by A. R. Braun
“Hello,” Carmen said. He already knew her name because he always read nametags. “Welcome to Intel. How can I help you today?”
Don smiled. “Good morning.” He pulled the card he’d been sent via snail mail out of his breast pocket.
DAVID TINKERMAN
HUMAN RESOURCES SPECIALIST
“I’ve got an interview with Mr. Tinkerman at nine.”
Carmen cocked her head and held the smile steady as if it would fall off if she didn’t. “Please sign in.” She assigned him a temporary badge. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you.”
He’d just gotten comfortable in the waiting room when a young man with a short haircut and a snappy suit walked up to him. “Mr. Rack?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Paul Wells. I’ll show you to Mr. Tinkerman’s office.”
“Sure.” Don rose.
As he followed him to the elevators, Don sneaked a peek at the gorgeous mountains visible through the windows so clean he expected a bird to fly into them at any moment. The doors parted for them.
They rode in silence, then got off the elevator and walked halfway down the hall.
Paul stopped. “Here we are.” He smiled, looking like a male model. Paul stuck his head in the door and had a few words with Mr. Tinkerman, then opened it wide and gestured inward. “Good luck.”
I’ll need it.
Don stepped inside.
***
Don gave Mr. Tinkerman a power handshake.
“Power handshake,” as if most are limp fish.
The man’s muscles seemed ready to burst out of his business suit. Even his muscles had muscles. His dimpled youthful face made him look as if he’d inherited the CEO position. Whatever kind of gel held his hair in place was doing its job.
A brick couldn’t penetrate that shit.
Mr. Tinkerman was the champion of the death grip. When he finally let go, Don’s hand throbbed like a cartoon character had pounded it with a hammer. The boring greetings dispensed with, Mr. Tinkerman gestured toward a chair.
“I bet you’re glad the drive’s over.”
Don sat. “Yes, Mr. Tinkerman, but it was good to put that old life behind me.” He crossed his legs as if that were expected.
Mr. Tinkerman waved him off. “Please, call me David.” He sat in the grand leather chair with buttons and tapped the desk with his pen.
“David it is, then.” Don opened his briefcase. “I’m sure you want to see my portfolio, along with my resume.”
David chuckled. “I’m sure. But don’t think we haven’t checked you out.”
Don looked up from his briefcase. “Pardon?”
“I’m kidding.” David laughed again.
Don told himself to stop being nervous, but how could he not be? Was David going to ask why he’d never earned tenure, if his wife and kids — an ex-wife and no kids — were comfortable here? What if he’d heard about the deaths?
Stop it.
Don handed the portfolio and resume over.
David perused the information. He flipped pages and said “Hmm” here and there. Then he pinned him with his eyes. “I’m going to be frank with you, Don. This is a highly coveted position. We’ve got a bob-and-weave kind of thing happening, going up against some major players, AMT and Microsoft. We’re testing out the most state-of-the-art microprocessor that’s ever been invented. There can’t be any big mistakes. We’re tenacious as far as the human quotient in concerned. I want people who are on the ball, who are on, ready to give 100%, 24-7, without fail, and able to work long hours if needed.
“I’ve seen people let go that came in here looking like the best candidates for the job — no slackers — and then they were out the door like ne’er-do-wells. I know you’ve got the experience necessary to head up a research team. What I want to know is if you’ve got balls of steel, nerves of iron, stick-to-it-tiveness, if you’re a people person and someone that doesn’t mind staying on his feet to avoid falling in the gutter. I’m not looking for you to stay with this company for a year or two. You’re in for life or you’re not in at all.” David put his hands on the desk and leaned forward. “I’m not just going to ask why I should hire you. Impress me.” David floored him with his eyes.
Oh, my God. I almost had a breakdown over a couple of accidental deaths, and he’s asking me if I have nerves of iron? No! Don’t fuck it up and start sweating!
