Two days and three broken ribs later I decided to swear off the pills for good. I couldn’t go around causing automobile accidents, which got the crap kicked out of me. It’s just not something I’m comfortable with. Crap kicking… not really my thing. Once off the pills, those previous erratic thoughts returned. It was an acceptable compromise. My original worrisome mindset comforted me like an old friend wrapping his arm around your shoulders. To have the old status quo back in place felt good. There were no other adverse effects.
8
Wilmer Cromwell suddenly walked into the room -- forcing me to quickly X out of my game before he took notice. This is my normal routine. When he leaves the office I start up a game of online Go Fish! with a female internet buddy of mine. I say female, but who knows. I assume it’s a female because of the username “Sexkitten69” and her constant use of sexual innuendo and flirtatious messages. A rather clichéd slutty name. And in all likelihood it is some loser living back east in his parents’ basement posing as a woman online to fulfill whatever deviant desires he harbors. Someone like Todd Storton. I can imagine that fat jawed moron doing such a thing. “Oh yeah baby, until the cows come home!”
In any event, I shut down the game and bring up a spreadsheet or client list. Something with a lot of words on it to give Mr. Cromwell the impression that I’m hard at work. He passes by my desk.
“Jeremy,” he says, nodding his head as if the sight of me knocked a memory loose in that pea brain of his -- then he flashes me the signature smug smile.
I feel like spitting in his face. But instead I return the gesture, grinning broadly until he scurries into his office. I wait till he shuts the door halfway, giving me a chance to angle my monitor the farthest possible angle away from his room. I then scoot my chair forward to obstruct the view of my screen. This way I can resume playing Go Fish! until the jiggle of his doorknob catches my attention. A few seconds later I hear the sound of fingers on a keyboard coming from Wilmer’s office. Twelve o’clock and alls well…
Once in awhile the phone rings… I’m forced to pick it up. What a pain. A needless hassle. In Go Fish! you get a real rhythm going; any distraction throws it off completely. I’m able to bear these interruptions, I guess. It’s a paycheck. So I pick the phone up and occasionally jot down the client’s information, depending on whether Wilmer has a lull in cases or not – either that or if my wrist is tired. Percy doesn’t normally require me to schedule clients for him. He usually peruses the obituaries until he finds a suitable victim and then contacts the bereaved. Find a recently deceased man and you can be almost certain he’s got a grieving widow at home. Give them a ring and offer your services. None of the elderly women see that as strange. They don’t know the first thing about law. Then again, I don’t either. But I’d know better than to trust a lawyer who called me out of the blue. Slimeballs…
Sexkitten69 takes all of my eights. She has nearly won the game. I can sense it. I’ve got a disastrous, mediocre hand. At that point I question whether I should exit out of the game and later claim internet failure, connection issues. Sorry, it cut out. It’s a plausible enough excuse and could save me some face. That way I didn’t actually lose; it would be a draw or a tie, a redo. You can’t count faulty internet connections as a victory. It’s in the gamer’s handbook. This time I decide against faking a broken wire. And as suspected, Sexkitten69 wins the game a moment later. If we ever meet face to face perhaps she’ll remember this victory and like me a little more because of it.
There’s a slight chime emitting from the office wall clock. I look up. 12:45. Lunch time… Wilmer and his god-awful bowl will soon be reunited. His desk drawer creeps open. I can vividly picture him extracting the oversized glass container. What’s he having today? Perhaps some soup or a nice salad? It doesn’t matter because within sixty seconds I’ll be reduced to a rocking imbecile.
CLINK! CLANK! CLINK!
Sure enough… the horror begins. I minimize the game of Go Fish, desperate to cover my ears. The weak, pitiful shell I refer to as my body commences rocking back and forth. Shaking room… hazy walls… Blurring vision… Today is worse than normal. He’s eating whatever vile substance is in the bowl with avidity. The clanks are rapid and strident. Each clink pierces my ear like a gunshot echoing on the inside of a tank. The noise becomes unbearable.
