Dead Clown Barbecue

by Strand, Jeff

  There was, of course, no dress code at home, and I gleefully completed my first day in pajamas. I did, of course, complete all of the same cleansing and hygiene activities that I would have done if I'd gone into the office. Working from home didn't mean I needed to become a savage.

  I have to admit; I started to wonder if things had gone too far when every day became Casual Day. Shouldn't we dress in professional attire at least once a week?

  Some of my co-workers began to abuse the freedom. On occasion Gerald would show up as late as nine-fifteen or nine-twenty. Yes, he'd stay later to compensate, but still, with two hours of flexibility surrounding our start time, why did he need to push it further?

  Mr. Swanson sent out an e-mail, explaining that these changes were privileges, not rights, and that it would be in our best interest to follow the rules. Gerald did not show up late anymore.

  On the day of my twentieth anniversary, Mr. Swanson called us all into the meeting room. I smiled. Twenty years with the company meant cake for sure, along with a fancy certificate, and Mr. Swanson would read a very nice note that had been signed by the CEO.

  But there was no cake in the room. Mr. Swanson smiled as we took our seats. "Aside from a few small instances, these changes have worked out extremely well, don't you all agree?"

  We all nodded our agreement.

  "So, effective today, public displays of affection will be permissible."

  Everybody glanced around at each other, unsure if he was kidding or not.

  "Obviously, I'm not talking about insertion, but kissing and groping, as long as the work gets done, is perfectly fine. Remain conscious of the dress code, but if you wish to simulate certain acts, by all means go ahead and do so."

  Everybody was silent for a moment.

  Helena, who was sixty and an unofficial mother figure to us all, raised her hand. "Is this a joke?"

  "It is not. You've all proven that you're mature enough to be given additional freedom and still perform your job duties, so this is the next step in the work/life balance."

  "I'm sorry, but this is a part of my life I'd like to keep at home."

  "I think you're misunderstanding," said Mr. Swanson. "I didn't say that this was mandatory public display of affection. Rest assured that I would never demand that you dry-hump a co-worker. Goodness, no. I'm saying that if you felt the desire, and both parties consented to the act — or even three or four parties; we're not judgmental of lifestyle choices here — it would be okay. Stress relief is very important to the work/life balance. But of course nobody will ever ask you to cheat on your husband. I promise you that."

  "Oh. Okay. Still . . ."

  "This is just in the testing phase. We'll try it for a week or two and see what happens."

  "It's not something I ever want to see."

  Mr. Swanson frowned. "If you all object to progress, it won't be a problem to return to our old methods. I was perfectly fine with the eight-to-six workday in the office and the hour lunch. I was simply trying to make things more pleasant for my employees."

  "No, no, I appreciate that," said Helena. "I apologize. I agree that we should test out this new policy for a couple of weeks to see if it works."

  "Excellent. And now, somebody in this room has a very special anniversary!" said Mr. Swanson, winking at me as his administrative assistant brought in a tray full of cupcakes.

  The next two weeks were uneventful. Despite the new freedom, very little happened. At one point my two youngest co-workers, Charles and Lori, made out in the break room while I was getting a cup of coffee, but they quickly became uncomfortable and stopped.

  I saw no groping of any sort, though it's possible that some happened while I was working from home.

  The next meeting was on a Monday, and those of us who worked from home on Mondays were told that we had to switch our scheduled work-from-home day that week. That wasn't an issue. We'd been told when the program began that there would be instances where this might happen, and it was perfectly reasonable to expect to have meetings where everybody in the department was in attendance.

  As we walked into the meeting room, there was a long hunting knife on the table in front of each one of the chairs. We took our seats and said nothing, though of course everybody looked at the knives.

  "Nobody abused the public displays of affection policy," said Mr. Swanson. "I'll be honest, I thought for certain that I would have to reprimand somebody for penetration, but it didn't happen, and I think we're all happier with the policy in place. And I'm pleased to inform you all that violence is now acceptable."

