The Cube People

by Christian McPherson

  She nods again.

  “I’m on it,” I tell her as I move to the kitchen. I make myself a coffee and read the paper. I hear the bath start up. Sarah has actually lost weight during the first two months of pregnancy. The vomiting began two weeks after she peed on the stick. When Sarah gets out of the tub, I hop in and shower. Once I’m dressed for work, I go out to the living room. Sarah is sitting on the couch looking extremely pale, her untouched green tea and melba toast sitting on the coffee table in front of her. “You okay?”

  “I think I might be sick again,” she says, standing up and heading for the washroom.

  I hear more retching sounds.

  “I’m going to go, okay honey, unless you need me?” I yell down the hallway.

  “Just go, I’ll be fine in a few minutes,” she mutters weakly.

  On the bus I snag a window seat. A man with a huge beer gut sits down beside me. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t seen his dick in years. He has some wicked coffee breath and reeks of cigarettes. Not surprisingly, Sarah hates taking the bus these days. One whiff of this guy and he would have a new appreciation for morning sickness. As the bus sways along its route, its lumbering metal structure rocks me into a state of sleepy complacency. The engine purrs, “Shhh Colin, go to sleep.” I close my eyes. Blobs of light dance on the dark of my inner eyelids. I think about Invasion of the Body Snatchers and bolt upright in my seat, eyes wide. My mind floats to the laundry and dishes in the sink that need washing. I drift to other things I need to get done, the book I’m writing. Is it scary enough? Should it have a dark ending or should it have a little redemption?

  I glance around me. There’s a man seated across the aisle with hunched posture, a wilted flower. He gives the impression that the attrition of a bureaucratic routine has left him empty. A Tupperware container is perched atop his briefcase. I imagine him on this bus for the next twenty years, microwaved lunches, the same job. I imagine him slipping a noose around his neck and jumping off his Arborite kitchen counter, his flailing arms knocking over his Tupperware leftovers, little macaronis spilling out onto the floor. I see myself as him. I see myself trapped in my day job, trapped in the relentless predictability of it all. Maybe the ending of my new book should be dark?

  But then the bus saunters to a stop and picks up a pregnant woman. Another woman moves to give her a seat. I stare at her swollen belly. I think about how much I love Sarah, ride this bus for her, eat the mircowaved banality for her – for her and my unborn child. But is love enough to keep riding this bus for the next twenty years? Maybe. Maybe not. I need to write my way out of it. Not that I want to, but I don’t see another way. Maybe my book could use a little redemption? Maybe I could use some myself?

  When I finally get into work and into my quad, Brita’s there wearing black military boots, green army pants and a black T-shirt with a picture of Kurt Cobain on the front. She has shaven her head completely bald, reminding me of Sigourney Weaver in Alien 3. She’s placing her personal possessions, including a Karl Marx action figure, computer manuals, CDs and various leftist magazines into a cardboard box.

  “Where are you going? Are you switching groups?” I ask.

  “Fuck that MacDonald, I quit this shithole. Let the capitalists find another lackey henchwoman to replace me. I’m off to the rainforest to stop deforestation. I’m going to blow up a few bulldozers. I’m going to straighten shit out.”

  “Wow, sounds like you’re doing your part for Paperless Office 2012.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, MacDonald,” she threatens, swinging around with her box of junk.

  “Well, good luck,” I say extending my hand.

  She looks at my hand and debates it. She decides to balance the box on one knee and quickly shakes. “You are one of the few people in here who isn’t a complete asshole.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, because I’m not sure what else to say.

  “If I were you, MacDonald, I’d get out before this place takes your soul,” she whispers leaning in toward me, so close I worry she might kiss me. Suddenly she spins around and yells at Carla, “Here is something for you, cunt!” spitting a glob of saliva onto Carla’s flat-screen monitor, and then storming off. Carla sits frozen, looking completely horrified, staring at the sliding spittle as if it were a scorpion crawling down her screen. I almost laugh, but it seems like an unnecessarily cruel action, especially since Carla had done nothing to provoke her. I know the smell of cleaning products had always been a sore point with Brita, but considering Carla’s condition, so to speak, I was surprised. Still, I think every person who has come into this quad has wanted to spit on Carla’s desk, just to see what she would do. I’m looking at the answer and it’s not pretty.