My feeble attempt to stand is pointless -- the legs turn to jello as I fall over onto the desk. My eyes open to discover that the room is spinning, pulsating. Each clink causes the office to ripple like a puddle of water. Crashing waves. Dizzying swirls. I’ve got to get out of here before it kills me.
Summoning all of my strength I’m able to upright myself and stagger toward the door. My trembling right hand reaches for the knob. But the shrill clinking instantly shoots into my now unprotected ear, causing me to falter. Ellington Fairfield is in the hallway. He sees me sinking to the ground, very near to death as far as I know. The bumbling dimwit rushes in like a drunken fireman, picks me up and drags me through the doorway. I motion for him to shut the door behind us, and he does.
The clinking, now muffled, reduces the intensity of paroxysm. Two doors stand between me and the infernal sounds. It’s not enough… I hope. My brain no longer has control. It’s me I’m looking at, but I have no power, a mere spectator in this game of death. The body crumples to the floor and begins crawling for the elevator in a pitiful display of instinct. I’m an automaton fighting for his life. Every action is reflexive, unconscious. I’m watching this helpless fool from somewhere up above. Ellington picks the carcass up once again and carries it to his office. He sets the mess down into a chair, and shuts his office door. Finally the clinking is silenced to a bearable level. I’m unsure whether I can actually still hear the demon or if I merely imagine the pangs of agony stinging in my ears.
“You alright, Jack?” Ellington says in a semi-concerned voice. “You should really see a doctor. That’s twice now I’ve seen you looking like hell.”
I’m sitting in the chair, rocking back and forth, covering my ears.
“Sure,” I mumble. “I’ll get to one as soon as possible.” It’s an empty statement. Not quite a lie, but not the truth either. It’s a habit of mine. Just say what people want to hear so they’ll shut their mouths and leave me in peace. The tactic works splendidly for most of the time. However, later on people expect me to follow through with whatever it was I agreed to. That’s where trouble starts a brewing. I tell another appeasing lie and the cycle starts all over.
I’m not positive whether the effects of the clinking are permanent or temporary. For all I know they’re causing irreparable damage to my sanity. I wonder if that’s covered under the healthcare plan. Perhaps I can sue Wilmer. Then… I remember my past run-ins with shrinks and the negative outcomes. Questioning my sanity in a courtroom is the last thing I want to do. They’d cram me into a padded cell faster than Wilmer could clank a bowl.
Mr. Cromwell sees me sitting in Ellington’s office. He walks over and opens the door. Cromwell has an object in his hand. It’s long, black, and shiny. Ellington’s back is turned away; he’s busy fumbling with a few papers. The noise caused by the door catches his attention -- he spins around, smiling. Ellington sees Cromwell, looks down at the black object in his hand. Here, you could clearly see the moment of revelation come into his eyes… just as he dives for cover under his desk and shouts, “Gun! Gun!”
Wilmer whirls around expecting to see a lunatic storming the building. There’s no one. He then looks down at the stapler in his own hand, followed by a lengthy laugh.
“Come here Jermaine, I’ve got something for you to do,” he says to me. I get up and leave the office, leaving Ellington to cowering under his desk.
There’s a stack of papers on Mr. Cromwell’s desk. He pushes them toward me.
“Jamal,” he says, and I can’t help but wonder… isn’t that a black guy’s name? Not that I’m racist as I’ve said. However when’s the last time you saw a white guy with the name Jamal?
It’s akin to naming a black guy Jebedian, when he lives in the ghetto.
“This stack of papers,” Cromwell continues, “is for our new interoffice meetings. The partners got together and we think it’d be a great idea for the building to have a meeting, once a month, just to begin with. And then who knows? Maybe once a week!” he says with a sickeningly wide smile. Wilmer pauses to raise yet another large cup of muscle shake to his lips. Gulp. Gulp. Slurp. Ahhh… The back of his wrist slowly wipes across the wet lips. Eighty grams of protein down the hatch.
Evidently the papers are personal profiles of everyone in the building. Why we’d want to consort with the other nitwits in this place is beyond me. I can hardly stand my own secluded corner.
“I want you to make nametags for each employee in the building. These are their names,” Wilmer says tapping the stack of papers. Just as I suspected… He’s grinning from ear to ear awaiting my response.
