It’s been three months since Sofia started temping for Roland T. McDonnell, Esquire, although it feels like six. Sofia is McDonnell’s fifth temporary secretary and the only one who has surpassed HR’s mandatory probationary period. McDonnell’s favorite answers to her questions are, How am I supposed to know? and Figure it out for yourself. Sofia watches him rake his fingers through his hair and mumble expletives into his speaker phone. She blasts REM through her fake transcription headphones whenever he drops a document into her bin.  

Sofia is not the secretarial type. Normally she’d be sleeping off a late-night gig at The Paramount or sipping a cafe mocha while strumming original songs on her vintage Fender electric bass. But ever since her ex took off with said bass, along with her ATM card, this freakish sitcom has become her new reality.  

She soon discovers that working at a law firm has nothing to do with the law or with the Step Up for Workplace Justice banner running across her computer screen. Heather, temp number four, had the misfortune of entering McDonnell’s office at the precise moment he hurled his Martindale-Hubble at the door. It bounced off her left shoulder, knocking his unwrapped tuna melt onto the carpet. When Sofia asked her co-worker, Elizabeth, about the incident she whispered, “Honey, when you bill nine hundred an hour, HR works for you.” 

Sofia misses performing so much it aches. She used to dream of playing to a packed house, the purple stage lights glistening off her hair. Now she has nightmares of her ex nodding off in small claims court, his denim sleeves pulled down to cover the track marks. The police recovered her treasured bass but with no proof of the ATM withdrawals she couldn’t afford the rent. Sofia used to believe in love and promises, not deception and lies. Now Durham & Long, LLC had become her ticket out, each paycheck a step closer to freedom.  

It’s 2:10 pm and McDonnell is late for a meeting, which is really a surprise party honoring his appointment to partnership. Sofia knows this because she’s already snuck into the conference room and poured the firm’s finest pinot grigio into her Starbucks’ cup. From her cubicle, she spots a huddle of junior associates squeezing into the conference room doorway. She imagines them, red-eyed from their eighty-hour work week, nibbling goat cheese bruschetta, mentally calculating how to word their congratulations to convey sincerity with minimal bootlicking. When McDonnell finally leaves, Sofia knocks back her wine, pulls off her headphones and slips into his corner suite. 

She surveys his ivy league diplomas, proof of how he’s earned his place in this exclusive glass tower. On his hand-carved mahogany desk is a gold etched nameplate and photos of his wife and children white water rafting off the coast of Bali. Sofia leafs through his pro bono files on immigrant rights and fair housing initiatives, knowing that the multi-million-dollar developer he represents will soon send the city’s low-income, Latinx residents into virtual homelessness.  

Cheers rise from the conference room as McDonnell begins his speech. Sofia leans back in his ergonomic leather desk chair as her wine buzz kicks in. She gazes out at the ocean, speckled white with tiny yachts and cabin cruisers and drifts off. The phone startles her awake. As she leans forward to silence it, she bangs her knee on a locked steel drawer under his desk. 

Part of her knows she should leave. The other part finds the key taped under his chair, the same location her ex used to stash his bags of coke. The drawer is bare except for some old spiral notebooks and business cards. Then her eye catches the corner of a photograph poking out from a stack of invoices. Polaroids. Boys, thirteen or younger, half or completely naked, gazing at her through the camera lens. 

At first, she thinks she might be sick. Then she reaches for her phone and starts panning video: the diplomas, nameplate, family photos and finally the Polaroids. When she’s finished, she returns to her cubicle. She sits very still, trying to quell the pounding behind her eyes. When that doesn’t work, she heads for the ladies’ room and splashes cold water on her face. But when she looks in the mirror all she sees are the frightened eyes of those boys.  

Sofia tries to concentrate on her exhalations, a tactic she used to practice to combat stage fright, but she can’t stop her heart slamming against her chest. For three months she’s managed his insane calendar, his complicated billing system. She’s sucked up to his clients, which paid off big with HR. Yesterday they offered her the position, with a bonus to start. She could forget about couch surfing. She could rent a sunlit apartment near The Paramount, spend her weekends writing, evenings belting out her truth center stage. And now, just what truth was that?  

She returns to her desk to find Elizabeth and the row of secretaries dutifully typing like modern day Stepford Wives. Women twice her age, years spent dodging the McDonnell’s of this world, grateful for their Vegas vacations, packing away their 401K’s and Christmas bonuses until retirement.   

“I’m taking a late lunch,” Sofia says aloud. Elizabeth nods, eyes fixed on her computer. She rides the elevator down to the lobby, then heads out into the busy street. The autumn air blasts cool on her skin, and she realizes she is soaked in sweat. She imagines herself escaping in an Uber, speeding down the highway, far away from here. Sofia walks toward the pier, the seagulls squawking overhead. She wishes she could join them, that the pull of the wind could lift her high above this city into clear blue nothingness. For a long time, she stares out into the ocean. Then she picks up her phone and dials the local FBI.