The Cube People

by Christian McPherson

Quickly I find the cheapest paper, then go about assessing which of the two lines at the cash is the most expedient. In one line, I spy the old woman who I always see with her pink bathrobe and motorized scooter. She’s wearing the exact same green slippers which, up until this moment, I forgot I was wearing. No one seems to notice or care. Old ladies always seems to be rooting around in the bottom of their black purses, trying to find the exact change for whatever it is they’re buying. They always end up defeated and forking over a twenty-dollar bill. I pick the other line. Five minutes later, the woman in front of me is paying for a bag of office goodies with her credit card. The clerk slices the plastic card at the top of the handheld debit machine like she was cutting its throat. She stares at the device for a few seconds and swipes the card again. The look that registers on her face is, It’s not working. She pushes some buttons on her cash and tries the card yet again. Nothing. The clerk calls over her manager and he inspects the machine. He tries to swipe the card. They try to reboot the machine to no avail. The manager apologizes and directs the woman in front of me to a neighbouring cash. The clerk looks at me and says, “Sorry sir, but I can only take cash.” I wave the blue head of Sir Wilfrid Laurier triumphantly in the air and announce proudly, “Not a problem.”

  Back in the office, I load the paper cartridge drawer. The red light turns green and the printer hums, thankful for its feeding. It spews out all the documents that have been stored up in its memory queue. I grab a piece, hoping that my sheets are the first to be spit out. Looking at the page, the ink is barely visible. Fucking toner cartridge. I pop open the printer and it beeps angrily at me for interrupting. I pull out the black cylinder and give it a shake, the magic trick to squeezing a bit more ink out. As I’m doing this, Steve from the Refrigerator Committee swishes by in blue and gold sequined slippers that look as if they were stolen from Liberace’s wardrobe and says, “Did that yesterday, Colin. It’s completely out of juice, honey bun.”

  I walk down to Line. “I need a toner cartridge for the printer.”

  “Nice slippers. The toner is on order.”

  “Can I have some more money from petty cash?”

  “You just used the last five dollars.”

  I’m not laughing; I’m stunned. I stand there and listen to myself breathe. After a moment Line says, “Listen, Colin, this is a big building you know. There are other printers on other floors that use the same ink cartridge.”

  “Are you suggesting that I go and steal a printer cartridge from another floor?”

  “I’m just saying that there are other printers in the building. That’s all I’m saying,” she says with a sly grin.

  “I see. Thanks,” I say and walk back to the printer, grab the toner cartridge and head to the elevator to go one floor up.

  The floor above has exactly the same layout as my own. I march toward the printer. Often I see people I don’t recognize wandering around my floor. I just assume they’re there for a meeting or they’re new staff; I never think ah ha, that’s one of those bloody toner-cartridge thieves. I glance around nervously. A woman I don’t know but recognize is walking toward me. “Hey, Colin, what are you doing up here? You going to the big Java meeting?” she asks me. How does she know my name?

  “Yeah,” I lie.

  “Well come with me. I’m going there now. It’s over here,” she says spinning me around, away from the printer. Shit, how am I going to get out of this? I try to read her name off of her ID card, but I’m afraid she’ll think I’m staring at her breasts.

  “Do you always wear slippers at the office? And what’s with that toner cartridge?”

  “No, special day on my floor. Oh shoot,” I say snapping my fingers. “I forgot my notebook.”

  “I can lend you some paper…”

  “No, no, that’s okay. I’ll just meet you in there.” I scurry back toward the printer. Nobody’s around. I quickly do the switch and head back downstairs. When the printer resumes printing with its stolen internal organ, the pages again come out faded. I stole a dud. I spend the rest of the day walking around the floor, explaining the same problem over and over while we marvel at each other’s cozy footwear.

  Laura from the Refrigerator Committee came by today like some sort of Harlem pimp pushing her daughter’s bland Girl Guide cookies. She’s been doing this annually for many years now. How long can her daughter be in Girl Guides? I buy a box just to be polite. I move through the days on autopilot. I’m forever in an out-of-body experience. Sarah is sad all the time and Sammy only sleeps four hours at a time – sometimes five if we’re lucky.

  I find the first two chapters of Hungry Hole saved on my hard drive at work. I try to write it again, but can’t do it. My life energy has been sucked dry. Sarah’s on my case because I drink a bottle of wine with dinner every night. I’m drinking about six cups of coffee during the day. My panic attacks are becoming more intense. I now run to the handicapped washroom when I sense one coming on.

  My cell rings. It’s Sarah wondering where I’ve been, she’s been trying to reach me at my desk. I note the time. I’ve been in the washroom for ten minutes staring blankly at myself in the mirror. I tell her I’m in a meeting and I’ll call her back later. I go back to my desk. There’s an email from detective Waters of the RCMP. I click on it.

  Hungry Hole: Chapter 14

  It was an eating machine and it owned him. Ryan had become its slave, become its hunger. The hunger coursed through his veins. It burned in his arms and legs like lactic acid. The hole was hungry again. This morning’s Girl Guide and her twelve boxes of cookies hadn’t satisfied it. It was afternoon snack time.

