10
Do I have a split personality? An alternate personality? I wouldn’t say so. I’ve got a latent personality. One that I repress due to social constraints. As I assume everyone does. You have your public persona and then you have your private persona. They’re rarely the same. My case is no different. I’m normal just like everyone else.
“Jaques,” Wilmer says to me between bites of chewy chicken, “Are you a fan of strongman?”
I stare blankly for a moment, unsure if this is a reference to the muscle fetish culture or some other perverse notion of Cromwell’s.
“Haha,” he chuckles to himself with a dip of the head, as if realizing his own mistake. “Of course you’re not! Look at that toothpick body! Scrawny as a—as a toothpick! Anyway, Jorgen, my favorite is a sturdy man named Dariusz Poodginowskee The most celebrated strongman competitor in history…”
I cast my gaze out the window allowing Wilmer to drone on and on about this marvelously muscled man. A young girl in a blue dress skips across the street. The mind wanders. It sure beats being reduced to a near death state listening to the clangorous clanks of his infernal glass bowl…
“And I’ll tell you, Judah! I read in a magazine that he drinks at least three muscle shakes a day! So you know what?” Cromwell pauses. The silence goes on long enough to pull me from my stupor. He’s staring right at me with an expectant grin. Oh… I give him a grunt of curiosity.
Wilmer continues on, evidently satisfied with the response. “So I like to drink at least five a day, minimum. Every day. Right for breakfast, first thing. I down a shake. And then whenever else I can during the day.”
On and on it went…
The night air felt refreshing on my warm skin. I stood outside, the green grass of my lawn sticking up between my toes, staring high above at the full moon. For some reason the darkness is comforting to me. Most people fear the blackness and its fleeting shadows; the whistling of the wind or the creaking of an old oak tree. I love everything about it. The peaceful breeze sweeping through as it wraps around your body. The millions of stars overhead, though they’re somewhat obscured by these terrible city lights. I held my arms overhead and sucked in a large breath of air before expelling it forcefully.
The witching hour. A time of immense supernatural activity. All the demons of the night are at their most powerful. The etheric energies surge. You can feel their ubiquitous presence encircling the world.
I took one last look at the moon previous to heading inside. Earlier in the night I had finished another drawing of Natasha, one I felt quite excited to see again. This particular piece being styled after the pin-up fashion. Underneath her seductively posed body I wrote the following:
Lust, carnal desires of the flesh, unrequited love, violence, intrigue and murder. Unfulfilled ambitions, dashed hopes, lost souls, cynical cretins, and lackadaisical sensationalists.
I’m not sure if the words have any meaning to them. All I know is that I had the pen in hand and the words flowed -- like automatic writing. Perhaps some entity of the night possessed my body for a brief moment. The witching hour muse.
My word of the day -- Lucubrate: To study, work, or write at night.
A term I discovered at random but which seemed most fitting to my habits. All is calm, all is peaceful. I lie in bed, fearing a break-in, as always. Worrying, wondering, despairing. Who will come to kill me tonight? Will I live to see another morning? Natasha…. These are the things that keep me up at night.
I walk down the hall and hear the whispered mocking comments of my fellow employees besmirching Mr. Cromwell. Talk of his boring, bland meeting and general demeanor. This pleases me greatly. As a result I appear happier today. Although, this new demeanor is surprising to me. It’s an ingratiating conduct. A great many people returned a smile or a friendly wave of the hand. Normally I’d never receive or give such a gesture. But I’m finding that the more unpleasant the people around me are, the happier I’m becoming. Every time I see despair, I grin. Every failure of my fellow man is a triumph to me.
I enjoy seeing the suffering of others. They have a word for that in German: schadenfreude. It means taking pleasure in the misfortune of others. Such a mental viewpoint is a terrific mindset to have in today’s world. In Russia they say it’s better to see a neighbor lose one million dollars than to acquire a million dollars yourself. Very wise people they are.
