The Dead Man

There is a man at my office who I know, for a fact, to be dead.

He showed up four months ago, right after our latest schmooze-n-booze holiday party (the one where Penny Jones spilled red wine into Cynthia Hutchinson’s designer purse, vomited, and burst into tears) and he’s been dead the entire time. I never knew this man when he was alive. 

Please don’t misunderstand—he isn’t a ghost. There’s nothing ethereal about him. He isn’t shimmery or translucent; he doesn’t glide through walls, spreading a phantasmal chill in the hallways. He never rattles chains or wails like a banshee. This is a dead man, and it seems the best a dead man can do is sit at his desk—silent, stationary—cloudy eyes gazing at nothing, arms hanging slack, breathless, thoughtless, lifeless. 

Yes, I’ve complained to HR—but I didn’t start with HR. I’m not a monster. 

When the dead man first appeared, four months ago, in the primo cubicle by the big window and the coffeemaker—the same one my manager promised me—I didn’t make a fuss. Fussers don’t get ahead in this business. But I did call corporate to ask who he was and what he was doing here. 

Administrative support, they said. Not a word about his being a corpse. 

That initial week, I put my prejudices aside and tried to welcome him to the team. An extended hand he would not shake (because he’s dead), homemade banana walnut muffins he did not eat (because he’s dead), an invitation to happy hour drinks he never accepted (because he’s dead). Completely demoralizing. 

As he sat in the primo cubicle that should have been mine, I got the full scope of his deceased self: up close, his milky-gray eyes were aggressively unfocused and ringed with clearish crust—corpse glue, I assume. His mouth was thin and sunken, his skin rouged and waxy. A tight row of stitches delineated where his forehead ended and his hairline began. Fluid yellowed his white dress shirt and saturated his tan dress pants. Formaldehyde. Formaldehyde with a hint of lilies and disinfectant. 

I have no idea how this dead man was ever hired—it’s not as if he can do his job. His computer wastes away in sleep mode. His desk phone rings, rings, rings, unanswered. At the beginning, after establishing he was not alive, I made the mistake of emailing him, asking for some operations data—just a little experiment to see what would happen. He ignored it until 2 a.m., when my phone buzzed me awake with his response:

in due course

No apology, no explanation, no salutation, no niceties. In due course. I still haven’t gotten that data, but he sends an in due course e-mail every morning at 2 a.m. 

When I approached HR with the e-mail thread, they scolded me—the dead man was very busy, still learning the ropes. I wasn’t being a “cooperative collaborator.” I needed to give new people some grace and worry about my own work output. It wasn’t an official reprimand—just a verbal warning—but after that meeting, I went back to my desk and cried.

Commiserating with co-workers does no good either. I tested the waters with a few of them, the ones who devour gossip like a thresher, chewing up facts and spitting out scandals. I caught them in the break room and whispered my concerns about the dead man; how he never works, never socializes, never does anything but sit in his ergonomic chair, stinking and leaking onto the dreadful brown carpet that hasn’t been replaced since the 1970s. Best response I got was a patronizing pat on the arm from Penny Jones. Most of the threshers barely listened—and the ones who did, didn’t agree.

Nobody else is bothered by the dead man.

Two months ago, my manager arranged a “trust building lunch” for me and the dead man at the little Italian place down the street. Spaghetti and small talk, he said. Keep it light, keep it professional. Company expense, so no appetizers and no dessert. Absolutely no alcohol.

I arrived at the restaurant right after noon. The dead man was already seated at a checkered two-top right in the middle of the place, surrounded by chattering customers and bow-tied waiters who were all happily oblivious to the formaldehyde breeze wafting through the dining room. I’d never seen him anywhere but his cubicle—certainly didn’t expect him to show up to lunch—and it took everything in me not to sprint back out the door. 

Instead, I sat down for my free lunch.

Conversation was difficult. I tried asking the dead man questions—about his family, television, sports, when he would stop sending me in due course e-mails—but I felt a bit stupid. His glue-sealed lips didn’t budge. I ordered the lasagna (and a glass of Chardonnay, paid separately in cash). The waiter brought both, along with a plate of fettuccine alfredo and an iced tea for the dead man. I chugged the wine and picked at my lasagna. The dead man did nothing. His pasta took on a dull sheen as it cooled. I stared at the mass of noodles. Worms, I thought. His body must be full of worms.

I went to the ladies’ room to splash water on my face and when I returned, the fettuccine alfredo was mostly gone.    

We left the restaurant separately. I was the first to go, but the dead man beat me back to the office. Must have been by a good margin too, because my boss already had the full report about my sneaky Chardonnay. Got an official HR write-up for that. Baby’s first disciplinary action. 

