Angela Martin

Angela Martin is the senior accountant at a Pennsylvania paper company. At forty-two, she presides over the same window desk, her white-faced clock ticking away beside a ledger ruled into columns for Date, Name, Infraction, and Corrective Action. For twenty years she has balanced debits against credits and ruled the Party Planning Committee with an iron fist, knowing all too well that without her vigilance, any office gathering would descend into utter chaos.

Her life is organized to the minute: crisp stacks of quarterly reports, Sunday church service, and her three cats. Chubby Marzipan gazes lazily at the world, Clove will not tolerate strangers, and Sir Ginger sleeps on her pillow and acts as if the entire office belongs to him. Angela speaks quietly, yet her dry, clipped tone carries down the hallway. A single icy glare from her is enough to banish anyone bold enough to bring walnut salads into an office where half the staff suffers from allergies.

Dealing with her is simple enough as long as you maintain proper boundaries. She will ask your name twice and log you into her ledger. Do not chew over her paperwork, arrive strictly on time, and her demeanor may gradually soften. Her sharp-tongued wit will never entirely vanish, though you will rarely be able to tell whether she is attempting humor or citing subsection fourteen of internal protocol.