk. 

“Oh!” I gasped and stood up, pulling away wet papers. “Does anyone have some paper towels?” I looked directly at Brian strolling down the hall as I asked the question. 

“I’ll run and get some!” He broke into an office-jog, which is what I call it when you run with your thumbs up, bouncing on your heels, like a caricature of a man.

“Here you go, Lil,” he said when he came back, but instead of handing me the wad of paper towels, he leaned over me and wiped down the desk himself. 

“I’m such a klutz, Brian. What would I do without you?”

I looked up and smiled at him in my purest form. This was the smile reserved for my grandma, babies, and puppies. This was the smile that says love me, trust me. Believe me.

Brian picked up my keyboard and milky coffee dripped out from underneath the letters. I thought it looked like a modern art installation, but decided it would be too weird for me to ask to keep it. I let Brian take my soppy artsy keyboard to the vague “back” where he replaced it with a new one.

“Thank you so much for your help, Brian,” I touched his arm gently.

He blushed a little. “Anytime, Lily.”

I saw one of Todd’s eyes peek out at me from behind his monitor. He could tell I was up to something. But his sad little brain would never understand what I’ve uncovered. 

Because it almost seems too fantastic to be true. 

But I know in my heart it is.

I know in my heart that Brian is my Undercover Boss.

The next day as I went into the office, I saw Brian standing outside the building holding an unmarked manila envelope. I stopped to chat with him about the weather, it was a sad, rainy day, and he seemed more anxious than usual.

“Crummy day isn’t it? My stockings are soaked.” I kicked up a heel to show him.

“That’s great, Lily,” he said, looking past me. “You go on up, I have to take care of something.”

 I knew he was up to some secret CEO things, and I didn’t want to spoil it, so I carried on inside.

Later the same day, I had an issue with my email inbox not loading, and I tried to call Brian but he wouldn’t pick up. I walked over to where his team sat, but he was nowhere to be found.

“Lily, how can I help?” Juan, another more seasoned IT guy, turned back in his chair and smiled at me.

 “I’m having issues with my inbox again, but I was kinda hoping Brian was around.”

He snorted. “Brian? What were you looking for him for? He’s as good as dirt when it comes to computers.”

“Is that so?” 

This only strengthened my conviction that Brian was undercover. 

“I just wanted to ask him about something. It’s fine.”

To my dismay, Juan follows me back to my desk to fix my computer. 

“You know, Lil,” he says under his breath while in control of my mouse. “You should be careful around him.”

His words shocked me at first. Be careful around him? 

But soon it dawned on me. Juan knew! Juan knew that Brian was the CEO and was trying to make sure I didn’t slip up in front of him. Juan, who once came to fix my computer and saw the image I’d created in Microsoft Paint and set as my background, of me being abducted by aliens while they came down and slaughtered everyone else in the building (except for Sonya). Juan, who saw me just the other day hitting my head against a wall in the breakroom, whispering devilish curses. Juan, who came by my desk once unexpectedly to pass out new mousepads and saw me crying into a cup of coffee. He wasn’t worrying about my safety. He was watching out for my job security!

“Thanks, Juan,” I gave him a knowing smile. “I’ll be careful.”

After work as I was walking home, I saw Brian step into the backseat of a black SUV.

I tried to follow it, but it was raining and I slipped over a grate. No one offered to help me up.

When I got back to my feet, the car was gone so I ended up just going back to my apartment, wet and dirty, but still full of hope.

I opened up a bottle of wine, a tub of ice cream, put on an episode of Undercover Boss (I’d been recording the show), and began to work on devising a plan.

Knowing what I knew now, I decided that I would pursue Brian, romantically.

It wouldn’t be so hard, I figured, because he clearly was already crushing on me, but I needed to be more than a cubicle-cutie to him. I needed to be work-wife material.

And how to attract an undercover boss? Well, the show made it look simple. Work hard, work well, be generous despite having so little. Love him without knowing his true identity, so it seems like you love him for “who he is” not “what he does”, as if the two weren’t the same thing.

So, over the next few days, not only would I be an excellent worker bee, clocking in extra hours, keeping a clean click record, I would also be more overt with my flirtations. He needed to know that I would love him even with the fake glasses, the fat suit, the makeup-acne.  

“Brian,” I said one day when I passed him in the hallway. “I’ve been having some issues with my home laptop.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Er, if you want to bring it in I can take a look.”

He was so coy! 

“Or,” I stepped closer to him, there was no one around, “you could come over and take a look.”

His eyebrows knit together for a moment before springing up. “Oh,” he stuttered. “Oh, yeah, sure.”

It was a date then. 

Brian walked me home from work. We looked like an odd couple walking together through the streets, me in my slutty-secretary, black dress and tights, him in that darned yellow polo-shirt. I figured he didn’t care to buy a whole new wardrobe, just to spend a month or two undercover.

In my apartment, I brought him into my bedroom to check out the open laptop on my desk. But before he could start working on it, I closed the laptop shut, sat up on my desk with my feet propped up on the desk chair, and told him in my sultriest voice, “Fuck me, Brian.”

It happened. We were slobbering all over each-other in my bed. His greasy hair was whipping me in the forehead. I was wet thinking about my future riches. 

I’m putting in work, I said to myself over and over again. This is my reason to work.

Brian kept telling me how I’m the hottest girl he’s ever slept with. How he couldn’t believe I took him home.

I wasn’t happy with how dedicated he was to the bit.

