The Napkin Project (Holiday Edition): Ottessa Moshfegh
The desk employees of the Dickens & Co. Typewriter Company had gathered in the modest office for a toast. Out of a perverse desire to be unappreciated, Mrs. O'Malley, the secretary, had spent the morning decorating the place with paper chains. She went out of her way to do things the men would ignore. This was how she justified her excessive drinking.
The men now stood around Mr. Roberts' desk with their glasses, glancing impatiently at the clock and their watches, hopeful that they'd get to go home before the cold rain turned to ice. It was very dark out already.
"To the best year in our company's history," said Bill Cratchit. Mr. Roberts nodded. He'd lost his voice to throat cancer a year ago. Everyone felt sorry for him that he was now mute, but he preferred it this way. He had nothing to say. He never had. He'd been stealing from the company for years, not just to pay for his morphine habit, but for his daughter's wedding, the reception at which he'd made no speech. He was deep in arrears to his suppliers too. Nobody knew this but Mrs. O'Malley. She'd been handling all the bills.
"And to our dear Mrs. O'Malley," said Bill Cratchit. Mr. Roberts stomped his foot in agreement. Everybody drank.
Just then, the sound of machines and clattering typewriters flew up into the small office as Jim Prine opened the door. The assembly room below was still working at full force.
"What is it, Jim?" Bill Cratchit asked.
"It's the typewriters—they've all gone crazy!"
Everyone laughed. But not Mrs. O'Malley. She was a sad drunk. Nobody loved her and she knew it. "Merry Christmas," she said, then went out onto the landing of the twenty-foot staircase and jumped to her death in front of the men and the typewriters. Mr. Roberts said nothing.
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