The office is quiet today. Mr. Cromwell has squirreled himself away in his little cove. I assume it’s because of yesterday’s calamity He’s a proud man and no doubt waiting for the shame to fade before greeting familiar faces again. His office door is shut completely. A rare occurrence. Meanwhile the sleazy associate known as Percy Sullivan is out gallivanting with a prospective/ client. Some elderly woman entering her dotage with an ample supply of money, naturally
I can just picture the sickening smiles Percy is flashing. And the trite jokes he’s telling. The woman will find him adoring. She’ll grow bubbly inside and hope to see more of the clown. If he finds her bank account suitable enough, then a relationship will be formed. Exorbitant bills will be discussed over candlelit dinners and late night trysts (which she will pay for, no doubt). She’ll never question a single thing as her life’s saving dwindles away until there is nothing left. From a legal standpoint everything is legit. I believe so anyway. They act of their own volition, voluntarily signing over whatever Percy requests.
Not my problem. I just make the appointments and push the papers.
Todd Storton has walked past my office window three times today without even so much as a dirty glance in my direction. Perhaps it’s because of the trick I played on him. Though walking into a room where you obviously don’t belong isn’t that great of a prank, or much cause for immense embarrassment. However, doing that while toting several smut magazines increases the shame to a lovely comical degree. I’d told him to meet there on break and we could discuss his favorite adult models. What a fool.
There isn’t an ounce of remorse in me. This sad attempt at revenge for his Natasha comment is just the beginning. Storton has much, much, much more coming to him. Here he waddles now, walking by the window again. I call out his name and signal for him to enter. Storton does so hesitantly. He places the four empty water jugs down on the floor, pulling up a seat without being asked to do so.
Natasha saunters along on the other side of the window. I know she’ll be heading to the break room. It’s a habit of hers. Every day at the exact same time she enters the break room by herself for five minutes, doing only God knows what in there. I’ve fantasized over several scenarios.
“How’s it going, Storton?” I ask pleasantly.
He’s eyeing me suspiciously like I’m about to attack at any second, perhaps spring some kind of trap on him. My fingers are intertwined, clasped in front of my chest. There’s a treacherous smile stretched across my face. Mostly just for show. I want to play with his mind. Make it look like I’m up to no good.
“Fine,” he says.
“Good, good. Finished replacing all the jugs I see.”
“Yeah, what of it?”
“Oh, nothing. Just an observation.”
Then he pops the question I knew he’d been dying to ask.
“Why’d you send me to that meeting room with my dirty mags?”
“Ah yeah… About that Storton.” I let out a sigh and begin bobbling my head with a despairing expression. “I didn’t know there’d been a meeting scheduled. Dreadfully sorry. Just one of the vicissitudes of fate, I guess.” I threw in the word vicissitudes to screw with him a bit. Any word beyond a first grader’s comprehension is out of his range.
“Right,” he says, nodding his head knowingly. I can tell he doesn’t have the slightest inkling what I’m talking about.
“Say, Storton, you don’t still have those mags with you?”
“Actually I do. They’re downstairs in my truck.”
What a stroke of luck.
“Can you bring them up?” I reques
t innocently.
“I could. No tricks this time?”
I look shocked. “Me Storton? Tricks? When have you known me to play games?”
“Yesterday for one.”
“I told you, simple misunderstanding. I wasn’t aware of the meeting.”
He looks down for a moment before shaking his head in the affirmative.
“Great,” I say, “bring them up here and meet me in the break room. We’ll be alone.”
“Hmm, sounds a bit dodgy to me,” he replies with a sneer.
“Hey, I’m not you know and I assume you’re not you know.”
“I’m not,” he says indignantly. Storton stands and exits the room.
I listen for the sound of Storton’s lumbering footsteps. The timing has to be perfect. Gung. Gung. Gung. His plodding footfalls. It’s show time! Here I duck down underneath my desk just before he reaches my window and peers in. Those dull eyes of his are scanning the room. Where pipsqueak? Gone? Yes tubgut! I’m gone… Already gone on down to our meeting place… Now the goon will head into the break room where I know Natasha is still abiding. Although the desire to witness Natasha’s reaction as Storton enters is strong, I fight off the urge and remain under my desk. After all, who wants to be seen consorting with the oafish, dirty magazine packing water jug man? Certainly not I.