  Everybody was silent as Mr. Swanson picked up one of the knives and stabbed at the air. "I shouldn't even have to say this, but of course any fatal wounding is completely forbidden and will result in immediate disciplinary actions, up to and including termination of employment. If you're going to stab, stab an appendage, such as an arm, and not a torso. Let's not let this get out of hand. A rule of thumb is to ask yourself 'Can my co-worker continue to perform his or her job duties?' If the answer is 'no,' then stop stabbing. Any questions?"

  Helena raised her hand.

  "Helena?"

  "Can we opt out?"

  "Of being a stabber or stabbee?"

  "Both."

  "Well, nobody is going to make you stab anyone. That's simply not the way things operate around here. But, naturally, with this new policy some people are going to get stabbed who don't want to be. Nobody is going to voluntarily get stabbed, right? That doesn't make any sense."

  "I want to opt out."

  "Sorry. If you opted out, then everybody would opt out, and then we'd have a new policy with nobody participating. It was extremely difficult to get this approved by Human Resources, and they don't like to think that they're wasting their time. Just give it a try for two weeks."

  We left the meeting, taking our knives.

  "Ow!" screamed Gerald, as Charles slashed him in the back. "You can't do it when I'm not looking!"

  "Mr. Swanson didn't say anything about that."

  I had to admit, seeing Gerald get slashed like that did improve my morale, and everybody was in a cheerful mood for the rest of the day.

  The next day, Gerald stabbed me in the arm. It hurt, and I wished he hadn't done it, but I saw the joy it brought to my co-workers and realized that sometimes the happiness of one person is not as important as the happiness of the group.

  And then there was an incident. Charles and Lori had a spat, and she stabbed him thirty-two times using three separate knives. He was taken to the hospital, but it was only a token measure, because he was quite clearly dead when the ambulance arrived.

  We were called into the meeting room. This time Mr. Swanson was not smiling.

  "I'm very disappointed," he said. "Particularly in you, Lori. There always has to be somebody who ruins it for everybody else, doesn't there?"

  Lori wiped some blood from her cheek and looked deeply ashamed.

  "Clearly you can not be trusted with this much freedom, and so, effective immediately, we are returning to the old ways. I apologize, but the responsibility rested with you."

  And now we work eight to six every day, in the office, in our suits and ties. Everybody is a little sad. You can sense it in their expressions, their eyes, and the way people suddenly burst into tears for no reason.

  I feel almost chained to my desk, like a prisoner.

  We had so much, almost too much, and now it's gone.

  Though, admittedly, I get a lot more work done now.

  STOP STABBING ME

  When I was ten, my older brother Mike asked if I wanted to play a game. I said, yeah, sure, of course. I mean, who wouldn't want to play a game?

  "The object of the game is to see who can hit each other the lightest," he explained. "You go first."

  I nodded. The rules seemed pretty straightforward. I reached out with the tip of my pinky finger (my left pinky, since I was right-handed and knew that my left pinky would have less strength) and gave him just the s
lightest hint of a tap with it.

  Ha. My sixteen-year-old brother, with his thick, beefy fingers, could never hit me lighter than that!

  Mike punched me in the face, so hard that I dropped to the living room floor. "You win!" he announced, chuckling as he walked out of the room.

  As I lay there, I thought, Wow, my brother is a genius! I'm not saying I enjoyed the pain, but still, I had to admire him for coming up with such a clever idea. It was worth the bloody lip to be in the presence of such innovation and brilliance.

  The next day, as I walked to school, I saw my friend Chet about a block ahead of me. I hurried to catch up with him. "Hey, Chet," I said, "do you want to play a game?"

  I giggled, which probably gave away my evil intent, but Chet shrugged. "Sure."

  "Okay, the way it works is, we're going to hit each other, and we're going to see who can hit the other person the lightest. I go first. I mean, you go first. Hit me as light as you can."

  Chet shook his head. "No way. You'll hit me back hard and say that I won."

  My shoulders slumped. "You've heard of that one?"

  "Everybody knows that one. It's an old trick."

