Angie finally returns and says, “Just wait by the machine. Derek will be out in a minute with the cheese.”
“Thanks,” I say, sheepishly moving out of the line which has grown by another two people.
The brown storage room door suddenly swings open and a long lanky kid emerges, his arms wrapped around a large bag of orange cheese goo like a small child carrying a squirming puppy dog. “Hi,” is all he says as he pops open the machine, removes the old bag and throws in the new one.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Give it five minutes to heat up.”
“Thanks,” I say again.
“Right,” he says, then heads up to the cash to help Angie.
I stroll over to the small rack of paperbacks, which is a mishmash of courtroom thrillers, Harry Potter books and Harlequin romances. I grab Bedded by the Prince Warrior and thumb through it: As I tugged violently on his leather buttons, exposing his scarred, hardened, warrior chest, he released his belt and his sword fell to the ground, only to expose his other rod of steel. I could feel the battle about to rage…
Good grief. Is this where the money is? Maybe I should write a romance book for the cash? I put back the book and return to the cheese machine, grab my chips, and hit the button again. A thick stream of hot cheese flows out. I fill the pocket and I also coat the chips as Sarah instructed before I left. “Make sure to get lots and lots of cheese.” I release my thumb but the button doesn’t seem to retract. The cheese continues to pour out. I try to grab the button and pull it back. I do. The button comes off in my hand; the cheese is continuing to pour out. Son of a bitch. I pull the chip tray away, and the catch basin of the machine fills quickly. I grab a coffee cup from the neighbouring counter and place it under the nozzle.
“Derek!” I yell. Everybody in line turns and stares over at me.
“Button broke, we have a problem here,” I tell him. Derek sees the cheese pouring out and bolts back over to me. He pops the lid of the machine and knocks the coffee cup with fake cheese goo to the ground. “Sorry, I don’t know what happened. The button was stuck and I tried to unstick it, and the darn thing just came off in my hand.”
Derek doesn’t say anything, he just continues to fiddle with the guts of the machine. With the lid open, there is no way I can put another cup under the nozzle. The cheese is continuing to flow down the counter and is pooling into a Cheez Whiz lake on the floor. There’s nothing I can do except stand there and provide moral support to Derek while the people in line continue to stare. I turn red with embarrassment. Should I just keep standing here? I decide that there’s no point and join the back of the line. When it’s my turn to pay, Angie gives me an angry look. I pay. I dash quickly back out into the rain, the hot cheese fogging up the clear plastic top as I go.
Sarah pops a chip dripping with cheesy slime into her mouth and coos with excitement. “Thanks baby,” she says, “you’re the best. Do you want one?”
“No thanks.”
“Oh God they’re good,” she tells me, shovelling another chip into her mouth.
“I’m glad they’re tasty.”
“Did you remember the chocolate bar?”
“Ah shit, sorry. There was a problem with the cheese pump thingy and I forgot.”
“Oh that’s okay, don’t worry about it,” she says, but I can tell she’s a little disappointed. Normally I wouldn’t have gone back out, not after all that, not when it’s raining and cold out, but I’ve just spent four months watching the woman I love yack her guts out. Now she’s eating. Maybe not the healthiest food on the planet, but at least it’s something. Who am I to deny the mother of my child a simple candy bar? Little Sammy needs to eat. “I’ll go back.”
“Don’t be silly, it’s fine, really,” she says.
“I’m going to get you that chocolate bar. I’ll be back in a second,” I say putting my coat on, grabbing my umbrella, heading out the door.
By the time I reach the 7-Eleven, the wind has made a pretzel out of my cheap umbrella. Two of the rods have snapped and I’m not much drier than I would have been without it. A homeless man is standing beside the garbage can where I stuff the umbrella.
“Spare some change?” asks the man.
I fish into my pocket and pull out a loonie.
“Thanks,” he says as BING, I go through the door.
As I grab a Snickers bar off the rack, I look up and see a note taped to the cheese machine: Out of Order. Derek has the mop bucket out. I avoid his gaze and get into line. When it’s my turn, Angie gives me another nasty glare.
