I started working on Arvind’s project. I had to wear white semi-disposable filing gloves to do the work because the files made my hands break out in painful little red bumps. I don’t know if the bumps were psychosomatic or what. It’s possible, given that I watched Arvind pick his nose all the time. But, given he had theoretically worked with these very files, it could also have been some exotic booger-related virus.
After a week of working with Arvind’s files, he and Emma came to my desk to inform me that the three of us had to start over from the beginning because he had been wrong about several types of documents that we had kept but should have tossed.
He didn’t seem bothered. Neither did Emma. I wanted to step in front of a bus. I made a comment about how much time we had wasted. In response, Emma said, “It’s really no big deal, I mean, what else would we be doing?”
I wasn’t able to articulate the thought at the time since I had the plague, but the answer was, “Doing something productive and useful so I can eventually get a better job and then maybe God will stop punishing me with Arvind.”