Natasha walks by my office window, casting a furtive eye in my direction. The bliss swells around my body, uncontrollably, undeniably, resulting in the almost unconscious raising of my hand – as I watch it perform a near wavelike motion, my lips grinning with delight. But it wasn’t enough. Natasha averts her gaze and walks right on by. Perhaps I’m breaking her down. Removing those hostiles barriers. Winning her over… She’s wearing another white, formfitting blouse. Her hair is flowing freely today. It sways gently as she hurries off.
This feeling is a strange one. A strange situation more like it. This Natasha adventure. I no longer have true, lustful feelings for her. There’s no sexual tension in me yearning for her body. All I desire is to paint and draw that fabulous figure. It’s just asking to be depicted, artfully mind you. The utter elegance and majestic movements of the physique. Perfect… I put my foot on the desk, kicking back in my chair until I’m looking at the ceiling. I’m Detective Sam Spade waiting for the beguiling vixen to enter. I’m waiting to be seduced and beguiled. I’m waiting to be taken advantage of… These are the things that keep me up at night.
With the clanking gone, my mind is free to be as it once was. Unhindered. As a result, the fantasies have returned in stunning abundance. I envision Natasha more intricately in her roles. She’s swindling a lot of powerful men out of a lot of their dough. She wants protection and so, naturally, comes to me. The best in the business. Natasha sits across from me, crossing one leg over the other, and flips her hair to one side, exposing a graceful neckline. Her face is vulnerable, seductive. But I see danger in those big beautiful eyes. Those sultry emeralds of menace. The downfall of many men. I see treachery. She pulls a cigarette out from her purse. My hand is extended instantly, offering a quick light. Natasha smiles and puffs suggestively.
I drum the desk with my fingers looking her over.
“Well?” I ask.
She takes another drag, oh so slowly, before blowing it out in my direction, followed by the response.
“I’ve upset some pretty bad men,” she says coolly.
“Yeah? How bad,” I question.
“Bad.”
We stare at each other for a whole minute. Neither one speaks. Neither one blinks. A few trails of smoke waft up from the cigarette.
There’s a loud knock at the door… wait, there is a loud knock at the door! Suddenly I am snatched from the reverie.
12
Ellington Fairfield is hiding behind a burly security guard. They enter my office, with Ellington trailing behind, scared to continue. The paranoid man’s shaking finger reaches over the guard’s shoulder, pointing at Wilmer’s door. Then I remember my comment… “GET OUT! HE’S GOT A GUN!”
“What’s the matter?” I ask innocently.
The guard eyes me over. He doesn’t appear too enthralled. It’s the type of look someone gives when they’ve heard people cry wolf too many times.
“This man here says your boss is carrying a gun and plans to kill him,” the guard informs me.
“What? What gave him that crazy notion?”
“Apparently you did,” responds the guard.
I laugh nervously. “Oh…?”
Ellington chirps in. “Yes! You said he had a gun!”
I laugh again, a little more relaxed this time because I’ve figured a way out of this mess. “No, no, no. I said ‘HELP OUT! HE’S LOST HIS GLASS!’”
The guard rolls his eyes. I add in one more comment to cement the deal.
“Feel free to search the office, you’ll find no gun here. Sorry for the misunderstanding Mr. Fairfield.”
Ellington waves it off with an agitated chuckle, mumbling to himself. The guard asks him if that will be all. It is. They both leave.
Wilmer nor Percy is even aware of the incident that I so deftly handled. And they’re lucky I was here too. Otherwise things might have gotten rather messy… Sexkitten69 sends me another message. She wants a rematch. Hmm, how many beatings can this girl take in one day?
I arrive at the office earlier than normal. Last night was a wash. I’d wanted to draw a couple more Natasha pieces but the muses abandoned me. I simply could not conceive anything. Not one suitable idea. And so here I find myself sitting at my desk waiting to catch a glimpse of Natasha as she walks by. She’s a very punctual woman -- always showing up on time, and usually a little early to allow room for error. A practical thing to do if you care enough about your job. I myself have never been late. But I don’t show up early, just right on time. What’s the point of being early? I could wait outside or twiddle my thumbs in the street instead, all being just as effective. It won’t get me anything, other than perhaps one of Cromwell’s Hey I’m not actually paying attention but GREAT JOB TODAY! remarks.
