The Nightmare

Kelly Opalko

It’s the same nightmare. I’ve had it every night since I moved here from Ohio.

It starts the same way I start every day: I leave my apartment and get on the El at Belmont. The train arrives in the Loop, I exit the car, I walk to my office. I ride the elevator to the tenth floor. I push open the front door and see the receptionist. She waves and says good morning. I open my mouth to reply and all that comes out of my mouth is a loud, nasal screech. No matter how hard I try to move my tongue and lips, the only sound I‘m able make is a flat squawk. 

She giggles at the noise. “I can never understand you!” she laughs as she turns back to her work.

Panic sets in as I hurry past rows and rows of cubicles. Every person greets me and all I can do is honk obnoxiously. Some people point and laugh, some give me a look of disgust. I finally find my desk at the very end of a very long hall. As soon as I sit down, my desk phone rings. 

I answer the call. It’s my manager. I open my mouth but again, that horrible sound comes out. She scolds me for being unprofessional and fires me. I hear the dial tone and slam the phone down. Everyone peaks over their cubicle wall to gawk at me. I whip around and scream to the infinite sea of office workers:
“I DON’T HAVE AN ACCENT!”