Sunday, January 10, 2010
Friday, March 30, 2007
Safe
My voice is raised. “Let’s go, already!” I don’t want to be here.
I hate arguing, the words sticking in my throat, nothing but grunts and sputters coming out, along with some spittle, a few gurgles, sniffs of snot, and the ever-presence of tears. Always with the tears.
He stands close to me and he’s mad at me, at the situation. “You think I want to be here?”
Don’t say it. Don’t. “This is all your fault.” Bitch.
His hand reaches for me, grasping my forearm, his grip strong, and he shakes me a little. Maybe I’m in shock, maybe I need to be shaken. Shaken, not stirred. Shaken-baby syndrome. Shake well before serving.
I’m still crying, going at full-tilt, I can’t stop now that I’ve started, I can’t catch my breath either. He’s already breaking down, already sorry, already sad. “Don’t.” His hand is still on my arm. He’s deciding whether to pull me closer or push me away.
A nurse comes up behind him, dressed in green scrubs, maybe blue scrubs washed green. “We need more information,” she says softly. I’m in shock, I need to be talked to like a four-year-old. The shock makes me stupid. “Could you follow me?”
No. I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to follow her, but I’m already following behind her.
“In this room, please.”
No. I don’t like hospitals. I don’t want to be in a room. I want to be home, I want the heat on, I want a fuzzy blanket, I want sweet tea. The room smells and my stomach lurches, ammonia in my nostrils, cleaning product pitched into my stomach, clawing at me from inside, the hospital smell seeping into my clothes, my purse, my shoes.
There’s a doctor inside the room. That’s not normal. Normally, I wait. And wait and wait, stealing hospital supplies inside my large purse, only to throw them away later, I deserve them, don’t I?, the cost of co-pays these days.
“You’re safe now,” the doctor says. She’s a tall blonde in pressed slacks and a purple shell top on sale at Express right now. Why is the nurse in the room? It was only a minor fender-bender, but I banged my forehead on the glass and it’s starting to swell, so we came to the emergency room.
Am I dying? I can’t be.
“You’re safe now. Anything you want to say, you can.”
What does she mean? I hate her slacks, her bright hair, her concerned expression. I hate the way the nurse smells, of something overpowering and found at perfume counter at Macy’s.
“Does he…” she hesitates and looks to the nurse standing behind me, “does the man you’re with, does he hurt you?”
Yes. We’re supposed be at the movies, I wanted the darkened theater, the popcorn and the large icee. I don’t want to be in a hospital. I hate him right now.
“You have unexplained bruises on you,” she says slowly, every word said clearly. I’m still four. At my look, she points to the large bruise on my calf under my linen skirt.
“No.” I shake my head.
“He doesn’t have the right. Whether he’s your husband or your boyfriend or your date. He doesn’t have any right to hurt you.”
I’m still shaking my head. “I’m just accident prone. I bump into things all the time.” I don’t think they believed me. Most grown-ups don’t believe four-year-olds.
I hate arguing, the words sticking in my throat, nothing but grunts and sputters coming out, along with some spittle, a few gurgles, sniffs of snot, and the ever-presence of tears. Always with the tears.
He stands close to me and he’s mad at me, at the situation. “You think I want to be here?”
Don’t say it. Don’t. “This is all your fault.” Bitch.
His hand reaches for me, grasping my forearm, his grip strong, and he shakes me a little. Maybe I’m in shock, maybe I need to be shaken. Shaken, not stirred. Shaken-baby syndrome. Shake well before serving.
I’m still crying, going at full-tilt, I can’t stop now that I’ve started, I can’t catch my breath either. He’s already breaking down, already sorry, already sad. “Don’t.” His hand is still on my arm. He’s deciding whether to pull me closer or push me away.
A nurse comes up behind him, dressed in green scrubs, maybe blue scrubs washed green. “We need more information,” she says softly. I’m in shock, I need to be talked to like a four-year-old. The shock makes me stupid. “Could you follow me?”
No. I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to follow her, but I’m already following behind her.
“In this room, please.”
No. I don’t like hospitals. I don’t want to be in a room. I want to be home, I want the heat on, I want a fuzzy blanket, I want sweet tea. The room smells and my stomach lurches, ammonia in my nostrils, cleaning product pitched into my stomach, clawing at me from inside, the hospital smell seeping into my clothes, my purse, my shoes.