The next day, it’s my phone that’s not working, only I left it at home. The day after that, it’s my CD player. My television. My toaster. A clock. 

All that work I was putting in, all that overtime, and he was still holding out on me!

It was infuriating! But he couldn’t be thinking about leaving me once he came clean. What was he shooting for, one of those cute little babybuttons? Please. Even though the Brian I knew was an act, I could still tell he wasn’t that guy.

So, today I decide to confront him.

I send him a slack message: breakroom @ 10?

He gives the message a thumbs up.

We meet there as scheduled. The breakroom is empty, it always is this time of day, I know because this is the time I used to come in here to cry, look at my phone, or scratch things into the tables, depending on my mood.

“Brian,” I tell him, pacing while he sits. “I know you’re keeping something from me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

He’s looking at me, clueless.

“Brian, I’ve seen you getting into that black car after work. Walking around with all these secret packages. Juan said you can’t fix computers for jack.”

Brian is silent for a moment. He can’t make eye contact with me, but then again he almost never does, especially during sex.

“If you knew the whole time,” he takes a deep breath, “why didn’t you say anything?”

“I wanted you to feel comfortable enough to tell me.” I pull out a chair and sit beside him.

“I’ve been meaning to stop, but financially, it’s hard.”

“You mean step down?” I ask, “Because the money is so good?”

“The money isn’t as good as you think. Everyone thinks drug dealers have this cool-guy, lavish lifestyle when really we’re just getting by, same as everyone else. That’s why I got this gig here, I’m trying to sort my life out.”

My jaw drops, then shuts, and I can hardly open it again, I’m clenching so hard.

“Drug. Dealer?” the words barely leave my lips. 

“Yeah, what did you think?”

I’m hyperventilating. I can feel the walls closing in around me. 

“Lil, are you alright?” He puts a hand around my back. 

I shove him off of me. “Get off of me, you creep! You lied to me!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I thought,” I started, feeling dizzy. “I thought you were the CEO! The CEO of the whole freaking company!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Brian makes for the door but I block him. I can’t let this get out, that I’ve been boning the chubby IT guy with acne that doesn’t actually even know how to fix computers!

“Lil, are you okay?” He gestures at my mouth. “You’re frothing.”

I can’t respond. I. Just. Can’t. So instead I pick up a chair and with all the strength in my body I whack it against his neck.

I watch Brian’s – my sweet Brian!! – head sever from his body. It’s falling to the floor and instinctively I reach out to catch it, as if catching it could undo some of the damage I’ve already done.

My fingertips just brush his cheek and then his head turns into cake and it all just falls in clumps through my hands.

“What the…”

I turn back to Brian’s body, but he’s no longer there.

Lemon cake. Yellow frosting with icing stripes on the inside. Brian was just a giant, jumbled mound of lemon cake, sitting on the floor of the breakroom.

“Brian?” I whisper. 

Brian is gone. There is only cake. No, no, no. My hands are trembling. My murderous hands are trembling. What have I done? What have I done!?

“Sonya!” 

I yell her name as I run out of the breakroom.

“Sonya!” 

I’m winded by the time I reach her desk.

“Hey cupcake,” she turns in her chair. “What’s the matter?”

“Brian. It’s Brian. He’s dead. And he’s cake. And I killed him but he’s cake, Sonya, he was only ever just cake!”

I bury myself in her arms. She pats my back gently. “There, there,” she says. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

She pats and I cry into her soft, warm skin. Sonya always knew how to make me feel better. I close my eyes and feel her arms melting around me, like a mothers’ hug.

No, her arms are literally melting around me! I jump away, horrified. “Sonya!” 

She smiles at me, but the smile slides off her face.

Sonya is a hot fudge brownie melting in her swivel chair. 

I pick up pieces of her – I think this is a hand? No, a knee? – and try to put her back together but it’s hopeless. She drips through my fingers, molten, chocolatey goodness.

 I run away. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know what I’ve done.

Todd stops me in the hallway.  “Hey Lil, why the sad face?” 

His hand on my arm feels firm, real.

“Are you cake?” I choke out a whisper.

“What’s that?” He tilts his head towards me.

“Are you CAKE?”

I grab his head and pull it towards me. I bite into his chin. 

Todd screams and swats his hands at me. “Argh aHH!”

The metallic taste of his blood fills my mouth. I unlatch from his face. “I’m sorry,” I say, stepping back from him. “I’m so, so sorry.”

I leave a bewildered Todd in the hallway, and sprint to the copy room. I lock myself inside. 

Breathe. Breathe.

Muddled images of cake and brownie flash through my mind. 

I pull a handful of papers from the printer tray and try to eat them. They just slice my tongue. 

I give a hefty punch to the copy machine. It’s hard. It’s real. It hurts.

“Fuck!” 

I lean against the wall and try to catch my breath. I sink down to the ground.

Everything bad was real. 

Everything good was cake.

I start sobbing into my hands. How did I get here? I was a child once. I had dreams. Hope. Happiness. I look up and my fingertips are gone. Icing drips down my arms. I watch a knuckle disintegrate right before my eyes. I try to get up but my feet are just puddles of frosting on the floor. I lick my shoulder. I eat my hands. I am crumbling. I am cake.

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Carly Diaz is a writer of all things dark, weird, and mysterious. Born in Miami, FL, she now lives and toils in NYC. In her free time, you can find Carly playing the guitar or walking through Central Park looking for elusive black squirrels (they remind her of her family dog).

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