Mirthful images race through my mind. I imagine what is taking place in the break room at this very moment. But I don’t have to wait long to see the aftereffects of it.
Minutes later, I witness Natasha strolling hurriedly down the hall. She walks past my window. I notice the offended, repulsed expression she’s wearing. How could I not? It’s hanging from her face! Natasha’s hair is pulled back into a bun and fixed in place by some Chinese chopstick looking thing. I observe her skin is looking slightly paler than normal. This tells me she’s not been tanning in a few days. Still, she remains a picture of beauty -- although the tan would perfect her otherwise flawless image.
I hear her office door slam shut. Another victory.
Storton is going to be angry. His oafish, oversized head comes into sight and I see him peer toward Natasha’s office. I’m guessing it’s to make sure she’s not coming out. I quickly pick up the phone and pretend to be engaged with an important client as Storton bolts into the room.
“That will be fine. I’ll put you down for a 4:00 meeting… Yes, uh huh. You can discuss the specifics then. Alright great, see you at 4:00.”
Storton’s arms are folded across his chest. One corner of the magazines is sticking out under a fleshy limb. He’s trying his hardest to conceal them.
“Yes?” I ask naively.
“Where were you? You sent me there on purpose!”
“What? Oh…” I palm my forehead, feigning regret. “Right, right. Jesus, Storton, I’m sorry. An important call came in and I couldn’t leave until just now.”
“I bet,” he responds acidly.
“Now Storton, don’t be petulant. You know very well I’d never play tricks on my good pal. What happened down there?”
Todd Storton looks behind him for a chair. He pulls it up in front of my desk and sits, then leans over close to me. He smiles a little.
“Well I went in there alright. And who did I see?” He pauses. “Snobby Natasha!”
I cover my mouth. “No!”
“Yes,” he reiterates firmly. “Boy you should have seen the look on her face when she saw me with my dirty mags!”
“Oh, I bet,” I add with a laugh of sincerity.
Storton pats me on the shoulder. “Now you’re not the only one she thinks is a pervert!” He cackles. The discolored teeth upset my stomach. I attempt to force a laugh but it’s barely audible. I can only muster a kind of strained, transparent cackle. The sort where you wish to smile but your cheeks are unwilling to move. You just know your face looks phony. Luckily for me, Storton isn’t very bright.
I reflect back over the situation and ponder how easy it was to set him up. How easy it was to mislead and beguile him. Why, I could trick him into doing just about anything. He’d be the perfect fall guy if the need ever arose.
11
Do you ever feel remorse? Perhaps you’ve done something – something not quite right. Do you feel sorry? I read through the dictionary a bit earlier on. The word I discovered was compunction. Feelings of shame, of regret for doing the wrong thing.
Today I’ve committed a dastardly deed. Compunction? No… I feel no sympathy for the act. My mind is at ease, free of guilt. It was a necessary evil and I’d do it again without hesitation.
The office clock shows 12:40. Mr. Cromwell will soon be reaching down at his desk, pulling out a drawer and searching for his beloved glass bowl. But he won’t find it. Not today. I’ve taken drastic measures to ensure that he will not find it. I warned you, didn’t I? You see, earlier this morning during Cromwell’s break, I sneaked into his office and acquired the bowl. That’s how I once heard a delinquent describe his thievery. Acquiring. Did he steal the wallet? No. He acquired the wallet. Did he steal a car? No. He acquired a car. He acquired it right out of the woman’s purse and the man’s garage. Did I steal an oversized glass bowl from my boss’ desk drawer? No. I acquired an oversized glass bowl that once belonged to my boss.
Put that way, it doesn’t sound so bad does it? Acquired. I’d like to acquire quite a few more things. But for now the glass bowl will have to suffice.
There will be no clanking today. There will be no clinking. Only the wonderful sound of silence.
I hear the drawers being pulled out – a moment later the sound of their contents being shuffled. Gently at first. Soon there’s a frantic energy to the noise. Cromwell’s hands are rummaging through every inch, searching for his prized glass bowl. Keep looking, you idiot! A sinister smile spreads across my widening mouth. Well now, with that taken care of, time to reopen the tab on my computer. Sexkitten69 is online. She has requested a game. Should I accept? Of course. What better to do.