  “Why did she do that?” she squeaked.

  “I don’t know, Carla. She’s just mad at everyone and everything I guess.” For the next hour, Carla goes into a hyper-animated cleaning frenzy, spraying and wiping everything down, over and over. The monitor gets at least a half an hour dedicated to itself alone.

  Bruce waltzes in and grabs the guest chair that the four of us, now three of us, share in the quad. “Hey, smells clean in here. I guess you heard about Brita, eh?”

  “She told me she quit.”

  “Wow, did she ever,” says Bruce, but he fails to elaborate on what he means. After the spitting action, I imagine that Bruce got something equally as good. Bruce suddenly rubs his hands feverishly together as if he was trying to spark a fire, and then, in what I think he thinks is dramatic, slaps his knees. “Well, Colin, I’m afraid you’ll have to be the one to pull up the slack around here until we find a replacement for Brita.”

  “Sure thing,” I say, completely unfazed by what he’s just said.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  Bruce seems flustered by my response, and I imagine he was waiting for me to take exception to what he’s said so he’d have the opportunity to practise his manager skill set. I suspect he’s got a performance review looming and he is looking for some examples of leadership to write down.

  “Well you’re going to have to refill out your estimates form, now that you’re taking over for Brita… temporarily that is.”

  Although I pretty much despise everything about my job, the one thing I hate above all others is doing estimates. I’m supposed to guess how much time it will take me to complete each piece of code that I’ll be working on over the next six months. Now I’m going to have to figure out how much time doing two jobs will take. Dutiful, I do it just the same, for I am a good civil servant.

  I work on my new estimates, form 220, for over two hours, trying to piece together everything Brita had been working on and would have been working on in the future. When I’m done, I bring the form over to Bruce. He’s on the phone, so I drop it into his in-basket. Forty minutes later Bruce returns with the estimates form.

  “You’re a little high in a couple of places, Colin, and a little low in others. Look at it again, see if you can identify the problem areas, and fix them up.”

  “Sure thing,” I say, seething on the inside. I go over the whole thing again and make what I think are the appropriate adjustments. When Phil and I get back from lunch I notice that the form is back in my in-basket with several yellow stickies on it identifying the areas where the numbers are too high or too low. My jaw tightens and I grind my teeth. I randomly beef up or down the numbers identified as being incorrect guesses and march it back to Bruce’s desk. He’s on the phone again, so I toss it into his in-basket.

  Not ten minutes later, he’s back in my quad. “Still not right Colin, a couple of these are still a little low.”

  “Well, why don’t you just put the number that you want in the box?”

  “Well Colin, then I would be doing your job, wouldn’t I?”

  I want to pop him in the mouth. “Bruce, I don’t know what numb
er should go in the box. It’s an estimate. So just put in whatever number you want. I don’t mind being wrong. I’m just tired of guessing.”

  “Colin, it’s great practice for you. It’ll help you. Just do your best, that’s all I’m asking,” he urges, putting the sheet back in my in-basket.

  Insanity. But I smell something fishy here, aside from Bruce’s power games. Bruce isn’t that smart. I erase the numbers in question and put in new random numbers. I walk the 220 form over to Bruce’s cubicle again. “That was quick Colin. Do you think you got it right this time?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Well let me look it over and I’ll bring it back if it needs fixing.”

  “Well just look at it now.”

  “Listen Colin, I have to finish this email, but I’ll do it right after that.”