The building is barren aside from the lop-faced janitor pacing up and down the halls. He’s supposedly working, but I don’t see it. All I see is a hopeless man wandering through a hallway without a single ambition in the world. He isn’t even carrying a mop! This miscreant is being paid to walk the halls and stare at walls. Like a homeless man. How useless. What an unproductive piece of proletarian garbage. A vile nuisance to society and a scar on the very face of humanity! I can’t help but cast mental aspersions and calumnies at this indolent wretch. How dare he dawdle away the day derogating from the outstanding accomplishments we employees in this building perform day in and day out!
With the rabid foam beginning to form in my mouth, it seems I’m on the very brink of an apoplectic explosion when Natasha comes into view. The useless janitor is instantly forgotten. I train my eyes on her face, not caring if she sees it or not. I must observe her visage for new material. There is an intangible quality in her features. She possesses the most alluring mannerisms. An intoxicating temptress. Is she intentionally playing this noirish character? She couldn’t be. How?
Natasha sidesteps the hideous janitor before glancing up at me. She’s startled to find me here. Our eyes meet for a brief moment. Quickly, she looks away. I continue examining her physique. She’s wearing a feminine executive suit and skirt which perfectly matches those red-framed stylish glasses setting on her nose. Harlot! She is forever wearing a skirt! You see, this is the type of woman who knows she has a great body, with heart-stopping legs, and likes to show them off. And why shouldn’t she?
I suppose it’s the kind of attire deviant bosses fantasize about when their young secretary is working late at the office. Though there is nothing sexual here, I can assure you. I find myself entranced by her features. They’re tailor-made for that of a vixen. She, the most elusive of women, haunts these halls with her fleeting presence. Like a lustful apparition.
And just as fast as she had appeared, she vanished. Out of sight and tucked away in her office one door down to the right. However, I got what I needed. This dose of inspiration may even last me the entire month.
Twenty minutes later the motley morons begin arriving. To a rather dusty environment, I might add, all in thanks to the lowlife custodian. I find their sad, ill-fated “woe is me expressions” delighting. I once heard the saying, “Every time a friend succeeds, I die a little.” That goes double for me. What better than to see others fail? Especially those working so hard. So you can just imagine my glee when I observe another’s misfortune. It does wonders for my self-esteem, skyrockets the confidence. Nothing quite boosts my general level of happiness so effectively. There’s no greater joy than seeing defeat and despair in your fellow man. Especially a fall from power. A tumbling from grace. Speaking of…
Wilmer strolls into the office. I notice he’s carrying an object under his right arm – it’s wrapped in brown packaging. Unease… A foreboding feeling grips me.
“Morning Jums,” he says and continues into his office, slightly closing the door. Tap. Tap. Tap. Of course…
Percy enters a little later on. He’s got a client with him. Some old bag with a bad hairdo. The “old woman” style I call it. They’ve somehow plastered the hair so stiffly that it won’t need another sq
uirt of hairspray for at least a year. Knowing most of them, they’ll probably expire before then. Maybe it’s the easy maintenance routine. Look Murdel, you’re ancient. You’ve only got one year left to live. Just get it plastered. -- What did ya say, dear? Uh huh… I’m told they frequent hair salons once a week. Which is more of a social outing than anything. The treatment, realistically, lasts for a week. They don’t wash their hair during this time. It’s been sprayed stiff as a board and styled exactly how they want the vulgarity to appear. I guess if you had warped, aged, delusional eyes then you might find such a disaster to be aesthetically pleasing.
I’m sure Sullivan would prefer hundred dollar bills sprouted from their heads. He greets me a bit more amicably than normal. The youthfully challenged woman looks toward Percy with a surprised expression. As if she can’t believe how kind and gentle the man is. She says “Good morning, junior,” to me before following after Percy (who now held her hand in the crook of his arm).
