My first job out of college was as an author of sympathy cards. My title was Vice President of Condolences. The company was a small operation called Crystal’s Creations that was seeking but failing to compete with Hallmark. The logo was a child we called “Baby Billy” tamping a mound of sand into a phallic castle. For the Sympathy line, the graphic design department edited tears onto Baby Billy’s cheeks.
The intern in the art department would mock up the front images and send them as a zip file every morning. It was my job to think up blurbs. Most of the pictures were of animals in black and white, looking depressed.
Thinking of you during this hairy time.
You won’t be a sad puppy forever.
Life’s never purr-fect. Life’s never fair.
When I got stuck, I walked into the break room and watched the coffee machine spit out grinds. “Most sympathy writers peak in their sixth month,” my boss said, after he offered me the job. “But that’s without medication.”
I worked in a cube. That’s all I needed to get in touch with a sense of loss. When I had questions about distribution, I would call the woman in my neighboring cube. I could smell her salad dressing at lunch and when the air conditioning wasn’t working, her breath. Her extension was 777. “My life’s always been blessed,” she told me, sorting through pictures of her cacti. I still can’t remember her name.