“That everything?” she asks.
“Yes, just the candy bar.”
“That will be a dollar fifteen.”
I reach into my pocket and quickly come to the horrible conclusion that I only have thirty-five cents, after having given my last dollar away to the homeless man on my way in.
“Can I Interac that?”
“There’s a five-dollar minimum,” she spits.
“Can I do cash-back?”
“No, there’s a cash machine over there if you need money.”
“Fine,” I say, leaving the bar on the counter. “I’ll be right back.” I return outside and see that the homeless man is still there, trying to light a bent cigarette butt. “Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he says. “Spare any change?”
“Actually, I just gave you a dollar when I went in, just a minute ago.”
He squints at me. “I don’t know you,” he says.
“I just gave you a dollar. I’m the guy who put the umbrella in the garbage.”
“Yeah, what do you want?”
“I was wondering if I could have my dollar back. I’ll give you the rest of my money, which is twenty cents. I know it’s not much, but I really need my dollar back.”
The man grumbles and fishes out a loonie. “Here ya go, cheapskate,” he says, passing me back the coin.
“Thanks, sorry about that.”
The line moves slowly. When I finally get to Angie, she says robotically, “Will that be everything?”
“Yes.”
“A dollar fifteen. Bag?”
“No thanks.”
By the time I get home, I’m frozen to the bone. “Here you go baby,” I say, noting that Sarah has managed to polish off the nachos.
“You’re so sweet,” she says, giving me a kiss.
“I’m going to take a hot shower and do some writing, okay?”
“Bye,” she says, unwrapping the bar.
Hungry Hole: Chapter 8
When the doorbell rang, Ryan was a little nervous. There before him stood the six-foot-two construction worker who had given Ryan his card. He was wearing the exact same thing as before: white construction hat, jeans, plaid shirt and beige steel-toed boots. “Hi Doug,” said Ryan. “Please come in.”
“It’s Ryan, right?” asked Doug, extending his hand.
Ryan grabbed Doug’s hand, felt the calluses of years of hard manual labour.
“Ryan, that’s right. Come on in. Boy oh boy, do I have something to show you.” Ryan led the way.
“House looks pretty level on the outside. Seems good here in the hall.”
“That’s the strange part about it,” said Ryan, turning on the light at the top of the basement stairs. “It is level. I check it every day. But this hole just keeps getting bigger.” The sound of wind echoing down a tunnel grew louder as they reached the bottom.
“Jesus, what’s that sound?” asked Doug.
“That’s the hole. Crazy, isn’t it?”
“Holy macaroni, can I borrow your light?” asked Doug.
Ryan stepped to the side, handing Doug the flashlight. He moved to the edge and peered down.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like…”
&
nbsp; Ryan didn’t hesitate. He threw a bodycheck with his shoulder, hitting Doug in the lower back. Doug screamed as he fell in. There was a thud, followed by the sounds of chewing. The crunching sounds of chips being eaten.
“What are you doing baby?” Sarah asks, kissing my neck softly.
“Writing.”
“You’ve been a very nice boy today. Why don’t you come to bed and get a treat?”
“Okay, just give me a minute to finish off my thoughts here.”
“Hurry, because this is a limited-time offer. I’m feeling sleepy.”
I type quickly.
All of a sudden a spray of blood shoots from the hole, spitting along with it Doug’s bloodied pair of boots, hat, and Ryan’s flashlight. The flashlight lands at Ryan’s feet with a clunk, illuminating his stocking toes.
Ryan knew he was going to need more food soon. A lot more.
Two months later…
Sitting Duck Press
222 Lark Avenue
Ottawa, ON
K1H 7C7
January 15, 2007
Dear Mr. MacDonald:
We regret to inform you that our publishing calendar is full for the next three years.
Thank you for your interest in our press.
Best of luck with your writing.
