I once lived in Maryland, and let me tell you, that whole state sucks. It's nowhere near as friendly as North Carolina — but they didn't vote for Trump, so now I don't know what to think.
In any case, I showed up at my new job on a gray December day, right on the banks of the Chesapeake Bay, where wind was washing the steely water right over the pier. My boss was nice, the work focused on environmental issues and I settled into my office in a sort of annex: a one-room cheerful blue trailer.
At least, it was cheerful in color. The four people in the office with me were quite the opposite. None of them would talk to me. One of them, a blue-eyed princess, made it a point to say hello in the mornings and goodbye in the afternoons, only when her back was turned squarely against me. Her friend, a short little miss, had more of a conscience, so she would have two-minute conversations with me every third day — her maximum quota. You would have thought that their boss, a forty-something grizzly man, would be more polite and mature.
But in a reversal of the normal boss-employee relations, Grizzly seemed to be under command of the Princess. I told Grizzly goodbye once, and he first glanced at Princess for permission before managing a scant reply, eyes averted from me. Grizzly's wife came to visit for an afternoon; she returned my smile and greeting with the coldest look I've ever seen in anyone's eyes, but her husband calls her "babe" on Facebook, so I guess she's okay.
My four office-mates would spend the whole day loudly talking about how they were all going out for a dinner and movie after work and never once ask me if I wanted to come. I had moved over two state borders, and I didn't know anyone in the little town I found myself in. It was their right to fling their exclusive fun in the face of the outsider, but it was rude.