It’s been a long day thus far. Lots of strenuous Go Fish! It’s a paycheck… My legs are in need of a good stretching so I hop out of the chair and venture out into the hallway. I walk over to the stairs where upon I hear the familiar lumbering noises of our resident water jug man: Todd Storton. He’s toting four jugs up the stairs as a young office woman trails behind. She would like to pass but the gargantuan blob of fat which Storton calls a body is preventing her from doing so. He turns slightly and says what I accurately believe to be an obviously dimwitted comment (the only kind he ever has). The girl smiles politely. A fake smile. You can always tell by the cheeks. No lines in the eyes. Once they finally ascend the stairs -- the woman practically sprints past him. Water jug tubby stares at her fleeing figure. Storton then looks at me with a sinister smile.
“I almost had her. She was this close from giving me her number.”
“Yeah, it looked that way,” I lie.
“Later on, I can give you a few of them woman tips, boy. Maybe you can get a girl one day like ol’ Storton here does.”
Idiot.
“Yeah, you’re really reeling them in, aren’t you tubby?”
“What?”
He’s sneering at me, as if to say I dare you to repeat that, pipsqueak.
“I said you’ll make a fine hubby, you corpulent cad, you.”
He smiles in agreement.
“Do ya think so?”
I nod, laughing on the inside at his blatant, pitiful stupidity, so easily swayed…
13
The unthinkable has occurred… It’s nearing lunchtime and I’ve already run out of inspiration! Natasha’s face consumes my mind. I close my eyes… it’s there. I open my eyes… it’s there. The portrait of my grandmother setting on the desk morphs into Natasha’s face as I look at it. That lovely visage begins popping up all over the office, filling the room. They’re appearing like heavenly angels all around me. Each one is looking at me with a lustful smile. I can’t help but wonder if I’m going insane. Another one and another one and another one… Another!
A quotidian sound breaks the trance, suddenly diverting my mind from the hallucinations and most assuredly, the very imminent panic attack. Wilmer’s door is slightly ajar. It’s time! The noise is emanating from his room. No! No! Not today! Although here, the distinct sound of his desk drawer being pulled open -- a dull scratching caused by the one uneven side which rubs against the wood. I look at the clock. 12:45. Lunchtime. Fear and dread fills my chest, running through my body like a jolt of electricity… But the abrupt shot of panic soon dissipates and I’m calm once again, comforted by the fact that it was only yesterday when I so expertly dispatched of Wilmer’s prized glass bowl. This ensured there’d be no more clanking. What is there to harm me today? He’s probably brought a sack lunch from home. It’s reasonable enough to think so. Maybe he picked up fast-food on his way to work. I don’t know. What I do know is I can be positive the glass bowl is not in his desk drawer. Unless the demon item is some sort of revenant. Reincarnated from the shattered bits, returned to exact its revenge. In that case I’m dead either way and my mind is at ease once more. Or so I’d like to believe.
There are no further sounds coming from his room. A minute passes. The eerie silence unsettles me. Why is it so quiet? What can he possibly be doing? Another minute passes. Nothing. At this point I’d do almost anything to hear a noise. The silence is maddening.
A sharp clapping effect breaks the hush. It’s the well-known sound of Mr. Cromwell’s personal microwave shutting. A few beeps tell me he’s entering in a time -- a moment later the hum of the machine kicks on, filling this dreaded silence. He’s reheating his lunch? Yeah, that’s viable. One hundred and twenty seconds go by. The dull hum ceases, I can surmise that Wilmer has opened the microwave to extract the contents. My mind remains at ease. There is no need worry. Maintain. Maintain.
The phone on my desk begins ringing. I reach out to retrieve the receiver. A moment of clarity. An explosive realization… It’s an epiphany, a vision. I instantly replay an earlier incident in the day. It’s Wilmer walking into the office, he’s carrying the foreboding package… CLANK!
I know that! The disagreeable noise reverberates in my head, rattling off the sides like a frantic pinball. I hear the sharp-pitched clink again. It can’t be! Another glass bowl? But how!