  As Ryan lurched down the hallway like a drug addict in search of a fix, he knocked a picture of his grandfather off the wall. Hanging it back on the nail, he stared at his grandfather’s enormous handlebar moustache and remembered the shrivelled old man he had become before he died in Saint Anthony’s Long-term Care Facility. Ryan thought of the drooling, wheelchair-bound seniors at the home. They were helpless; most were incapable of comprehensible speech. They would make perfect food.

  Ryan purchased a light green nursing uniform from a medical supply store before renting a cube van. He parked the van at the shipping-receiving door at Saint Anthony’s. He pulled out the ramp and unlocked the van’s back door. To his surprise the back door of the building was locked. He rattled the door angrily. “Nineteen eighty-four,” said a female voice from behind him.

  Ryan spun around to observe an attractive woman in white nursing attire. “Pardon?” asked Ryan.

  “Nineteen eighty-four. It’s the code for the keypad lock,” she smiled. “We don’t want to let the patients wander out accidently.”

  “Heavens no,” Ryan said. “They could hurt themselves horribly. Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it,” she said, walking on and lighting a cigarette.

  Once inside, Ryan found himself at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Catatonic and lifeless elders littered the halls. One after the other, Ryan rolled them out the back door and into the van. Once in the van, he secured the victims to their wheelchairs with plastic ties to make sure they couldn’t pound on the side of the van for help, even though he doubted they had that much energy.

  He had room for one more. In a sunroom with a few plaid couches and many large potted plants, he found a lady in a pink bathrobe and green slippers with oxygen tubes up her nose looking out a large picture window. Her nametag read Mrs. Barry. “Mrs. Barry, time to get you home for dessert,” said Ryan as he pushed her out the door.

  * * *

  The man at the medical supply store gave Ryan two thousand dollars in cash for all the wheelchairs. “You get any more, come to me first. I’ll take them off your hands.”

  “I might have another load for you this afternoon,” said Ryan. “A lot of old people just falling off these days.”

  Six months later…

 
Crawling Out of the Hole

  Sammy can now sit up and is sleeping six to seven hours straight a night. It’s truly remarkable how a few extra hours of sleep can change your life. And Sarah is back to normal. She was depressed for about a month and half. It was Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, just a snap of the fingers and she was back. She woke up one morning and told me that she was feeling much better. She described it as being in a fog. She knew she wasn’t herself, but there was nothing she could do about it.

  Detective Waters had wanted more information on Peter Cann, who’d pulled a Houdini, disappearing off the face of the earth with millions of taxpayer dollars in his pocket. We ended up having several long discussions about Peter, and actually formed a friendship. When I told him about what had happened to my laptop, he asked me what I’d done with it. I told him nothing, that I’d bought a new one with the insurance money. “But did you throw it out?” he’d asked me.

  “No, for some reason I’ve kept its plastic corpse in my closet.”

  “Bring it in. I’ll have one of our data-recovery people take a look at it.” That was two months ago. Well two weeks after I gave him the machine, he called and said that his people had recovered the complete contents of the hard drive. I had my Hungry Hole novel. Light came back into my life. The tightness of my cubicle walls receded, just a little.

  I’m making dinner, stir-frying chicken and veggies in a wok. The phone rings. “Can you grab it? I’m changing Sammy,” yells Sarah.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “Hello, is Colin MacDonald there please?” asks a voice that sounds vaguely familiar.

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Nona Jenson calling from Black Forest Editions.”

  “Yes?” I’m excited. Nervous. My heart picks up speed.

  “Kurt Jackson, Marcus’s brother, was an editor over at Cold Bird Press. Well, he quit and has taken over Black Forest. He read The Cube People himself and loved it. If it’s still available, we’d like to draw up a new contract and move ahead as soon as possible.”

  “Waaaahhhhhoooooo!!” I scream. I jump around, pumping my fists into the air. Sarah comes running into the kitchen carrying Sammy.

  “What is it?”

  “Black Forest… Marcus had a brother… He took over… They’re still going to publish it!”

  Sarah’s face breaks into a huge smile and she dances in a circle with Sammy.

  “Hello?” says Nona’s voice

  “Sorry,” I say back into the phone. “I’m so excited. Okay, yes, it’s all yours. Send me the contract. I’m ready to sign.”

  One year later…

  A Cube at My Door

  At my front door sits a box with the words Black Forest Editions printed across the top. I carry it inside and place it on the coffee table. It’s heavy. I run to the kitchen and get a steak knife. I carefully cut the tape on the box and flip open the cardboard flaps. There before my eyes, neatly packed with crumpled paper along the borders of the box, are two stacks of The Cube People.

  I reach in and delicately pull one out. I stare at the cover. There’s my name printed in black letters, Colin MacDonald. Surreal. I turn it over in my hands and read the back cover. I flip it back around. Kurt Jackson must have worked his magic over at Cold Bird, because what I love best of all is the quote that sits near the top, adorning the cover: “A tour de force.” –Maggie Woodland. I can’t wait to shove that under Barbara’s nose. I crack it open and read the inside cover. I read the dedication page: For Sarah. I flip the pages and smell their wonderful aroma of new paper.