The game is just getting underway when I notice a large blur come into view. Wilmer comes barreling out of his office like a madman. I quickly minimize the Go Fish! game and turn towards him.
“Where is it?!” he bellows. “Tell me! Where is it!”
Cromwell is pacing back and forth like a caged animal at the zoo stalking one of those tasty kids toddling near the front of the steel bars. But there are no bars here, and he’s looking right at me.
Percy Sullivan opens his office door to investigate the commotion. Wilmer’s hands are raised in the air as if he can’t believe what is taking place. He doesn’t suspect me. Why would the fool? His mind is more focused on finding the bowl than kill the perpetrator. Cromwell scans the room, like one of those expensive security cameras panning across the expanse. Bzzzzzz. You hear the zooming function going in and out as he does so.
“What’s going on?” Percy asks, rubbing his belly.
“My bowl, Jesus Christ! My bowl!” A vein throbs on Wilmer’s forehead.
Percy Sullivan darts from his office.
“Your lunch bowl?” He questions in his fatuous way.
“Of course my lunch bowl! You, John, have you seen it?!”
I shake my head no, beginning to feign curiosity. My eyes begin searching the room; only just enough to appease the big man. The head honcho. The chief. The dictator.
Wilmer continues tossing objects hither and thither, picking up anything that’s not tethered down (and even some that is), seeking his precious dish. Little does he know that I, the innocent looking twit, have stolen the very object of his desire and thrown it into a trash can out back. Shattered to pieces. Admittedly, the act took me several tries. The bowl is of a sturdy, solid nature. Not unlike Wilmer himself. So it required a few good and hard thwacks before witnessing the satisfying shattering! His frenetic search is futile. Percy offers to help but I know it will be in vain. This causes me to laugh, as I voice a demure suggestion now and then. These are met with the devilish stare of Wilmer’s.
; The minutes pass by -- our office is now in a state of disarray. Boxes strewn about. Papers tossed about. Chairs flung about. Mr. Cromwell is a veritable nutcase. His usually composed, collected face is now reddened and steaming. Percy Sullivan, that blubberboy, accidentally steps into the possessed Wilmer’s path and finds himself knocked brutally to the floor with a thud and a skid. After rolling on the ground for a minute or two, attempting to upright himself, Percy manages to find his feet as he scurries off to his office, shutting the door. Cromwell turns his psychotic eye to me. My shoulders shrug sympathetically. He storms into his office, yelling all the while. Cursing, swearing, abusing. The noise has attracted an unwanted visitor. Ellington Fairfield.
Our resident paranoid lawyer stands in the doorway, peering at the wreckage, looking like a lout. What’s going on? He asks me. Just to have a little fun, I whisper to him, “GET OUT! HE’S GOT A GUN! RUN!” Ellington’s eyes bulge five times their normal size (which are already bug-like). The frightened man turn tails and runs down the hall without waiting for a second opinion. I hear him pounding on the elevator buttons. Help! Help! Madman! Help!
Sexkitten69 has messaged me again. It’s my turn. Another productive day.
Fortuna the Roman goddess of fortune is on my side today. I’ve won three straight games of Go Fish! and there’s no sign of slowing down. It would seem that in the absence of that infernal clanking, my brain is sharper, more alert and perceptive. Sagacious.
The only noise I heard today at lunchtime was the sound of Mr. Cromwell’s fuming; perhaps even a sob or two if I’m not mistaken. The periodic pounding of fists on the desk. The kicking of a chair. The swearing of a madman. These are sounds which I adore. They’re soothing and much welcome. I’m on top of the world, king of the earth.
Bingo! Sexkitten69 has three sevens she’s trying to squirrel away. I take them all in one arrogant motion, winning the game in spectacular fashion. She logs off immediately – and this is how I know the victory is well earned… There is ecstasy in the room. A bubbling effervescence. Some magical dust sprinkling down upon my soul. And this is further evinced by the next act of luck…
CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw Page 5
