Running With Scissors

Sarah McGuffin, Administrative Assistant

The biggest pain an Administrative Assistant faces is being mixed up with a Secretary.

An Administrative Assistant, a Secretary would tell you, earns more than them for making the same job, while a Secretary, an Administrative Assistant would say, is an upstart, stereotypical cog in a cheap soap opera that would eventually fall for their charming and unmistakably married boss, only to disappear until the end of the season where it would be revealed that she is pregnant with his child.

Sarah McGuffin was, for all intents and purposes, an Administrative Assistant.

Yes, her job did entail bringing coffee to her boss, keeping appointments, and greeting people at the door, just like a secretary would, but without the perks of having a nice little observant holiday as secretaries have. But her job demanded more responsibility and moxie from her than a doe-eyed secretary. Take Dr. Philbert's secretary, Dora.

Dora's job was to man the phone in Dr. Philbert's office with her usual Southern Belle charm, and scratch dates and numbers on a legal pad with her pink Hello Kitty pen. Sarah, on the other hand, managed the check-ups of all of Dr. George's patients and made sure they kept their appointments, as well as keeping track of their progress.

While Dora could come to work in sweatpants that read "Dummy Thicc" on their posterior, she had to come in western business attire, as she had to deal with pharmaceutical reps and other businesses.

So, if by chance, Dr. Philbert is away from the office and one of his patients is interned on a nuggets-related accident, Dora the secretary only has to leave a post-it note on the doctor's desk and call it a day before hitting a Margaritaville with her girlfriends to complain at how that bitch Sarah looked at her funny when she smoked on the stairs of the hospital.

If that same thing were to happen to Sarah, as it did, it was her responsibility to check up on that patient.

As with any other room in the hospital, it was barren of all comfort and individuality. Four beds were scattered across the room, all empty, save for one. A handsome, yet bruised man laid with his mouth wide open as the EKG machine plucked a syncopated tune Sarah could have sworn sounded just like Dark Necessities from Red Hot Chili Peppers.

The only other person in the room aside from him was a borderline obese man anxiously nibbling a squished chicken nugget.

"I'm sorry," said Sarah as she approached the obese man, "visiting hours are over."

The man jumped from his seat, almost dropping his nugget on the ground. He uttered a silent prayer to Sobek(Praise he who swallows the seas and urinates the oceans).

"Sorry," said the man. "I must've dozed off. I'll get out of your hair."

"You're not in my hair," replied Sarah. "In fact, you're not currently on any part of my body. You're just in this room."

The man looked at Sarah with perplexity, but he could not deny her logic.

"I'm sorry," said the man once again.

"And I'm Sarah. Now, Mr. Sorry. If you please-"

"My name is not...Mr. Sorry. I'm James. James Truman-Conelly. Esquire."

"I liked you more when your name was Sorry," said Sarah while tapping her heel impatiently. "But I'm afraid you will have to visit Mr. Katz later."

James Truman-Conelly took out a small notebook from his breast pocket and made a few scribbles. "So his name is Katz. With a K?"

"Yes. Now, who are you?"

"I told you, my name is-"

"Yes, James whatever-Sean Conelly," said Sarah dismissively. "I want to know why you're here."

James Truman-Conelly sat down again, fiddling with his thumbs as his tongue lolled around his lips. "Well, it all began in Greece where my parents had this popsicle business-"

"Jesus Christ." Sarah had enough. "Are you his friend? His lover? His Administrative Assistant?"

"Well..." James stammered, picking up another squished nugget from the crumpled Wendy's bag, "no. I mean, he's not a bad looking man, but I don't see him that way. And I'm a lawyer, not a secretary."

"Administrative Assistant," she corrected.

"And I assure you, I haven't met this man before, although his reputation precedes him."

"How so?"

James took a bite out of his nugget. It was soggy and cold. Not even a drop of barbecue sauce. Gross. "Once, he convinced a judge that prostitutes could be considered a deductible work expense."

Sarah couldn't help but laugh at the irony. The man was cancer to society. It was only fitting he died full of it.

"That's impressive in all the wrong ways. But still. He's going to be out for a while. If you could please leave the premises-"

James nodded curtly as he stood up from his seat, but both he and Sarah froze when they realized that the syncopated tune of the EKG machine suddenly became a suspended note. G flat in this case.

Katz was flatlining.