There’s a doctor inside the room. That’s not normal. Normally, I wait. And wait and wait, stealing hospital supplies inside my large purse, only to throw them away later, I deserve them, don’t I?, the cost of co-pays these days.
“You’re safe now,” the doctor says. She’s a tall blonde in pressed slacks and a purple shell top on sale at Express right now. Why is the nurse in the room? It was only a minor fender-bender, but I banged my forehead on the glass and it’s starting to swell, so we came to the emergency room.
Am I dying? I can’t be.
“You’re safe now. Anything you want to say, you can.”
What does she mean? I hate her slacks, her bright hair, her concerned expression. I hate the way the nurse smells, of something overpowering and found at perfume counter at Macy’s.
“Does he…” she hesitates and looks to the nurse standing behind me, “does the man you’re with, does he hurt you?”
Yes. We’re supposed be at the movies, I wanted the darkened theater, the popcorn and the large icee. I don’t want to be in a hospital. I hate him right now.
“You have unexplained bruises on you,” she says slowly, every word said clearly. I’m still four. At my look, she points to the large bruise on my calf under my linen skirt.
“No.” I shake my head.
“He doesn’t have the right. Whether he’s your husband or your boyfriend or your date. He doesn’t have any right to hurt you.”
I’m still shaking my head. “I’m just accident prone. I bump into things all the time.” I don’t think they believed me. Most grown-ups don’t believe four-year-olds.
Rumors of My Death, I Started Those
[real]
I was gone for a while. Maybe longer, I can't remember. I was writing, honest I was, writing novel #2, novel #1 hidden away from the sunlight to keep it preserved for now, so I can spend time in this new novel, in this new world. Well, writing, but also working. Okay, mostly working. It's what I do. But also writing, which means something, no?
Intermitten, that's me.
[/real]
I was gone for a while. Maybe longer, I can't remember. I was writing, honest I was, writing novel #2, novel #1 hidden away from the sunlight to keep it preserved for now, so I can spend time in this new novel, in this new world. Well, writing, but also working. Okay, mostly working. It's what I do. But also writing, which means something, no?
Intermitten, that's me.
[/real]
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
The Courier
Phil was excited about his new position. Here 6 years now, he was well past the point of being the new guy. He had given up hope of ever getting any further than processing paperwork. But, miraculously, his turn to be promoted to something better had finally come. He was being asked to keep careful watch over the beige briefcase and get it to Martha’s Vineyard by Wednesday at 10:00 am.
What was in the briefcase, he was not told. Neither did he know who was employing him, what was to happen on Martha’s Vineyard, and who would be meeting there. All they told him was that it was of vital importance to the nation that he makes sure the briefcase is kept safe and delivered by Wednesday morning. He was to tell no one.
And Phil had not. He had no one to tell. His parents had both died years ago. His work was his life and he believed in doing it well.
Phil held onto the briefcase with one hand and gripped the edge of the boat as tightly as he could with the other. With the deadline delivery time of 10 am, Phil had not had many options. He had rented a dinghy and paid a man to take him to Martha’s Vineyard. The man had promised it would be less than an hour’s ride. But the sky had unexpectedly turned darker and the waters had become choppy. The man had seemed less concerned a few minutes ago, but now he looked worried also. He was obviously fighting to keep the dilapidated boat afloat. Phil would have offered to help, but he had to keep hold of his precious package.
Suddenly, a giant wave overtook them. Phil was instantly thrown into the water. He fought the water and finally made his way to the surface for air. He instantly held the briefcase over his head, to prevent any damage to the contents. He looked around, but could not tell which way would lead him to Martha’s Vineyard. He decided it would be best that he stay where he was. After all, someone would come looking for him. They needed what was in the briefcase.
Phil was not worried.
****
“Gentlemen, thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Greg turned to his superior and said, “I can’t believe this was pulled off so quickly. How did you manage to keep the location of the meeting secret?”
Greg’s superior smiled. “I arranged for private couriers to take empty briefcases all over. Chicago, Singapore, Australia, Martha’s Vineyard.”
What was in the briefcase, he was not told. Neither did he know who was employing him, what was to happen on Martha’s Vineyard, and who would be meeting there. All they told him was that it was of vital importance to the nation that he makes sure the briefcase is kept safe and delivered by Wednesday morning. He was to tell no one.