Regards,
Simon Gibson
Editor
The Refrigerator Committee
I spent the holidays getting Sammy’s room ready. It’s goodbye to my writing study. I moved a third of my books into the bedroom and a third into the living room, and hauled two boxes of books to the second-hand bookstore. I put my writing desk into our storage unit in the basement and bought a tiny, crappy, thirty-dollar computer desk from Ikea for the living room. The couch was put out on the street corner. The room got repainted light pink with white trim. A new blind and curtains for the window went up. I assembled the crib my mother bought us. Then I assembled the change table that Sarah’s mother bought us. Sarah’s mother and my mother are in a competition to see who can give the baby more stuff. Christmas was an onslaught of everything baby. We now have dozens of sleepers and bibs adorned with cutesy expressions: “If you think I’m adorable, you should see my Grandma,” “Please pass the bottle” and “Spit Happens.” Sarah hasn’t even had her baby shower yet.
We had my father and his third wife over for New Year’s Eve dinner. He brought a giant stuffed bear with a red ribbon, which now sits in the corner of Sammy’s room. He got drunk, insulted Sarah, then his new wife, and then told me that he always thought I would never amount to much. It was a good time. Work, on the other hand, was particularly miserable. Since I’ve joined the six-person Refrigerator Committee, life has been shit. I’ve been organizing bake sales, trying to “cash in on the Christmas market” as one of the geniuses of the committee put it. Today I’m off to our semi-monthly meeting on how we can turn fundraising around in the post-holiday season.
I walk into the boardroom. I’m the last to arrive.
“Hi Colin, I saved you a seat,” offers Steve, patting the seat next to him even though there are only six of us in a ten-chair boardroom. Steve is flamboyantly gay.
“Thanks,” I say, sitting down next to him.
“Okay, shall we begin?” asks Debra. Debra is an uptight bean-counter and the head of the committee. “Jill, can you give us an update on where we’re at?” asks Debra.
“Wait, who’s taking minutes?” pipes in Laura. Laura always takes the minutes. She actually types them up after each meeting and sends them to all the committee members and carbon copies the managers. I always delete them without reading.
We all just look at each other and nobody says anything. “Okay, I guess I’ll do it,” Laura says inferring that she’s making a huge sacrifice. She flips open her notebook and writes the date and time.
“Thanks,” says Debra.
“Okay,” says Jill, looking at her accounting spreadsheet, “from the fifty-fifty we made $68. From the Christmas basket we made, after expenses, $58. And from all the baking, we made $59.25, for a total of $185.25.”
“Not bad for a couple of months’ work,” says Debra.
“Jill,” says Steve, “remind me to get that recipe for those date squares from you, honey bun. Those were to-die-for delicious.”
“I’ll email it to you after the meeting,” Jill says, winking.
“Right,” says Debra. “How are we going to make some money?”
“We could sell boxes of file folders on the street,” I suggest.
Everyone laughs.
“You’re so naughty, Colin,” says Steve.
“How about pizza?” suggests Cindy, almost inaudibly. Cindy is a little mousy girl with a flat chest, thick glasses and horrific fashion sense.
“What’s that? I didn’t catch what you said, you have to speak up,” Debra huffs.
“Pizza, we could sell pizza at lunch,” Cindy says a little louder.
“Where could we get pizza from?” Debra asks.
“Um, well actually I was thinking we could get pizza from Gino’s down the street,” says Cindy. “I already called them and asked them what their best price would be for, say, eight large pizzas, combination, and they told me that they could get me a pizza for twelve dollars. Each one has eight slices. I figure if we sell it at three dollars a slice, we could make twelve dollars a pizza. If we could sell all eight pizzas we would make close to a hundred dollars in profit.”
“I love pizza,” says Steve, flapping his arms in excitement.
“Good work Cindy,” says Laura, scribbling away in her notebook.
“Oh my God,” says Jill, bolting up straight in her chair. “I have the perfect way to sell it. Okay, get this, last Halloween I made the best costume for my husband, like ever. He was a giant slice of pizza. I made it out of foam and painted it yellow and glued on these big felt circles for pepperoni. It would be so perfect to sell the pizza.”