CLANK! CLINK! CLANK!
My God… I’m growing weak. I’m Superman; kryptonite is near, even more powerful than before. The clinks are much harsher, much more strident in comparison to the old nemesis. Each clank is now accompanied by a vibrating note which jars my brain incessantly. Like a chinaman banging away on a gong just behind my head. CLANK! My head dips downward like a turtle attempting to hide within its shell. The room is closing in on me. Blurred streaks of walls and desks and floors and windows. A swirling mass of chaos – each CLANK! resulting in another fuzzy image. The phone continues to ring but I’ve become so disoriented that I can’t locate the receiver.
A voice calls out from somewhere.
“Answer? Are you going to answer that, Jerrard?” It’s Wilmer.
Answer it? I can hardly even breathe! Cromwell busily banging away on his death drum – hassling me with such trivial questions! The dirty scoundrel knows the truth! Death is seconds away, I know, it must be. My window is closing fast. The office door shrinks away like a camera zooming out in the old Hitchcock films. My body instinctually crawls over the desk, rolls onto the floor and staggers to the door. I fling it open dramatically, instantly collapsing into the hallway, still somehow managing to shut the door behind me with the last bit of dying strength.
The clinks are still audible through the thin walls, yet nearly tolerable. I’m still in terrible shape. It’s only just begun. Crawl boy, crawl! Keep moving… Out of time… Too late…
While I nodded, nearly dying, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping on my tender side. ‘Tis some pest, I mumbled, tapping on my tender side… it must be this and nothing more. At some point I must have covered my ears and began rocking back and forth, curled up, lying on the ground pathetically. The tapping comes again. I don’t open my eyes. I can’t. It might be the living clink. The horror finally coming to take me! The clank lives! Taking a mortal form to finish its dark deed… A hand shakes me yet again, only much rougher this time. I’m forced to open my eyes, to inspect, to take sight of the aggressor. The face I see is shocking. It’s… it’s incredible.
“Are you alright?” the person asks.
My head bobs in a motion not suggestive of a yes or a no, only random movements.
“What happened?” the voice demands.
“Clinking!” I manage to gasp. The sound is still within earshot, though highly muffled.
The face, Natasha’s face, looks down at my weakened body with complete and utter bewilderment. The tramp! She has no clue what is going on or just how near to death I truly was. Perhaps still am.
“What?” she says.
Right. I can’t make a favorable impr
ession on her when I’m mentally sound. Now that I’m curled into the fetal position, babbling incoherently, my chances have been reduced drastically. Or so I thought.
“Clanking!” I spew. “The clanking! Get me out of here!”
She hears the distant sound to which I’m referring -- her face contorts in odd fashions. I know what she’s thinking. That little noise has immobilized you? Are you a goddamn maniac? Well, to be honest maybe I am. But right now I’m trying to survive and she’s my only hope.
“Take me away from here,” I behest urgently.
I’m a little man, very light, around one hundred and forty pounds soaking wet. Natasha most likely weighs one hundred twenty to one hundred thirty pounds. She’s got an athletic physique. A hard body; muscled without being masculine in the least. And as such she easily scoops me up off the floor and assists me into the break room. The last clank is silenced as the door shuts with a bang.
There I am in the break room, sitting across from the beautiful Natasha. She looks irritated and not the least bit concerned. Her arms are folded across her chest. She has elected to remain standing instead of taking a chair. Obviously she won’t be staying long. One leg is stiff and the other is slightly relaxed, which makes one side of her hips rise giving the appearance of intense vexation. Her lips are pressed firmly together. Looking over her entire body and noting the position of every feature I can tell she is rather angry. Perhaps annoyed is a more accurate description. Unhappy at any rate.
“Well?” she finally says.
Huh? I’m at a loss. What does she expect from me?
“Thanks…?” I say somewhat unsurely.
My answer does not appease her. Natasha unfolds those toned arms as she places them on her hips, akimbo style. Not a friendly posture either.
CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw Page 6