  How disappointing. My brother wasn't an evil genius; he was a plagiarist. (Note that if the trick had worked, I promise I would have given Mike full credit as Chet lay on the sidewalk with his bloody lip.)

  "Oh," I said.

  "I can't believe you were going to punch me," said Chet. "Why don't you walk by yourself today?"

  I obliged, standing in place until Chet was once again a block ahead of me. I didn't deserve to have any friends, not if I was so inept as to try an ancient gag on them.

  When I got home from school, Mike (whose school let out fifteen minutes earlier than mine, which was unfair to me, but he had to get up fifteen minutes earlier each morning, which was unfair to him, so it all evened out) was in the kitchen, making a sandwich. "Hey," he said. "Do you want to play a card game?"

  "No."

  "It's a fun one!"

  "No, thank you."

  "Jeez, what's up your butt?"

  "Nothing," I said. And then I wondered if I was being too pouty. Maybe this was a genuinely fun card game. "What's the game?"

  "It's the best card game ever. It's called Fifty-Two Pickup."

  I sighed. Even I, who had clearly been shielded from much of the world until now, knew about Fifty-Two Pickup. "Uh-uh. You'll just throw the cards on the floor and make me pick them up."

  "No, this is a different version."

  "I'm not playing."

  "All right," said Mike, taking a gigantic bite out of his sandwich. He talked as he chewed. "It would've been the most fun game of Fifty-Two Pickup in history. Nobody in the world has ever played a more fun game of Fifty-Two Pickup, but if you're okay with missing out, there's nothing I can do." He shook his head in great sorrow. "I can't force you to have the most fun of your life. I can't force you to create memories that you'll look back on fondly in your old age."

  "Shut up," I told him. "I'm not gullible."

  I was pretty gullible, to be honest, but not that gullible. His variation would probably be something like Fifty-Three Pickup, where he included the joker.

  "How about a different game, then?"

  "Like what?"

  "It's called Stop Stabbing Me."

  "That doesn't sound fun."

  "It's lots of fun. Basically we each get a knife, and we take turns seeing who can go the longest without saying 'Stop stabbing me.' Once they ask you to stop, you have to stop, you can't just keep going."

  "I don't think Mom will like that."

  "Mom doesn't get home until six." Mike set his half-eaten sandwich down on the counter and opened the silverware drawer. He took out two butter knives and gave one to me. "We start out easy. For round one, you can only do hands. Give me your hand."

  "No way."

  "Give me your hand."

  "I said, no way."

  "Stop being such a wuss."

  "It's not wussy to not want to get stabbed."

  "It's a butter knife. Is your hand made of butter? I've never seen such cowardice. How do you expect to ever get a girlfriend if you live your life in such a cowardly manner?"

  "Okay, fine, whatever." I held out my hand, palm up, trying not to let Mike see that I was cringing.

  He began to rapidly tap the tip of the butter knife against the center of my palm, not exactly gently, but not too hard. It was more annoying than painful.

  "Does that hurt?" he asked.

  "Nope."

  He began to tap a little faster and a little harder.

  "How about now?"

  "Kind of."

  "Is it more than you can take?"

  "No."

  He kept tapping, getting progressively faster and harder. It finally started to hurt quite a bit, so I said, "Stop stabbing me."

  Mike stopped, which was nice because I kind of thought the whole punchline to his game was that he wouldn't. I had a big red mark in the center of my palm, but nothing had broken the skin.

  "That was thirty seconds," he said. I hadn't seen him check his watch so I assume he was just estimating. He held out his palm. "Your turn."

  I began to poke at his hand with my knife. I was tempted to hit slightly harder than Mike had, but I knew deep inside that to do so would be unfair, so I tried to match his intensity and frequency as well as I could recall it.

  He didn't look like he was in much pain, but he did start to get a similar red mark on his hand, and finally he said "Stop stabbing me."

  I did.

  "That was thirty-three seconds," he said, probably inaccurately, but since I hadn't been timing it myself I was in no position to argue. "I win round one." He took the butter knife from me and put both knives back in the silverware drawer.