And Phil had not. He had no one to tell. His parents had both died years ago. His work was his life and he believed in doing it well.
Phil held onto the briefcase with one hand and gripped the edge of the boat as tightly as he could with the other. With the deadline delivery time of 10 am, Phil had not had many options. He had rented a dinghy and paid a man to take him to Martha’s Vineyard. The man had promised it would be less than an hour’s ride. But the sky had unexpectedly turned darker and the waters had become choppy. The man had seemed less concerned a few minutes ago, but now he looked worried also. He was obviously fighting to keep the dilapidated boat afloat. Phil would have offered to help, but he had to keep hold of his precious package.
Suddenly, a giant wave overtook them. Phil was instantly thrown into the water. He fought the water and finally made his way to the surface for air. He instantly held the briefcase over his head, to prevent any damage to the contents. He looked around, but could not tell which way would lead him to Martha’s Vineyard. He decided it would be best that he stay where he was. After all, someone would come looking for him. They needed what was in the briefcase.
Phil was not worried.
****
“Gentlemen, thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Greg turned to his superior and said, “I can’t believe this was pulled off so quickly. How did you manage to keep the location of the meeting secret?”
Greg’s superior smiled. “I arranged for private couriers to take empty briefcases all over. Chicago, Singapore, Australia, Martha’s Vineyard.”
Monday, June 26, 2006
My Life for a Towel
No one told me that the currency in Cancun was towels. Otherwise I might have bought a few of my own.
This is an honest conversation I overheard:
Father: I have four towels. I know we checked out six this morning. What happened to the other towels? I’m responsible for them. How’d we lose two towels?
Mother: Sharon has one. She’s out by the pool.
Father: I’ll go talk to her Where’s the other towel?
Mother: Maybe Kristen has one.
Father: Where is she?
Mother: I think she’s talking a walk on the beach.
Mother’s Friend: Who’s she out with?
Mother: I… don’t know. Should we be worried? I don’t know who she went with.
Mother’s Friend: I wouldn’t worry. She probably didn’t go far.
Father: Are you sure she has a towel?
Those towels, man, worth more than a human life.
You could always have another kid. But where, oh where, are you ever going to get white bath-sized towels?
This is an honest conversation I overheard:
Father: I have four towels. I know we checked out six this morning. What happened to the other towels? I’m responsible for them. How’d we lose two towels?
Mother: Sharon has one. She’s out by the pool.
Father: I’ll go talk to her Where’s the other towel?
Mother: Maybe Kristen has one.
Father: Where is she?
Mother: I think she’s talking a walk on the beach.
Mother’s Friend: Who’s she out with?
Mother: I… don’t know. Should we be worried? I don’t know who she went with.
Mother’s Friend: I wouldn’t worry. She probably didn’t go far.
Father: Are you sure she has a towel?
Those towels, man, worth more than a human life.
You could always have another kid. But where, oh where, are you ever going to get white bath-sized towels?
Thursday, May 04, 2006
God Bless You
Clint Waylon let out the biggest, grossed fart ever. He even leaned sideway a little, holding the edge of the table for support, when he let it rip. She could almost see his butt cheeks sputter in her mind’s eye. And wished she couldn’t.
“You should say ‘God Bless You’ now.”
She ignored that remark, and the six other crazy comments he’d made previously and tried to get him to stay on the topic. “Did. You. Touch. The body?”
“God moves through us. When we laugh, it’s God laughing through us. When we cry, it’s because he’s sad.”
“Just a yes or no, please.”
“When we sneeze, people say ‘God Bless You’.” Clint’s voice got louder, “And those fuckin’ hippies say ‘Bless You’. ‘Cause somehow not saying the ‘God’ part makes it okay. Like He doesn’t exist. But who’s doing the blessing, I ask you? That’s right – God!”
“Mr. Waylon, if you could please concentrate, this would go a lot faster.” Maybe even get her out of here in the next twenty minutes. She had a hair appointment she wasn’t going to miss, brutal homicide or not.
“When we sneeze, it’s God sneezing though us. And when we fart, it’s God farting through us.”
Why did she always end up with the crazies? “Mr. Waylon, I’m only going to ask one more time: was the deceased laying on his back or on his stomach when you came in?” Because the follow up question to that one was, Did you see the knife that caused the twelve stab wounds to the victim’s back. That was if she could ever get there.