  I’m contents-under-pressure, a steaming kettle, Fahrenheit four-fifty-fuck-you. There’s a worm in the apple and it’s time to go fishing. “Fine,” I say and leave, but I don’t go far. I slip into Peter Cann’s cubicle, right next door to Bruce’s. I place my index finger to my lips and make a silent shhh to Peter. He’s a good sport and doesn’t say anything, just curiously watches. I stand on his guest chair and peer over the wall at Bruce. He’s not writing his email. He’s looking at my 220 form. He opens one of his desk drawers and pulls out two other 220 forms. I recognize one as my original from March 2006, and the other one I surmise to be Brita’s. He’s added them together to make sure they match my new estimates.

  “Bruce!” I yelp over the wall. He jumps as if his spine were about to pop out of his back. I step down off the chair, thank Peter and spin around the light grey cubicle dividing wall and back into Bruce’s cube. “Give me that,” I demand snatching my 220 form from his hand. I quickly do the addition of all four boxes in question right there. It takes me about forty-five seconds and Bruce doesn’t say a peep. When I’m done, I hand Bruce the form and say, “Estimates are now complete.”

  I walk back to my cube with joy in my heart.

  When I get to the office the next day there is a calendar invite from Barry, the manager, Mr. Paperless Office. He has requested a meeting with me at 10 a.m. in his office, the subject line: The Committee. I click the button to accept and don’t think any more about it.

  At 9:55 I get a pop-up reminder about the meeting. I hit the washroom, and then walk to Barry’s office. When I get there, he waves me in and asks me to shut the door. Barry’s a fat little man, habitually adorned in a light grey suit (almost the same colour as our cubicle walls – sort of office camouflage, so he can sneak up on people) and some sort of novelty tie. I think he’s about fifty-five, but he seems to have no imminent retirement plans. It’s not because he has to work; no, I think Barry has lots of money. He won’t retire because he loves his job. He loves his job because he thinks he’s making a difference. He thinks his job is important. Today his tie has a profile picture of Homer Simpson drinking a Duff beer. I suspect that this tie, at least in Barry’s mind, is a kind of jovial catalyst, a springboard to you-can-talk-to-me-for-I’m-a-man-of-the-people, just a small piece of his open-door managerial style that he professes as part of his office philosophy. “I hear that there was a bit of an incident yesterday with the work estimates.”

  “Yeah, Bruce is driving me crazy with those. I don’t know what to tell you. The whole thing boggles the mind.”

  “Listen,” says Barry, rolling his chair closer to mine, putting one hand gently on my knee. “Bruce was quite scared by what happened yesterday. He said, and this is a quote, he said he ‘felt physically threatened’ yesterday when you grabbed the piece of paper from his hand.”

  I’m stunned. “You have to be kidding me?” I ask.

  “This is a serious matter Colin. Now I know that Bruce can be difficult sometimes, but he means well. I told him I’d have a talk with you. Now I think it would be best if you two were to communicate by email for a while, just to cool things down. I don’t want you to have a black mark on your so-far spotless record, Colin. You’re a good employee, Colin; just don’t let your temper get to you.”

  I can’t believe what I am hearing.

  “Listen, Colin, let’s forget the whole thing shall we? How about we get you involved in a special project?”

  It occurs to me that if Barry were to gain fifty more pounds, put on a black suit, and stuff cotton balls into his mouth he might pass for a silly version of the Godfather.

  “What favour?”

  “I want you to join the Refrigerator Committee.”

  I think I should take this shit up with the union, but I really don’t want the hassle. I don’t want to be labelled as difficult. With no prospect of a million-dollar book deal on the horizon, I need to keep my job, despite the fact that I loathe it with all of my being. With a child on the way, I don’t want any “blemishes” on my record. “The Refrigerator Committee?”

  “We need a new fridge in the coffee room. The Coffee Club Committee is swamped right now, so they set up another committee to purchase a new fridge. You’d help to raise money, you know, bake sales, raffle tickets, things of this sort. They’re short one member, and so I volunteered one more person from my section – that would be you. Are you up for it?”

  “Fine.”

  “Great, the first meeting is next week. Good luck with it. And remember, no more fighting with Bruce,” he adds with a wink and a smile.

  The Refrigerator Committee. Son of a bitch.

