The Cube People

by Christian McPherson

  The phone rings. It’s Sarah. “Are you still sleeping?”

  “Ah, yeah, just getting up.”

  “Christ, it’s almost noon. Sammy had a horrible night.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  “My mother’s a witch,” she whispers.

  “What happened?”

  “Same old shit. Tell you when I’m back. Listen, I’ll call you later. Sammy’s crying, I have to go. Pick me up tomorrow?”

  “See you then.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye.” I hang up. A metallic taste lingers in my mouth, my guts are full of air, and my head is throbbing. Thankful that I don’t have to deal with a crying baby in my rotten brain state, I wander out into the living room in my underwear, rubbing my temples. The sun is pouring in through the window, illuminating the debauched contents of the coffee table: an empty pizza box, empty gum wrappers, beer bottles with the labels peeled off, the Blade Runner DVD case, a half-eaten bag of salt and vinegar chips, rolling papers, my shoebox full of rejection letters and my printout of The Cube People. It all sits there, a big heaping pile of stupidity and failure.

  This is not somebody else’s life. This is mine.

  Goddamn Crackheads

  It’s nice being off, even if it’s under the threat of possible imprisonment. But Sarah seems no better since returning from her trip. I’m wondering if this is just the baby blues, a small hormonal blip, or if we’re moving into full-on postpartum depression? Sammy’s playing on her mat. It’s a beautiful spring day outside. I’m thinking some fresh air and a change of venue is just what Sarah could use. I could also use that. Maybe I can get some writing done in the park? I walk to our bedroom and see Sarah lying in bed, gently weeping. “Baby?”

  “Yeah,” she answers from the cocoon of blanket.

  “Want to take a walk, or maybe drive down to Dow’s Lake and have a picnic, get some fresh air?”

  “I’m sorry Colin.”

  “Sorry about what?”

  “Sorry about this. I don’t know why I’m so sad.”

  “It’s okay baby. How about a picnic?”

  “Sure. Let me take a bath and get dressed.”

  “I’ll pack us some sandwiches.”

  Sarah slides off the bed, still wrapped in the sheets and scoots over to me. I give her a hug. “Tell me it’s going to get better,” she says.

  “It’s going to be great, heck it’s already great. We have each other, we’re both young and healthy and we have a beautiful daughter.”

  “Isn’t she cute?” says Sarah. And just as she says that, Sammy howls from the other room. We both dart in there and Sarah swoops her up off the mat. “I think she’s hungry,” Sarah says.

  “Okay, you try to feed her and I’ll make us lunch, then we can go after you’ve had a bath.” I whip together a couple of beautiful sandwiches and make sure the diaper bag is well stocked. I put this stuff into the car along with a plastic tarp in anticipation of wet spring grass, a blanket, some trashy tabloid magazines for Sarah, Sammy’s mat and my laptop. I need to finish off Hungry Hole while I’m on this paid leave. I assume it won’t last for more than a week, but that might be enough time to have a first draft.

  The breeze is cool coming off the water. Sammy has fallen asleep in her car-seat carrier. We eat our sandwiches in silence. Sarah seems better, calm. Tension drains away from me. “Do you mind if I write for a little bit?” I ask.

  “Sure, pass me a magazine please.”

  Just then, Sammy wakes up and cries.

  “I’ll walk her around a bit, maybe she’ll fall back asleep,” I tell Sarah.

  I push Sammy around for ten minutes but she’s still screaming. I check her diaper. She’s pooped through her outfit. I go back to the picnic area and Sarah helps me change the whole stinky mess. “Go on and do some writing,” Sarah tells me as she latches Sammy on her breast.

  I can tell Sarah is unhappy, that she’d rather go home, but she’s trying to put on a good face for me. I flip open the screen on my machine, turn it on and type away. Fifteen minutes later I look up and Sarah is crying. “Why don’t we go over and see Tom and Jen? They haven’t seen Sammy yet. They’d love to meet her,” I suggest.