“So, you see, you’re being inexcusable rude by not saying “God Bless You” when I farted. That’s God’s gas you’re smelling, lady! Don’t you understand that? That came directly from Him, through me, unto you.”
When he climbed onto the table, she had the first officer at the scene cuff him and lead him away. And she still had fifteen to make her appointment. Thank goodness.
Clint was screaming as he was led away. “Bless me! Bless me for the Lord moves through me!”
“You should say ‘God Bless You’ now.”
She ignored that remark, and the six other crazy comments he’d made previously and tried to get him to stay on the topic. “Did. You. Touch. The body?”
“God moves through us. When we laugh, it’s God laughing through us. When we cry, it’s because he’s sad.”
“Just a yes or no, please.”
“When we sneeze, people say ‘God Bless You’.” Clint’s voice got louder, “And those fuckin’ hippies say ‘Bless You’. ‘Cause somehow not saying the ‘God’ part makes it okay. Like He doesn’t exist. But who’s doing the blessing, I ask you? That’s right – God!”
“Mr. Waylon, if you could please concentrate, this would go a lot faster.” Maybe even get her out of here in the next twenty minutes. She had a hair appointment she wasn’t going to miss, brutal homicide or not.
“When we sneeze, it’s God sneezing though us. And when we fart, it’s God farting through us.”
Why did she always end up with the crazies? “Mr. Waylon, I’m only going to ask one more time: was the deceased laying on his back or on his stomach when you came in?” Because the follow up question to that one was, Did you see the knife that caused the twelve stab wounds to the victim’s back. That was if she could ever get there.
“So, you see, you’re being inexcusable rude by not saying “God Bless You” when I farted. That’s God’s gas you’re smelling, lady! Don’t you understand that? That came directly from Him, through me, unto you.”
When he climbed onto the table, she had the first officer at the scene cuff him and lead him away. And she still had fifteen to make her appointment. Thank goodness.
Clint was screaming as he was led away. “Bless me! Bless me for the Lord moves through me!”
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Clothing Optional...
(My roommate and I are always having the strangest conversations. Several nights ago, the conversation went like this:)
Me: You weren’t supposed to be home for another half hour.
Roommate: What are you…? Are you not wearing pants?
M: Nope.
R: Go put some pants on!
M: I didn’t expect you back for a half hour.
R: So in a half hour you were planning to put pants on?
M: I’d have thought about it.
R: Go put some pants on, crazy lady!
M: Why? It’s not like we don’t have the same equipment.
R: OK, (a) please stop saying ‘equipment’ and (b) I don’t wanna see your equipment!
(And then later…)
M: Yes, I’m kicking IRS’s butt! I am SO filing my own taxes this year.
R: With or without your pants on?
M: I don’t need my pants for this.
R: I beg to differ.
(And finally…)
M: I kicked IRS's ass!
R: No, you didn't.
M: Totally kicked it!
R: No. You didn't.
M: *singing* I kicked it's boo-tie. Ooo-ooo-ooo-otie. It's full of coo-ties.
R: You filed an extension.
M: Exactly! Kicked. It's. Bootie. Did you hear my song? *singing* I kicked it's boo-tie. It's full of coo-ties.
R: That's like saying you're going to kick my ass. In like... June. Oooo, I'm scared.
M: I-- But-- *singing* I kicked it's -- *not singing* You're totally ruinning my fun!
R: I know.
M: *singing* I'm going to kick it's boo-tie. It'll be full of... doody... *not singing* I hate you.
R: I know.
(/real)
Me: You weren’t supposed to be home for another half hour.
Roommate: What are you…? Are you not wearing pants?
M: Nope.
R: Go put some pants on!
M: I didn’t expect you back for a half hour.
R: So in a half hour you were planning to put pants on?
M: I’d have thought about it.
R: Go put some pants on, crazy lady!
M: Why? It’s not like we don’t have the same equipment.
R: OK, (a) please stop saying ‘equipment’ and (b) I don’t wanna see your equipment!
(And then later…)
M: Yes, I’m kicking IRS’s butt! I am SO filing my own taxes this year.
R: With or without your pants on?
M: I don’t need my pants for this.
R: I beg to differ.
(And finally…)
M: I kicked IRS's ass!