“Sure,” I say with as much fake enthusiasm as I can muster. My mind is left to wonder… Crafting nametags feels a bit puerile to me. Immature. Am I back in kindergarten doing arts and crafts? Maybe it’s more like a school fieldtrip and everyone needs an identification tag. Whatever it is, I hate it.
“Glad to hear it, Jesus! Oh, and good job today!” Wilmer exclaims patting me on the back. Then he has the gall to stand there, smiling of course, as his eyes dart from me to the door and back again. Oh… Jesus’ cue to leave. I nod knowingly and exit the room, defeated as always.
9
I’m mad as hell! Those idiotic nametags took me thirty minutes to finish and not a second longer. Most are illegible. Like I care anyway. I’ve been instructed to place them on a table at the entrance to the lounge, which is where the meeting will be adjourned.
The staff members and illiterates begin filtering into the room. I’m standing in a corner silently observing as they enter. I see clusters of men and women bunch around the table. Such fools. Like a herd of mindless sheep gathering round the watering hole. Everyone is looking at the nametags, wondering which belongs to them. My handwriting is terrible. I couldn’t even tell you what each tag says.
They squint intensely at the papers like an archeologist deciphering a lost tablet. I can’t help but laugh and that’s when she enters. Her. You know who. Natasha.
My face, still beaming with joy, delighted by the ensuing nametag fiasco. She looks at me – one of her eyebrows slowly rising. Obviously this conceited woman believes my laughter must be directed at her, undoubtedly in a negative way. Not only that but it must be a perverted, sexual thought. Self-important wench! I’m in such a good mood that without even thinking, I wave to her. She’s revolted and shocked, but still returns a very peculiar motion. A real slow lift of the hand without any wrist movement whatsoever. Just a steady ascension to about shoulder level aimed in my direction wearing a most puzzled expression upon her face.
Natasha slinks over to the nametag table. It’s at this point that I see Wilmer Cromwell enter with Percy at his side. Their contrasting appearances are comical. Together they form the letter ten. One being slender and the other being a round fatso. I watch Wilmer with eager excitement as he eyes the tags. His smiling face contorts into a disfigured, disbelieving frown. I guess he’s noticed the writing. You see, Wilmer is an extremely prideful fellow and does anything he can to avoid public disputes. It’s because of this reason that I know he won’t confront me. At least not now. Like an angry parent eyeballing their child, just waiting to get home so they may unleash a violent beating. One which would be publically frowned upon.
Forever the politician, Wilmer devises a plan.
“Everyone, excuse me, everyone! I see the nametags have become a bit…disorganized.” Yeah, that’s it Cromwell. Disorganized. What a twit. He continues on, “We’ll skip over them this time around. Please take a seat and we’ll get underway.”
People begin looking for a place to sit. I can tell by the awkward way in which they move that no one has any idea what they’re doing here. And then… quite unexpectedly another buffoon makes his unwanted appearance.
Todd Storton walks into the room wearing his work uniform. He’s carrying several magazines. All eyes turn to view his unsightly, ungainly, and unwelcome lumbering body. Everyone in the place is a bit baffled. Storton isn’t employed by anyone in the building. He’s contracted out through the water jug company. A quiet murmur ripples out from the crowd. Mouths turn to ears, fingers point secretively toward the tubgut. Nobody knows it, but I’m the one who invited Storton. Just to get a reaction – to embarrass the goon.
With all gazes fixated on the jug man, he steps farther inside equipped with the kind of self-assuredness only a true imbecile could possess in such a situation. Storton scans the room. The people glance down at the numerous magazines in his hand. Another murmur begins, this one a bit louder than the previous. More finger pointing and cupped ear whispering. For it is upon closer inspection one can see that these fine articles of literature are, in fact, smut mags (which I asked him to bring). And I must say, I awarded him more credit than he deserves. I figured he might’ve stayed and contributed to this pointless meeting. At least offer to pass around the delightful magazines to lighten up the mood. Although it was clear to see by the darting of his eyes, and fumbling of his gut, along with a heavier perspiration than usual that the big man had evidently been hit by a case of the nerves. Public humiliation had gotten the best of him. I felt shamed by his display of cowardice. Probably too many well-tailored suits in one room for the behemoth.