  “I don’t know Colin, I don’t think I’m up for it. Don’t have the energy to put on a happy face.”

  Tom and Jen are my father’s brother and his wife. They sent flowers with a card that said to call them when things have calmed down. They’re good people. “Listen, I bet you one hundred bucks they’d invite us to stay for dinner.”

  “Jesus, dinner, I don’t think I can.”

  “I just think you and me, especially you, have been cooped up too long. I think maybe some interaction with other people might be good. What do you say?”

  “Okay,” she says, but I sense she’s agreeing just to please me.

  Tom and Jen live over in Sandy Hill, in a two-storey brick home one block south of Rideau Street. It’s a nice neighbourhood near Ottawa University, bordering the downtown core. Unfortunately they live close to a bunch of crack houses. Tom and Jen tell us over dinner that they often find crack pipes and needles in their backyard.

  “Such a shame,” Jen says, shaking her head. “It was so lovely until those damn crackheads showed up. Now I’m afraid to walk alone at night. If Tom doesn’t come with me, I don’t go out.” After all the gushing over Sammy, we eat a meal of lasagna, garlic bread and Caesar salad that Jen whipped up. Sarah puts on a great face to the point where I’m thinking that maybe she’s actually feeling better. We eat homemade apple pie with ice cream and I’m so full that all I want to do is lie down. My uncle tries to push for a cigar on the back porch, but I tell him we ought to get going. I strap Sammy into the portable car seat and we are in the middle of saying goodbye when, SMASH! It’s the loud sound of glass breaking. Uncle Tom opens the front door and steps out onto the small veranda. I follow him out.

  When I took computer science, one of the things they drilled into my head early on was always, always, always make a backup. The Cube People is backed up at work and on disk. Hungry Hole on the other hand, well I haven’t bothered to make a backup of this yet. I guess because it’s not finished. I see a guy pulling my laptop from the front seat of our car through the opening where the windshield used to be. That laptop represents almost a year’s worth of writing. The adrenalin and anger hit me and gets my lasagna-packed form moving past Tom and down the four steps of their home to the sidewalk. “Hey, stop!” I yell.

  This longhaired kid, who I wouldn’t say is more than twenty-five years old, sees me coming and takes off sprinting, laptop tucked under his arm. Holy shit, he’s moving fast. Not today fucker, not today. I pour everything I have into it. His lead on me is still growing. He reaches the corner and hangs a right toward busy Rideau Street. I cut diagonally across the lawn, hopping a bush and make up some distance. He looks back and sees me still on him. I’m tired and my legs are burning. Son of a bitch. I push myself. There is no goddamn way I’m writing this novel again. Another block and he seems to be slowing. People on the street are watching us. Why doesn’t somebody stop him? I’m too tired to yell out for him to stop, so I just keep running. Another block and I’m almost on him. I reach out, arm stretched, and grab the back of his jacket and put on the brakes.

  He releases my laptop and it goes spinning into the street. My eyes follow it as if it were the last-second shot of a tied basketball game. I let go of the kid and move to retrieve it but in that second, that oh-so-very-short second it takes to fly through the air and smash on the ground, it’s already too late. I watch helplessly as a city bus roars by. My laptop rolls and tumbles under the wheels and I see it flip open. For another second it looks good, just sitting there waiting for somebody to turn it on and type away. But a second ci
ty bus follows, crushing the open jaw of my laptop flat. There are horrible crunching sounds. Plastic debris scatters the road. The e key lands by my feet like a tooth spit out by a boxer. I quickly dash out and grab what’s left. The kid is long gone. I kneel on the sidewalk and try in vain to turn it on. Nothing. It’s completely ruined.

  “He went that way,” offers a woman pointing down the street.

  “That’s okay, all the damage that could be done has been done.”

  “Goddamn crackheads,” she says. “Somebody should do something about them.”

  My uncle has called the police. They show up and I give them a description of the guy. We spend forty-five minutes cleaning the glass out of the car. It’s everywhere. On the drive home, I’m numb. “I’m so sorry, baby,” says Sarah.