Don was sure he’d clam up and give up the ghost, but…
… he stood. “David, I could sit here and blab on about my qualifications, but what you’re looking for is the American spirit that founded this great country. Well, I’ve got it. You’re asking about the tusk and claw here, and I’m telling you that if another applicant came in that door after me who looked more qualified and was ten years younger, I’d trip him.”
At this, David snorted.
Whoa. Where did that come from? Well, just keep going.
“I would bathe with scorpions for this job, and I’m not going to hand it over to anyone else. I’m tired of winters so cold they could freeze the tits off a boar. I’m sick of not only wondering what I’m going to be doing in ten years, but also in three. And frankly, I’m sick and tired of losing. This is the most important interview of my life; I’m not going to hand this job over to someone else.”
David’s eyes lit up.
“I won’t let squabbles, quirks, long hours, wimpy-dimpy sentiment or even a swat team hold me back from this job. And when I’m hired, Microsoft and AMT will be shaking like little girls on a softball team playing the Diamondbacks. I won’t accept a second interview, a third interview or ‘We’ll call you.’ ” Don leaned forward. “I want this job and I want it now, and when I’m on your team, you’ll wonder why I wasn’t employed with you when I was twenty-one and green as a baseball field awaiting the World Series. If you don’t hire me right here and right now, it’ll be the biggest mistake of your life. I’m. Your. Man.”
Don put his hands on his knees, not even thinking of taking his eyes off him. David tried to stare him down for a few moments, but Don wouldn’t have it.
David rose, as did Don. He laughed and gripped Don’s hand again, then grinned like a shark. “You’re hired, my man. That’s the best damned interview I’ve ever conducted, and I’ve given plenty. Your qualifications and education, although not exemplary, meet our requirements. I don’t know how you knew I was a baseball fanatic, but I live for the Diamondbacks, and so do my two little boys. Be here at seven-thirty tomorrow morning. In ten years, I’ll throw in the gold watch and tenure. Congratulations.”
Jesus, what just happened?
Don had never experienced a triumph like this, and he almost cried. It took every ounce of reserve not to jump up and down. Instead, he pumped the hand back — this time it was Don who wouldn’t let go first — and said, “Best decision you ever made, David. You won’t regret it.”
Then he was walking back into the dry heat, feeling as if he’d won the lottery. He crossed the street and even played peek-a-boo with a baby, her mother grinning with good humor all the while.
When he got near his car, he stopped cold.
Wait. It happened again. Who’s helping me?
Talk about the old cliché of looking a gift horse in the mouth. Don picked up his pace with a spring in his step as if he’d gone on an organic diet. He decided to get soused celebrating.
When that old nagging worry told him what if they put two and two together? When you hate somebody, they die! Don stepped on the thought as if it was an ant.
You shut your ass up, bitch, right here and right now.
CHAPTER 3
The deity cackled fire as he rode the gust of the wind. His glowing eyes ensconced with spikes looked deep into Don’s soul and picked apart his effervescence. The god desired to triumph over any capricious doubt that dared rear its ugly head and prickle electric sparks through his heart and out of his fingertips. What was awaiting Don was stronger than any world conquest, more powerful than a
ny dream realization man had ever experienced. The deity wanted — no, demanded! — dominion over not only Don’s mind, body, and soul, but also over his dreams and uber-secret thoughts.
No earthly reverence would do.
No Godly reverence would do.
From the beginning, when the deity cast aside the Djinn like a feather, when he spat oblivion into Hecate, when he seared the gods of the Egyptians before they could lift a finger to do battle, he held the earth like a globe to ransack-fuck it until the end of eons.
Don would not just be impressed, not just be enthralled, he would be stupefied times ten.
The god fluttered its wings, shot rays out of its eyes like blinding prisms and thundered its voice of nucleons.
They would know his vehemence, thanks to this ignorant paleface. It looked like raping the country was about to come back on their white race. Not that he cared about the proud red men either, though they were mighty warriors of the plains. He especially hated them, for they knew his origin. Funny that the Caucasians and the other races didn’t. They’d soon know that cowering was the understatement of the universe and joyful orgasms were like jizzing into the wind.