“Uhh, pardon me,” he says, “I’ve forgotten my hat.” Storton turns around and leaves, wearing his hat -- a few magazines slipping from his grasp, falling to the floor. Nobody says a word. Storton doesn’t return. I chalk it up to a personal victory. Before the commotion even has a chance to settle, Cromwell (accompanied by a nerdy looking man) takes center stage. They introduce one another and instantly commence the meeting, wearing the only two smiles in the room.
Forty-five minutes later the jabbering has finally ceased. I haven’t heard a word Cromwell or the nerdy man uttered. No one has. The room is filled with glazed over eyes and bored expressions. Percy has actually fallen asleep in his chair and is snoring quite loudly. Cromwell toughs out the dying crowd as he recapitulates a few of the major points. I conclude that there will be no future meetings.
There’s no need to sit and listen to such insipid drivel. The empty blathering of an egotistical dunderhead. The soporific prattling of a fool.
However, I did receive one benefit from the gathering. If you wish to call it that. This little episode granted me to the opportunity to see exactly just what kind of ill-formed, mouth breathing, moronic ignoramuses work in my building. I never wish to see such a nauseating sight as long as I live… Gadzooks! Do I see it? Yes, yes I do. That flashing movement of the eye. Natasha had been staring at me. I’m certain of it. My head turned in her direction and her eyes averted immediately. I wonder what she was looking at. My charming demeanor? Muscular physique? Neither of which I possess. She’s avoiding my gaze, looking away as if I am an old man’s heavily infected exposed crotch region. This gives me the perfect opportunity to inspect her features, absent of risk.
Her hair is letdown today, being draped along the neck, flowing magnificently over her shoulders to about mid-back level. She’s wearing a peerless white blouse and spectacular black skirt. Her tan skin looks radiant against the colors. I can’t wait to get home and “cartoonize” this woman. But I mustn’t look too long. That would be a bit odd to stare for an inordinate amount of time, wouldn’t it? So I make a quick note of her nose and chin protrusions before exiting the room. The remaining workers slowly come back to what little senses they have and trickle out of the lounge like dazed idiots, wondering what exactly it was they had witness. Everyone is clueless. I’m loving the day.
Back at the office I know a confrontation with Wilmer is due at any moment. Sure enough. He enters the room (muscle shake in hand) and without saying a word
waves me into his office. I follow obediently (the shamed dog walk). But what’s he going to say? The nametags were a little below the expected quality. Big deal. It was menial work to begin with. Let’s get on with the overblown, pretentious comments.
“Jones,” he says, still holding a strained smile. “The nametags were… a little below the expected quality.” I never saw it coming.
“Yeah, about that,” I say before rattling off my prepared answer. “The pen I was using had a dented tip and I couldn’t write straight with it.”
I anticipate the question he’s going to ask but don’t give him a chance. “There wasn’t enough time to find another one. I was running behind schedule as it was.”
After a long, drawn-out sigh he says, “That’s okay. You did your best. In the future please try to be a bit more prepared… Good work today!” There’s that sickening smile again. I look at the clock. 12:40… Christ, lunchtime. The thought of enduring one second of his interminable clanks is unbearable. I’m forced to think fast, efficiently or run the risk of dying within the next few minutes.
“Mr. Cromwell,” I blurt amiably. “How about I take you out to lunch today?”
“Well I’m not sure,” he hesitates. I know I’m losing him. But the clanking must not begin.
“Sure, comon, Mr. Cromwell. It’s the least I can do to make up for the nametag debacle.” I’ll say anything to get him away from that oversized glass bowl. His face softens. I can tell I’ve snagged him.
“I’m buying!” I throw in add just to solidify his answer. Then I recall he is a big eater due to all the muscular bulk… and I’m on a secretaries, err, lawyer’s assistant’s salary.
“Alright! Where’re we going, Jock?”
At least it’s a J…
CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw Page 4