R: No, you didn't.
M: Totally kicked it!
R: No. You didn't.
M: *singing* I kicked it's boo-tie. Ooo-ooo-ooo-otie. It's full of coo-ties.
R: You filed an extension.
M: Exactly! Kicked. It's. Bootie. Did you hear my song? *singing* I kicked it's boo-tie. It's full of coo-ties.
R: That's like saying you're going to kick my ass. In like... June. Oooo, I'm scared.
M: I-- But-- *singing* I kicked it's -- *not singing* You're totally ruinning my fun!
R: I know.
M: *singing* I'm going to kick it's boo-tie. It'll be full of... doody... *not singing* I hate you.
R: I know.
(/real)
Some Days
Panting, he ran down the last flight of stairs, feeling the sweat trickle down his forehead and plop off the end of his nose, streak across his cheek, and blend into the sweat in his hair. His vision, already blurry, stung when he accidentally rubbed the perspiration across his eyes. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision as he hit the landing, spinning and shoving the heavy wooden door open with his shoulder, muscling into like a linebacker. The world around him was jumpy as if he were watching one of these cinema veritié movies with shakily camera work.
He didn’t have time to look at his watch. Not that he’d be able to see it at any rate, even if he tried it. But he had time. He had to!
He hit the blue box at the corner still running at full speed, the breath leaving his body in one long swoosh. Made it. Yes! The world was his. He owned it.
The sound of screechy brakes had him looking up. The post office van crossed the intersection and continued on its way down the street.
Damn it. He hated the days when the mailman picked the mail up early. Oh, well. He’d have to call his client and tell him the paperwork would go in tomorrow’s mail.
He didn’t have time to look at his watch. Not that he’d be able to see it at any rate, even if he tried it. But he had time. He had to!
He hit the blue box at the corner still running at full speed, the breath leaving his body in one long swoosh. Made it. Yes! The world was his. He owned it.
The sound of screechy brakes had him looking up. The post office van crossed the intersection and continued on its way down the street.
Damn it. He hated the days when the mailman picked the mail up early. Oh, well. He’d have to call his client and tell him the paperwork would go in tomorrow’s mail.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Most Precious Gift
Today is the best day of her life, just her entire life. She’s been waiting for this day since she was a little girl. Since her ninth birthday, actually.
They had gone to the pier, to see the sea lions. Crowds had gathered at the end of the pier to look at the big, slippery things bark and lie in the sun. Her father took her to a restaurant that overlooked the part of the pier cordoned off for the sea lions.
“Look at them,” he’d said. “They are sick and perverted. The girl sea lions lay there, willing mating with any one of the male sea lions, with no disregard for the sanctity of the bonds of holy matrimony.”
She didn’t know what ‘mating’ was but her daddy sounded so serious. He didn’t say it like it was a good thing. She believed him, too. He’d never lie to her.
“But people are different honey. God made us different. And the best thing He ever did was make daughters. He made mine special.” He reached over to stoke her hair. “I want you to know that you were a one-of-a-kind from the moment you were born. I want you to stay that way forever.” He stopped to look out the window.
She knew she was special because Daddy always told her so. Her mother said she was the most cherished girl probably in the entire state.
“Animals are called that because they don’t know any better. But we do, honey. I want you to promise me that you will never become like those girl sea lions out there. Your purity is your most precious gift.” He looked at her intently. “It’s something to be saved for the man who will replace me in your heart: your future husband. My future son-in-law.”
She’d already imagine him – the man she’d marry – a million times. Tall, like her dad, with a strong jaw and slick hair darker than hers. He would have beautiful hazel eyes and have straight white teeth.
Her father handed her a box. “Open it.”
Inside was a heart-shaped locket. She pulled it out and held it up to her neck.
“It’s beautiful, honey. This locket represents something to you and me. It means that you will save yourself for the man who will come after me, your future husband. The key,” he held it out to her, “is mine for now. On your wedding day, I will joyously give my new son the key to you, baby.”
She shouldn’t, but she can’t help peeking. She wants to see the moment when Gary realizes she’d meant what she’d said about saving herself. He would only love her more. How could he not? Her father had said Gary would.
The smile on Gary’s face is her answer. She walks into the dressing room and asks her maid of honor to pin her veil to her hair. It’s time. She’s not nervous anymore. It’s going to be the best day of her life.