I tried explaining to them how difficult it was—impossible, even—coming to the office each day, knowing I was twenty feet away from a dead man, catching whiffs of his chemically-treated husk when the A/C kicked on; glimpses of his spoiled-milk eyes when I walked to the coffeemaker; murmurs of his voice—a voice like dry mud, muffled by the cotton batting I was certain filled his mouth—following me into the elevator every night, chasing me home, keeping me up until 2 a.m., when my phone would buzz:

in due course

And starting all over again the next morning.

They weren’t remotely sympathetic.

I tried to put myself in HR’s shoes—in everyone’s shoes—and reconsider the dead man. He can’t help being a corpse. His work output is terrible-to-nonexistent, but that’s the company’s business, not mine. Cubicles are often assigned at random, no matter who might have called dibs. Noxious odors are unavoidable in an office, as are silent, glazed-over colleagues. Small talk is overrated. I was being unfair to the dead man. Going forward, I would make an effort to become a real team player. 

Then the dead man started taking the same bus home. 

It didn’t matter which bus. I could clock out early and catch the 4:33 or work through dinner and grab the 8:15—he was always there, in an aisle seat, briefcase on his lap, embalmed hands resting on the handle. Sitting in front of him was no good—I could feel his sightless gaze against my neck, tickling my skin—so I had to walk by him every time, careful not to brush against a rotting arm or trip over a moldy leg, and find a spot in the back. Gone were the days of looking out the window, decompressing from eight hours of misery while the city lights floated by. I had to focus on the dead man the whole ride—how matte his skin was, even under the fluorescents, how fluid drip-drip-dripped onto the plastic floor, how the bus would occasionally fill up and some poor soul had to share his row, mere inches between them. His seatmate, however, was always unfazed. 

Nobody else is bothered by the dead man.

After a week of this commute, I started walking home. Six miles of buckled sidewalks, broken streetlights, and pedestrian-hating drivers. I checked over my shoulder every few steps, always expecting to see the dead man behind me, propped up against a tree or planted in the concrete like a steel bollard. In my imagination his mouth was finally open, black tongue unfurling, maggots and roaches and silverfish tumbling free, a foul wind heaving up from his larynx and slithering into my ear:

in due course

My nightly walks were miserable, but they didn’t last long—I was placed on temporary, unpaid leave last week. HR gave me several reasons: tardiness, low billables, blown deadlines, numerous complaints from colleagues about my “unprofessional and unsettling demeanor.” Nothing about the dead man, of course. Not a word. They did suggest I give therapy a try so I could address my “chronic distraction issues.” My health insurance would carry over during the suspension period. 

If I were a stronger person, I might have told them to eat shit. Eat shit and hand over my final paycheck. But I was—I am—exhausted. Four months of the dead man, four months of everyone else going about their business like it’s normal to see a stiff in a tie on their way to the water cooler, four months of reek and ooze and cotton-swaddled mumbles. So when they said “temporary, unpaid leave,” what I heard was “peace.”

Peace was a nice thought.

I’m home now. Home—and the dead man is with me.

God knows how he got here; same way he got to the office, the bus, that little Italian restaurant. He was already sitting at my kitchen table when I opened the front door, my arms full of groceries. I dropped a whole bag of eggs and milk as I darted for the bathroom, and when I came back out a few minutes later he was gone, but the mess had been cleaned up. Nice gesture.

Turns out, he’d moved into the bedroom. Onto my bed. Flat on his back, loose skin pulled taut, eyes finally, finally closed like a proper corpse in a proper casket. The glue had flaked away from his lips—I held my hand near his mouth, testing for breath, but only felt a clammy chill.    

Yes, this man has been dead the entire time. 

In the end, I climbed into the bed with him. What else could I do? If I moved to the couch, he’d move to the couch; if I moved to a hotel, he’d move to the hotel; if I moved to Tibet, he’d move to Tibet. I laid down beside him and turned toward the wall, reminding myself that nobody else is bothered by the dead man—not HR, not the strangers on the bus, not hurl-and-weep Penny Jones—so maybe I shouldn’t be either.

I’ve been curled up for hours now. Awake. The mattress is soaked with formaldehyde and the man’s body is releasing a new smell—a low, thick sweetness—so dense I can hardly breathe. When the clock strikes 2 a.m. I steel myself for those grave-soured words, but he says nothing—only drapes one claylike arm over my shoulder, pulling me against his chest. I can feel insects moving beneath that damp skin, thrashing and wriggling, the only living part of the dead man, and wonder how much longer it’ll take me to stop being bothered.

In due course, I suppose.