  "Mom will get mad if we don't wash those first," I said.

  "How would Mom know? Is she going to do DNA testing on the knives before she uses them? Are you going to tell her?"

  I hung my head, suitably ashamed. I hadn't meant to hint that I might rat us out. I would never do such a thing; there are many ways in which I'm a lame excuse for a little brother, but I'm certainly not a tattletale. "No, I'm not gonna tell."

  "Good." He took out two steak knives. "Hold out your hand."

  "I don't want to."

  "Are you really going to give up after one round? One measly little round? I've never seen such a quitter."

  Being known as a quitter was slightly better than being known as a tattletale, but both were laden with disgrace. I held out my hand.

  "You ready?" Mike asked.

  I nodded.

  Mike jabbed the tip of the steak knife against my palm, deep enough to hurt but not enough to break the skin.

  "Ow! Stop stabbing me!"

  "That's it?" Mike asked. "You're quitting that easily?"

  "It hurt!"

  "It's supposed to hurt when somebody pokes at you with a knife! That doesn't mean you give up after the first poke!"

  "This game isn't any good. Let's play Fifty-Two Pickup."

  "No, we need to play this through or we'll never know who won." He held out his palm. "Go on."

  I didn't want to hit his hand with the knife, but what was I supposed to do, not hit his hand with the knife? I gently poked at his palm with the blade. Mike didn't flinch, so I poked slightly harder, until a tiny drop of blood appeared.

  "Okay, okay," he said. "Stop stabbing me."

  I stopped. Mike took the knives from me and put them back in the drawer.

  "That one had blood on it!" I said.

  "So? Steak has blood in it. Are you scared that you're going to cut a bloody steak with a knife that has a tiny bit of my blood on it? If you think I have a disease, just say so. Most brothers aren't so selfish that they worry about getting diseases from their own family, but if that's the way you want to be . . ."

  "No, no, it's okay," I said, though before Mom got home I fully intended to wash that knife.

 
Mike opened the drawer next to the silverware one, and took out two butcher knives. He handed one to me.

  "Now the rules change," he said. "You can stab as hard as you want, and you can stab anywhere. I go first."

  "No way!"

  "You have to do this! If you don't, I'll tell everybody that you're a quitter! Quitters never accomplish anything in life. Do you want to be homeless, like Uncle Rick?"

  "Uncle Rick isn't homeless."

  "Yes, he is. He just doesn't tell anyone because he's embarrassed."

  "I think you're lying."

  "Well, I think you're a quitter. The rules say you can stab anywhere, but it's not like I'm going to stab you in the heart or anything. You'll be okay."

  "This is a bad game."

  "It's not a bad game! Chicks love this game! They don't love playing it themselves, but when they hear that a guy plays 'Stop Stabbing Me' they know he's a real man. But you aren't. You're just a little kid. Sad. Very sad."

  I didn't know what to do. Only a fool would let somebody stab them like that, but he was my brother. Mike wouldn't let me come to any real harm. He wouldn't slash my jugular vein and let me bleed out. Worst-case scenario, he might poke me in the side, thinking that I'd scream "Stop stabbing me!" the instant the stainless steel blade touched my skin.

  Well, I wouldn't do that. I'd win this game. Then he'd be sorry.

  I held up my arms, giving Mike free access to my torso. "All right," I said. "Go."

  Mike held up the butcher knife, slowly moving it around, biting his lip as if trying to decide the best place to stab me.

  I could trust him, right . . . ?

  Mike lowered the knife and burst out laughing. "Oh my God! Oh my God! You were really going to let me stab you with a butcher knife!"

  "We were playing a game!"

  "You don't let somebody stab you with a butcher knife as part of a game! Oh my God! You're mentally ill! What kind of dumbass would willingly stand there and let me do that? I mean, that's the kind of behavior where they lock you in an asylum. That's what's going to happen to you. Men in white coats are going to take you off to an asylum and fill you with drugs while they try to figure out why you'd give somebody permission to stab you!"