By Connie Millard
Dottie Dilberto was the last smoker at BusyBee, LLC. She knew it, but no one else did.
In her thirty years of employment (had it been that long?), she despaired as her plethora of smoking buddies had dwindled from twelve to three to none. She missed rehashing what happened on her favorite TV shows like Dallas, and, oh, how she longed to indulge in some office gossip. When the last of their trio said they were finally quitting, they pressured Dottie to join.
“C’mon, Dottie,” they said, “Smoking is getting too expensive.”
“It’s bad for your skin.”
“You don’t want to end up dead.”
Dottie had attempted to quit. She tried going cold turkey but could only manage six hours before chain-smoking four cigarettes. She’d stuck on the nicotine patch but was driven mad by cravings and itchy hives. She even tried the gum but gagged at the tackiness filling her mouth like ashy Silly Putty. After eighty packets of Tic-tac’s and three cavities, she gave up on the effort entirely and skulked to hidden areas of the building for secret smoke breaks.
She noticed how people side-eyed her for often leaving her desk, so she overcompensated by explaining her frequent need to pee thanks to her small bladder, too much coffee, or having three kids and no pelvic floor. Lately, though, Dottie didn’t want to be known as the lady from accounting who still smoked, couldn’t bear to picture coworkers laughing at her, saying things like, “Who even does that anymore, like for real? Gross.”
So, one morning, when Dottie logged onto her computer and saw the companywide email from John Gladhand, their long-time CEO, all tanned skin and white teeth, emphasizing the importance of “healthy living,” she decided this was her last day of secret smoking and resolved to quit for good this time.
Dottie pulled on her cardigan and felt around for the cigarettes and lighter stashed in her pockets. It was hard to hide anything in these modernized bare workspaces. Without cubical walls, there were just desks and open shelves. She saw everyone’s knickknacks, Jack’s gleaming fifth-anniversary plaque, Emma’s mountain of family photos, and Brayden the Intern’s toy dinosaur clinging to his monitor.
“Good thing, I’m quitting,” Dottie thought. She was running out of hiding spots. First, they banned smoking indoors, and just this week, they prohibited smoking within twenty feet of the building. Now, here she was huddled in a darkened corner of the parking garage.
She blew out a plume of smoke, her shoulders relaxing, when an alarm roared behind her. Damn. A hidden smoke detector. She ground the butt beneath her heel and waved her arm to clear the air.
She heard foot steps behind her and whirled around to see John Gladhand, CEO, with a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers. He smiled and lifted his hand in salute. He texted something into his phone, and the blaring stopped.
“Hey,” he said, “Did you know that Dallas is now streaming on Netflix?”
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Connie Millard is a working mom of three who once made it to final callbacks for the television show, Worst Cooks in America. After much perseverance, she now spends her time writing in between stirring risotto. She has an MFA from Lindenwood University and is an Associate Editor for the literary journal, Ran Off with the Star Bassoon. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee whose work has appeared in, Ghost Parachute, Dark Recesses Press, and Bending Genres, among others. You can find her at conniemillardwriter.com.