  “No worries,” I say. “I’ll just rewrite it. Or maybe it was a sign, maybe it was awful. Maybe it was meant to be?”

  Sarah doesn’t say anything. We drive the rest of the way home in silence. After we get Sammy to sleep, I grab a beer from the fridge. I plunk myself down on the couch. I pick up our portable phone. It’s beeping – messages. I punch in our code.

  “Hello, this is Nona from Black Forest Editions. I have some rather bad news, I’m afraid. Marcus committed suicide last night. He was terribly depressed. The funeral will be in two days. Anyway, I wanted to let you know that all publishing projects are suspended indefinitely. I’m very sorry, but I suggest that you try to find another publisher for your manuscript. Best of luck to you, Colin. For what it’s worth, I really liked The Cube People. Again, best of luck. Goodbye.”

  Sarah walks into the living room. “Anyone call?” she asks.

  I get up and pour myself a stiff drink of whiskey and drink it down. Then I pour myself another.

  “You don’t have to drink just because you’re mad,” she says.

  “The first was out of anger, the second is out of love.” The booze burns in my mouth and gut and it feels real and right; the perfect complement to my anger. I probably shouldn’t be drinking, but I won’t be punching any holes in the walls, at least not today.

  No-Email Day

  I mope around the apartment the next day until Barry calls me and says that I’ve been cleared of any wrongdoing. Peter Cann was the mastermind behind the whole thing. I’m to return to work immediately. They’re behind schedule and really need my help to get things back on track. I say great and hang up. Fuck.

  I go into work the next day, walk to my cubicle and sit down at my desk. My chest tightens and my ears pulse. I find it hard to breathe. I spin in my chair. Somebody’s cleaned out Jackie’s desk; presumably it’s her belongings sitting in the three big boxes which are atop her desk. Dan’s therapeutic light box stands there reminding me of a hanging gallows. Carla’s not in yet. I’m alone. I do my best to keep breathing, to stay calm. I grip the edge of the desk. My heart slows. I keep breathing. The air smells funny, like chemical cleaners. I’m okay, I’m going to be fine. I power on my machine and check my email: 212 new messages to plough through. Bruce appears in the doorway.

  “Ah Colin, glad to see you’re back. Listen, can you review these packages right away? They needed to be done last week,” he says, dropping four or five thick file folders into my in-basket. “And remember, tomorrow is no-email day and bring-your-slippers-to-work day. You might not have heard about bring-your-slippers-to-work day. It’s something Barry came up with to lighten the mood around the office, you know, make everyone feel like they’re at home.”

  “Bring my slippers to work,” I repeat mindlessly.

  “Good stuff Colin,” says Bruce.

  I manage to get one program change completed before Phil shows up. His hair is orange. “What the hell dude?” I ask him.

  “Zoe did it, you dig?”

  “I thought you broke up?”

  “We’re getting married,” he says smiling. “You inspired me, Mr. Domestic.”

  “Jesus.”

  “You look fucking awful dude, what’s wrong with you? Sammy keeping you up?”

  “Let’s go and eat. I’ll tell you all about it. Your head looks like a pumpkin.”

  “Johnny Rotten, baby.”

  “Jesus.”

  After lunch, I work away, a zombie. I’m detached. I’m going through the motions. I’m the substitute, the real worker will be here soon to replace me. I keep moving, keep at it. Sarah calls in the afternoon. She says Sammy misses me and I should hurry on home. “How are you feeling?” I ask her.

  “I’m okay, just a little sad. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m good,” I tell her, lying.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, just a little tired is all.”

  “What do you want for dinner?”

  “How about I pick something up?” I suggest.

  “Just not pizza.”

  “Right, see you guys soon.”

  “Love you.”

  “You too baby,” I say, hanging up. Then I pick up the phone and call her right back.

  “Did the mail come?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything for me?”