And the best night.
Finally.
She has to physically stop herself from throwing herself into her father’s arms when he enters the room. She wants him to tell her to news. She wants to savor it.
He pauses to look at her, to take in the white dress, the long veil, the strand of pearls at her throat. His eyes well with tears. He has something in his hand for her as he comes closer.
***
She runs down Powell and into the BART station. Without bothering to wait for the attendant, she slips through the handicapped entrance, her dress held high enough so she can run down the escalator. Jumping into the first train she sees, she sits down and finally catches a breath, her wedding dressing poufing around her.
Clutched in her palm is a tiny key. It opens a special locket – HIS.
Gary has been saving himself for his wife.
That wife – whomever she is – can have him. She wants a man, not some virgin.
(Lest you all think I'm slipping into dementia, check out the Heart2Heart website. After that, read the World O'Crap entry -- get all the way to the end, there's some juicy, sick stuff in there -- if you can stomach it. Me? I'll be cowering under my bed.)
They had gone to the pier, to see the sea lions. Crowds had gathered at the end of the pier to look at the big, slippery things bark and lie in the sun. Her father took her to a restaurant that overlooked the part of the pier cordoned off for the sea lions.
“Look at them,” he’d said. “They are sick and perverted. The girl sea lions lay there, willing mating with any one of the male sea lions, with no disregard for the sanctity of the bonds of holy matrimony.”
She didn’t know what ‘mating’ was but her daddy sounded so serious. He didn’t say it like it was a good thing. She believed him, too. He’d never lie to her.
“But people are different honey. God made us different. And the best thing He ever did was make daughters. He made mine special.” He reached over to stoke her hair. “I want you to know that you were a one-of-a-kind from the moment you were born. I want you to stay that way forever.” He stopped to look out the window.
She knew she was special because Daddy always told her so. Her mother said she was the most cherished girl probably in the entire state.
“Animals are called that because they don’t know any better. But we do, honey. I want you to promise me that you will never become like those girl sea lions out there. Your purity is your most precious gift.” He looked at her intently. “It’s something to be saved for the man who will replace me in your heart: your future husband. My future son-in-law.”
She’d already imagine him – the man she’d marry – a million times. Tall, like her dad, with a strong jaw and slick hair darker than hers. He would have beautiful hazel eyes and have straight white teeth.
Her father handed her a box. “Open it.”
Inside was a heart-shaped locket. She pulled it out and held it up to her neck.
“It’s beautiful, honey. This locket represents something to you and me. It means that you will save yourself for the man who will come after me, your future husband. The key,” he held it out to her, “is mine for now. On your wedding day, I will joyously give my new son the key to you, baby.”
She shouldn’t, but she can’t help peeking. She wants to see the moment when Gary realizes she’d meant what she’d said about saving herself. He would only love her more. How could he not? Her father had said Gary would.
The smile on Gary’s face is her answer. She walks into the dressing room and asks her maid of honor to pin her veil to her hair. It’s time. She’s not nervous anymore. It’s going to be the best day of her life.
And the best night.
Finally.
She has to physically stop herself from throwing herself into her father’s arms when he enters the room. She wants him to tell her to news. She wants to savor it.
He pauses to look at her, to take in the white dress, the long veil, the strand of pearls at her throat. His eyes well with tears. He has something in his hand for her as he comes closer.
***
She runs down Powell and into the BART station. Without bothering to wait for the attendant, she slips through the handicapped entrance, her dress held high enough so she can run down the escalator. Jumping into the first train she sees, she sits down and finally catches a breath, her wedding dressing poufing around her.
Clutched in her palm is a tiny key. It opens a special locket – HIS.
Gary has been saving himself for his wife.
That wife – whomever she is – can have him. She wants a man, not some virgin.
(Lest you all think I'm slipping into dementia, check out the Heart2Heart website. After that, read the World O'Crap entry -- get all the way to the end, there's some juicy, sick stuff in there -- if you can stomach it. Me? I'll be cowering under my bed.)
Monday, April 24, 2006
Surprise Attack
(my friend gave me a prompt: a guy who's ready to strangle his stupid co-worker)
"I finally get there and you'll never guess what I find? Go ahead, guess. No, seriously. You'll never believe it."