The terms “horror” and “macabre” were as a slap from a baby to the deity.
The other races didn’t know the destruction that was to come.
They’d never even know the deity’s name.
As he brayed laughter of lightning, as he tickled thunderclaps like sides of flesh, humanity blissfully slept, which was fine, because they needed the rest.
They wouldn’t be able to comprehend their awakening.
But for now, for a deity that was not, yet more than a clusterfucker, a few hundred dismemberments and mental breakdowns would do.
CHAPTER 4
Holding his cappuccino, Don exited a coffee shop. The sun blinded him when he came through the double-doors. It wasn’t blisteringly hot like in Illinois, and it never would be.
I researched the shit out of this place. In the winter, there’ll be snow in them there hills, but all we’ll get is a light dusting.
The din of happy conversations and revving motors mixed with the scent of diesel fuel and ethanol wafted over to him. Hell, he couldn’t stay in a bad mood after slam-dunking the Intel interview. Before Don moseyed over to his car, he spotted a Dairy Queen across the street.
Blizzard time, baby.
Don pushed the walk button and waited. Even though he wasn’t one for whistling, here he was doing it again. He couldn’t help sneak a peek at the gorgeous women strutting around in their business suits — the unholy trinity of blondes, redheads and brunettes — their gams demanding he stand at attention.
He found the DQ closed, but damned if that was going to darken his mood, so he proceeded to a quickie mart a couple blocks down. Don tried to ignore the men dressed in shabby clothes, down on their luck, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t deny them some change, the mood he was in, or even a few bucks.
He sauntered through the door and walked around the housewives pulling early duty. Only a few persons were inside, and they looked as if they’d let themselves go. A kind-acting Indian man with a dot on his forehead grinned and offered a good morning, which Don returned. Cold air blasted him as he opened the cooler, and he shivered. He chose a few ice cream candy bars and worked his way to the counter.
It fucking figured, he had to wait behind the two housewives who picked now of all times to check out, and a Native American, an older-looking gentleman who’d cropped his hair short. The American Indian craned his neck. Age lines scored his skin like connect-the-dots. A muscular man, he wore a dress shirt with a bolo tie, along with jeans featuring a huge belt buckle that said PUEBLO.
He looked down his nose at Don.
Don smiled. “G’mornin.”
The man furrowed his brow, and then lightened up a bit and endeavored to smile. “Hmm.”
“Beautiful day.”
Again, he turned his head and found Don’s soul with his eyes. “Yes, it’s — ”
The man’s eyeballs popped out of his head and rolled down Don’s shirt before making a couple of light plops on the floor.
Anxiety grabbed Don by the throat, and he choked on his spit. Unable to do anything else, he stared at the eyes and then looked up at the man’s empty sockets, oozing blood and ichor onto his weather-beaten cheeks. The Pueblo shrieked, a few choice expletives coming out of his mouth. The women turned to the source of the commotion and screamed when they spotted the eyes on the floor. The cashier stood wide-eyed. He blanched.
Don didn’t know what to do. What could he do? Pick them up and say you dropped these? The Pueblo was pawing his chest while he screamed for someone to give him back his goddamn eyeballs. The ladies had dropped their tote baskets and recoiled against the counter like it could shield them from this macabre grotesquerie.
Don — a man that always had to solve problems, whether he could solve them or not — bent down to pick up the eyeballs that had the consistency of grapes and grabbed the Pueblo’s hand, placing them in his palm. “Here are, uh, your eyes. Maybe a hospital can, um, sew them back in for you?”
The Pueblo stammered and cried out, a mournful wail.
Then he went down.
The Pueblo made a thud as he landed on his back, and the cashier came around the counter and told Don he could go, that he’d call an ambulance and take care of this. The women had power walked out of the store while whimpering.
Don had an insane thought before he realized he’d lost his appetite: But I haven’t paid for my ice cream yet. “Sure. Let me put the ice cream back.”
The cashier waved him off. “Take it. I’ll pay for it. Just go.” The man’s speech was heavy-laden with an Indian accent.