  Two months later…

  A Very Hungry Hole

  We went for the third ultrasound today. It’s a girl! We debated about finding out the gender, but Sarah just couldn’t wait. She wants to get the room ready and wants the right colour on the wall. So I’m losing my study to Sam. Samantha, but I prefer Sam, or Sammy. Some might think of it as more of a boy’s name, but I think Sammy is cute. So does Sarah. Seeing the head and hands today, not just the blip of a heartbeat, really brought it home that I’m going to be responsible for the development of a human life. The weight of it is pulling at me, a bungee umbilical cord tugging me off the edge of an egotistical tower and into the abyss of accountability. Thank heavens I have Sarah; at least I can only fracture half the child. I’ve talked about this with Sarah at length and she thinks I’m a good candidate for Xanax. She’s told me repeatedly that I’m going to be a great dad, that she’s seen me with her sister’s children and I’m wonderful. I remain pessimistically nervous.

  House of Won Ton brings us half their menu. When we went to the doctor’s office, Sarah was actually down five pounds from her normal weight before pregnancy. Tonight something clicked inside her body and she’s making up for lost time. Three spring rolls, a won ton soup, half an order of beef and black bean sauce, almost a whole order of lemon chicken and enough rice to stuff a suitcase. She drains back a tall glass of coke and lets out a humongous he-man belch. “Excuse me,” she says.

  “Wow, feel good?”

  “Great. I’ve never felt better.”

  Two hours after the gorging, we’re on the couch watching TV when a commercial for potato chips appears. Sarah leans forward, fixated, and asks, “Are you hungry?”

  “No, you?”

  “Starving. You know what I could really go for right now? Those nachos with the fake orange cheese.”

  “Like at the movies?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well I’m not going to the movie theatre just to get you chips.”

  “7-Eleven has them. Please?”

  I walk the four blocks down to the 7-Eleven in the rain. It’s blowing and friggin’ cold as a witch’s tit, which seems appropriate because most houses still have their Halloween decorations up. I should’ve brought my umbrella.

  The door BINGs as I enter and my body welcomes the neon warmth of the store. I find the nacho-cheese machine on the back wall. Beside it, on a wire stand, sit
black plastic containers with clear see-through tops which reveal their round salted nacho-chip contents. I look at the little white expiry stickers and they all say best before yesterday. I look over at the cash and there’s only one person on with a line of five people deep and there seems to be nobody else in the store to help me with getting some fresh chips. I figure they’re only chips, that one day can’t make much difference. So I grab the container with the most chips and pop the lid off. There’s a little pocket in the corner of the tray in which to pump your cheese. I place it under the nozzle and push the round spring-loaded button. Cheese trickles out, slow and thin. Then it stops altogether. I hit it a few more times only to get a few more drops. The pocket of the tray is only a third full, if that.

  I look around for help, but there isn’t any except the girl working the cash. I suspect this fluorescent orange cheese contains no dairy, but instead is made up of some edible oil product. I’m embarrassed to be buying it, let alone having to go up to the cash and ask for help with the busted machine. The line is down to three people and I wait patiently, not wanting to barge in and draw attention to myself. While I wait, three people come into the store. BING. BING. BING. I think, please don’t line up behind me. But sure enough, Mr. Heavy Metal gets in line behind me right away. I assume he just wants cigarettes. For a fraction of a second I consider letting him go ahead of me, but then I realize I’ll never get service if I do. Finally I stand before the young girl who has purple dreadlocks fastened atop her head with a black piece of ribbon adorned with white skulls. She has multiple piercings in her face: eyebrow, lip, nose, twenty in the ears. Her nametag reads “Angie.” I meekly present my nacho tray to her and inform her that the machine is broken or out of cheese.

  “Probably out of cheese. Just a second, I’ll get Derek. I think he should be finished his break by now,” she says as she leaves her post and presumably goes to find Derek, her purple pineapple hairdo bobbing as she goes. Two more people join the line. People are giving me the eye. They likely think I’m stoned and have the munchies – who else would eat this stuff? Undernourished pregnant women, that’s who.