  “I didn’t want to tell you. I opened it. Rejection letter from Big Shot Books.”

  “Okay, that’s all I wanted to know.”

  “Sorry baby.”

  “Nah, it’s fine. Give Sammy a kiss for me.”

  Sammy was up all night screaming. She had a fever – I ended up on the phone yakking to a Telehealth nurse at three in the morning to reassure Sarah that Sammy wasn’t going to die. I barely got two hours of sleep. I’m a mess getting into work this morning. I brew myself a strong cup of coffee. The little red light on my phone is silently blinking: a message from a weary graveyard-shift person telling me one of my batch jobs abended in the night. I log onto my machine and automatically click on the Outlook icon. Up pops a message window stating that this application is unavailable at this time. Great, no-email day. I saunter over to Bruce’s cubicle. He’s wearing goofy bunny slippers that are impossible not to notice. “Nice slippers,” I say.

  “Colin, where are yours?”

  “Forgot,” I lie.

  “I thought you might, so I brought you my extra pair,” he says, reaching into a bag that is sitting on the floor. Out comes a pair of fluorescent green slippers that I’m sure belong to Bruce’s transvestite alter ego.

  “Jesus,” I say.

  “Try ’em on.”

  “Not on your life.”

  “Please Colin, I’ve got Barry breathing down my back about this – team spirit.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Please Colin,” he bubbles, as if this idiotic act of dressing up in casual indoor footwear will somehow place him in Barry’s good graces.

  “Fine,” I say, taking the slippers. I put them on and to my surprise they’re actually quite comfortable. “Listen, we have an abend.”

  “Do what you normally do Colin.”

  “Normally I’d email people about the problem.”

  “Not today,” says Bruce, smiling cheerfully.

  Back at my desk I log onto the mainframe and look into the problem. I trace through the computer dump and find out that we’re being passed bad data from another group. We have a corruption issue on our hands and the consequences could be serious, possibly affecting thousands of tax returns. I habitually click on the email icon again and get the same “application is unavailable” message. Phones are ringing across the floor. I overhear Cindy from the Refrigerator Committee, who sits four cubicles over, yell, “Goddamn fucking email fucker.” Cindy is a lovely lady, kind, considerate. This is what no-email day has done to her in only a few hours: it has given her Tourette’s.

  I quickly realize I’m going to have to wander around the floor and talk to people. I print off pieces of c
ode and data so I can show it to the people who are possibly impacted by the problem; normally I would just forward this in a floor-wide email. As I approach the printer to collect my sheets, I see the blinking red light of the machine that indicates it’s out of paper. Usually there are extra refill bundles lying around, but today there are none. I wander down the hall. Standing before the secretarial throne, I watch Line scrutinize pictures of a house on a real-estate website. I wait for Her Majesty to grace me with an acknowledgement of my presence. Finally she glances up and asks me, as if I’ve interrupted some sort of Royal Tea, what it is that I want? “Paper for the printer. We’re out,” I drone.

  “There should be some on the floor under the printer.”

  “None, all gone.”

  “Then there’s no more paper.”

  “What?”

  “Listen Colin, I’ll make this easy for you. Barry was reluctant to sign the requisition form for more paper because of the whole Paperless Office thing. He eventually did sign, but we missed our delivery window by a day. So there’s not going to be any more paper for the next two weeks.”

  “Any suggestions?” I ask.

  “You can take five dollars from petty cash to buy paper at Office Land.” I laugh. I continue to laugh. I laugh until tears are rolling down my cheeks. Line is looking at me like she’s ready to call the nuthouse and I tell you I’m ready to go. I manage to calm down enough to say sure, give me the money. I don’t know why, maybe it was the fumes coming off of Line, but I bum a smoke off a guy at the front door of my building. I smoke it on my way over to Sunshine Valley. It’s disgusting, but I smoke it anyway. It makes me feel human. As usual, the mall is full of turtle-speed elderly shoppers that I duck and hop as I zigzag wildly down the corridor making my way to Office Land.