Non-stop for forty-five minutes. If Billy doesn't stop talking from over the cubicle wall soon, I refuse to be responsible for my next actions. Or his ability to breathe. I have work to get done, mountains of it in my in-box on the edge of my desk, thirty "urgent" emails I'd received since yesterday, and the big project my boss dumped on my desk as I was leaving work last night.
Which is why, on a perfectly good Saturday afternoon, I’m at work… getting nothing done. Since I got in, it’s been nothing but—
“It was closed! On a Friday night. Can you believe that? Don’t these people understand they’re in the US now. They can’t just keep whatever hours they want. Why do they think they’re still living in some backwater country?”
What would James Bond do?
But he’d start with a martini. And then there would be a leggy blonde in a see-though nightie… No that’s not getting me anywhere.
What would Buffy do?
But decapitation and staking is only fun on TV and in the movies. In real life, there’d be jail time to contend with and, well, I’m too pretty to go to prison. But for a moment I imagine a slingblade in my hand, a sharp slash across his throat. Not dead, just… severing his vocal cords.
What would Mother Theresa do?
But I’m not a saint. Feeding Billy or offering him solace wouldn’t satisfy me in the least.
What would Donald Rumsfeld do?
And that’s when I know what has to be done. A quick call, a few suggestions, and I hang up. Then I wait. When Billy’s phone rings, I try to sit still. His voice carries, as I’ve learned over the last six months, over to my cube.
“Me? But I thought… Well, no, if you think… Don’t I need some sort of… I did say I knew the material in the staff meeting, that’s true… It’s just that— Right. Yes. Of course. Yes.”
Within seconds, he appears at the entrance to my cubicle. “Klein thinks I should take over the Marek project. Guess the old man is impressed with my work.” The smile he pulls is strained and never makes it across his face. “Can I get the file from you?”
“Sure. Congrats.”
“Thanks, dude.”
I manage to wait until he’s gone before throwing my head back and letting out a soundless laugh. In ten minutes, I’m packed up and on my way out the door. My “See you later, buddy,” is met with silence.
A surprise attack. So much more satisfying than a beheading or choking. Way more satisfying.
"I finally get there and you'll never guess what I find? Go ahead, guess. No, seriously. You'll never believe it."
Non-stop for forty-five minutes. If Billy doesn't stop talking from over the cubicle wall soon, I refuse to be responsible for my next actions. Or his ability to breathe. I have work to get done, mountains of it in my in-box on the edge of my desk, thirty "urgent" emails I'd received since yesterday, and the big project my boss dumped on my desk as I was leaving work last night.
Which is why, on a perfectly good Saturday afternoon, I’m at work… getting nothing done. Since I got in, it’s been nothing but—
“It was closed! On a Friday night. Can you believe that? Don’t these people understand they’re in the US now. They can’t just keep whatever hours they want. Why do they think they’re still living in some backwater country?”
What would James Bond do?
But he’d start with a martini. And then there would be a leggy blonde in a see-though nightie… No that’s not getting me anywhere.
What would Buffy do?
But decapitation and staking is only fun on TV and in the movies. In real life, there’d be jail time to contend with and, well, I’m too pretty to go to prison. But for a moment I imagine a slingblade in my hand, a sharp slash across his throat. Not dead, just… severing his vocal cords.
What would Mother Theresa do?
But I’m not a saint. Feeding Billy or offering him solace wouldn’t satisfy me in the least.
What would Donald Rumsfeld do?
And that’s when I know what has to be done. A quick call, a few suggestions, and I hang up. Then I wait. When Billy’s phone rings, I try to sit still. His voice carries, as I’ve learned over the last six months, over to my cube.
“Me? But I thought… Well, no, if you think… Don’t I need some sort of… I did say I knew the material in the staff meeting, that’s true… It’s just that— Right. Yes. Of course. Yes.”
Within seconds, he appears at the entrance to my cubicle. “Klein thinks I should take over the Marek project. Guess the old man is impressed with my work.” The smile he pulls is strained and never makes it across his face. “Can I get the file from you?”
“Sure. Congrats.”
“Thanks, dude.”
I manage to wait until he’s gone before throwing my head back and letting out a soundless laugh. In ten minutes, I’m packed up and on my way out the door. My “See you later, buddy,” is met with silence.
A surprise attack. So much more satisfying than a beheading or choking. Way more satisfying.