Don walked out of the store and tried not to power walk like a woman. The orb of fire in the sky blinded him momentarily. Denizens chatted as the noises of industry roared. He could still hear the Pueblo screaming even after he was a block away. He stuffed the ice cream candy bars in his suit pocket.
God, that was atrocious. What could be the malady that caused his eyes to fall out? I’ve never heard of that one before.
Don gave a sigh of relief.
At least I don’t have to worry about only people I hate wandering into a grim fate. The Pueblo was kind enough.
With that Don climbed into his car.
***
The deity perched atop a building, waiting for Don, and cackled fire after he’d inhaled a bit of sun as its morning cup of Joe. The god thought he looked picturesque in the reflection in the windows of the business offices across the street. His frame contrasted the blue sky. No one else could see the mirror-like image.
Just keeping you on your toes, paleface; you don’t need to talk to Pocahontas’s worse half, not on my watch.
***
In his bathroom at the hotel, Don stared at himself in the mirror as he washed the Pueblo’s blood from his shirt. He noticed a few silver hairs for the first time, and that darkened his mood. He pushed the thought about the grays away and decided to go out.
At five p.m., famished because he hadn’t eaten all day (he’d thrown the ice cream candy bars away before they could melt in his pocket, having lost his appetite), he pulled into the parking lot of Brave New Woof. This time he wouldn’t give anybody a howdy-do so they could ruin his meal. He was going to enjoy the scrumptious food, then get drunker than hell celebrating. And forgetting.
This time, when he parked at the restaurant, no metalhead Native Americans loomed, thank — well, whom do I thank? Oh, thank goodness. He ordered the ostrich-burger combo meal and was able to enjoy it. Don decided on men’s hair color while he ate.
When he came out of the non-gourmet establishment — one of these days he was going to have to go on a health kick ‘cause he wasn’t getting any younger — the sun hid itself, bringing a lunar blanket of night.
God, I need a drink.
Don climbed behind the wheel, fired up the engine and cruised to a bar fit fo
r a businessman.
It sure wasn’t the biker bar called The Pour House that adorned the corner of filth and squalor. He saw ten Native Americans that looked like his “pal” from the first experience with Brave New Woof. They sported shirts with illegible logos that could only mean music so fast your head would spin. Don could appreciate death metal, being a thrash fan, and knew that if one was truly a metalhead, one would like music as heavy as can be. Still, he pulled past the establishment, a little faster than before.
He decided to change demographics. Don drove until he saw bigger McMansions and spied a place called Sports and Spirits.
That’s more like it. I’ve never had a bad experience in a sports bar.
He’d never had a horrid time at a restaurant either, until yesterday; therefore, he parked and walked in, expecting anything.
As he strolled through the door, the clatter and the chatter of patrons and staff assaulted him. Youngish-looking male and female hosts held court. Immediately, his spirits brightened. He wondered where these cookie-cutter thin kids came from. The planet Zonknoid, maybe? If Don had been that slight in college, things would’ve gotten real interesting. He’d seen it happen to more than a few lanky kids. The I’m-just-tryin-to-get-an-education-and-what-I-get-is-these-assholes syndrome. The smiling man with damn near a crew cut asked if he wanted a table.
Don smiled. “No, just ate. Could you kindly direct me to the watering hole?”
The nametag told Don the man’s name was Doug. He said to walk through the restaurant, and he’d find it. Don thanked him and ignored the stares from the gluttons dining on rich bar food. He bellied up to the bar.
The pub was well-lit. Decent-looking, clean-cut couples and single people sat imbibing on high-class liquor. The short-haired barkeep strode up to him, this one with a solid build, adorned in a dress shirt and khakis.
“Good evening,” he said.
Don looked over the many kinds of spirits that blocked the view of the whole mirror.
Hmm. What’ll it be? Should I go straight-up degenerate with Jager Bombs or play it cool with the malt liquor with the bat on the label? Perhaps a Lunch Box or a Sex on the Beach?