“Who’s going to wear it?” I ask.
All eyes roam back and forth and land back on me. Oh shit. “Well,” says Jill, “it really would only fit Colin. You’re about the same size as my husband.”
“No way, I’m not dressing up as a giant piece of pizza.”
“Oh, Colin, people will love you,” says Steve, touching my arm. Then he says to Jill, “Tell me there are tights too! Does Colin get to wear tights?”
“Yep, yellow tights, the colour of cheese.”
Steve closes his eyes and vibrates his legs and arms up and down with his fists clenched tight, and makes a high-pitched eeeeeehhhhhhh sound. I guess he’s imagining what I would look like in tights. I’m a little disturbed about how excited he’s becoming about the whole thing.
“No way,” I repeat.
“Please,” says Laura. “We’ll sell a ton of pizza if you do it. People love you.”
“Yes, please Colin,” pleads Jill.
“You can’t let us down,” says Steve.
I look to Debra for some help.
“Sounds like a good marketing gimmick to me,” Debra says.
I look to Cindy. Cindy pushes her glasses up her nose and nods her head in agreement with Debra.
“Shit,” I say. “Fine, I’ll do it.”
“That-a-boy Colin,” says Steve. “You’ll look great in tights, I know it.”
“Yeah, great,” I say. “Just fabulous.”
We decide to sell pizza on Thursday, the day after payday. Jill has given me the costume in a giant black garbage bag, the triangular foam tip poking out the top. There are no change rooms in my building, so I decide to use the handicapped washroom located between the men’s and women’s washroom just on the other side of my cubicle wall. There’s a hook on the back of the door. If you were in a wheelchair, you’d have no hope in reaching this hook and I puzz
le why it’s there. I hang my pants and peel on the yellow tights. I pull the costume out and wiggle into it. I gaze at myself in the angled-for-a-wheelchair mirror. I look like what I am, a giant six-foot-two slice of pepperoni pizza.
BOOM! The whole wall shakes. What the hell was that? BOOM! It sounds as if somebody’s hitting the wall in the men’s washroom. It’s not a gunshot, so I don’t completely panic. They always seem to be doing maintenance in the men’s washroom for some reason. But this sounds too loud. I unlock the door and step into the hallway wearing my costume.
“Ahhhhhhhh!” somebody screams, then BOOM! Is somebody being murdered in the men’s washroom? Normally the coward in me would run, but curiosity, rather than good conscience, moves me forward toward the door, toward the noise. I see several people’s heads are now gophering over their cubicle walls, blatantly disregarding management’s policy of not standing on the office furniture. I can see the puzzled looks on their faces, trying to understand the correlation between a giant walking slice of pizza and the incredible booming sounds coming from the washroom. I shrug my shoulders and hold out my hands to let them know I don’t have a clue what is going on either, but this gesture is lost on them.
“Nooooooo!” comes another scream, then another BOOM!
I’m freaked out. The costume, the foam snug around my head, is giving me claustrophobia. I kick open the washroom door and a billow of smoke wafts out at me in the hall. “Fire!” somebody screams. I hear the muted sounds of shuffling and running feet. I step back into the hallway, letting the door swing shut.
“Ahhhhhhh!” comes the scream again. BOOM! Suddenly the fire alarm goes off. Shit. I kick open the door again, shuffling sideways through the door, the only way I’ll fit. I realize that it’s not smoke in the air, but plaster dust. BOOM! My heart’s racing, my hands perspiring, the hair on the back of my neck raising. Rounding the corner, I spot Barry cowering on the floor between two urinals. His hair and shoulders are covered in plaster dust. He’s a frightened animal. There are large holes in the wall above him. I turn a little more, my peripheral vision obscured by the costume, and there’s Crazy Larry, naked as the day he was born, holding a sledgehammer. He too is lightly coated in plaster dust, reminding me of Rutger Hauer in Blade Runner. His penis looks like a tiny snow-covered yule log.
The Cube People Page 8