  The front door opens and Sarah walks through carrying Sammy in her arms. Sarah bends down and puts her on the ground. Sammy sees me and comes running over yelling, “Daddyyyyyy.” I swoop her up in my arms and kiss her on the cheek.

  “How’s my Sammy Whammy?” I ask her.

  “What dat?” she asks, pointing to my book I’m still holding in my hand.

  “That’s Daddy’s book.”

  “Oh my God, it’s here?!” yells Sarah.

  She runs over and grabs the book from my hand. She looks at it, flips it over and flips it back.

  “Oh my God, Maggie Woodland, a tour de force, you’ve got to be kidding me. Are you happy with it?”

  “Over the moon.”

  “Juice, Daddy,” orders Sammy.

  “Okay little one, let’s get you some juice,” I tell her. Sarah follows us into the kitchen, reading the book along the way.

  “I’m really proud of you, Colin.”

  “Daddy, juice,” Sammy repeats impatiently.

  “Okay, pumpkin, hang on, Daddy’s getting it,” I say, putting her gently down on the floor so she can play with the fridge magnets. I move her over slightly so I can open the fridge door and grab the apple juice.

  “I’m really proud of you,” repeats Sarah.

  “Thanks baby,” I tell her, popping the can. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  The bus sways along and my eyelids are heavy. Sammy had a bad night. I ended up sleeping on the couch. Across the aisle sits a man. I recognize him from somewhere. It dawns on me: this is the man with the briefcase and the piece of Tupperware, microwavable leftovers inside, whom I had envisioned hanging himself. He looks exactly the same as when I last saw him over a year ago. I presume I look the same too, but I’m not. The bus slows to a stop and a few kids get on. I look out the window and stare at a crack in the pavement. Then I watch it disappear.

  Four months later…

  Marketing

  From the table near me, the same three faces of a former prime minister stare at me as does the bikini-clad blonde from the Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar from the rack close by. I’m sitting at a small beige table near the front of the Stanzas Bookstore in Sunshine Valley Mall. On my left is a wall of mass-market paperbacks by such authors as Stephen King, Ian Rankin, Maeve Binchy and Marian Keyes. On my right is a table with a giant black and white photo of Stanzas CEO Sophie Wiseman with a cup of coffee and a smile with an ever-so-slight seductive air, the promise of possible intercourse in front of the fire at the ski chalet. The words “Sophie’s Choice” grace the top of the photo and her orange and purple stickers adorn the covers of Canadian books such as Brian Mulroney’s autobiography. However the most coveted sticker, the one which is a licence to print money, is the sacred and revered oval of Oprah’s Book Club. They will all go on to be New York Times bestsellers, if they aren’t already.

  On the table before me are twenty copies of my book and a little cardboard sign shipped from my publisher that reads, Colin MacDonald signs his exciting debut novel The Cube People from 10 am to 2 pm @ Sunshine Valley Mall. I took the day off work so I could do this and hopefully sell a few books to colleagues cruising the mall on their lunch breaks. I sip my coffee and twirl the pen engraved with the words, With Love Always, Sarah – a present she gave me at my book launch. The store manager appears at my side. “Everything okay? You all set up here?”

  I smile back, trying to be upbeat, but I realize after sitting here for the last twenty minutes without being able to engage a single store patron in conversation that I’m no J.K. Rowling. No one is lined up in costume to buy my book. “Yep, everything seems good to me,” I tell her.

  “Good. Just let me know if you need anything. I’ll make an announcement over the PA system that you’re here.”

  “Great, I appreciate it,” I say, watching her slowly amble away. I spin my pen and stare at the Sports Illustrated calendar. Sarah and I are back on the fertility bandwagon. We’re trying for a second child. The humpathon schedule is about to resume. I’m dreading it. I think that this Sports Illustrated cover may provide some fodder for a particularly rough evening when Sammy won’t settle and we HAVE TO DO IT. I tuck the image into the back of my mind.

  An elderly woman approaches with a warm smile and asks me which way th
e washroom is. I tell her. A few minutes later a man asks me if we sell greeting cards. I tell him that I don’t know as I don’t work here. He seems quite annoyed by my response and asks what I’m doing here if I’m not working but storms off in a huff before I can answer him.

  A glance at my cellphone indicates that I’ve been sitting here for thirty minutes without even a single bite. I’m discouraged. This has been my dream for years. Here I am, sitting in the country’s biggest retail chain bookstore, and I’m having about as much impact as a light beer has on a hardcore alcoholic.

  Suddenly there’s a crackle as the store’s PA system kicks in.

  “Good morning shoppers,” echoes the voice of the store’s manager. “Today if you buy any three books you get the fourth free. Also today we have with us author Chris MacDonald signing his science fiction novel The Cube Particles. Please stop by and see Chris to get your copy today.”

  I’m fuming mad. Chris MacDonald? The Cube Particles? What the fuck? But just as quickly as I become mad, I realize that it makes no difference what my name is or what the title of my book is – I’m quite simply a nobody. Not a soul comes running over (or even slowly saunters for that matter). No one seems to take any notice that there was any announcement at all. A young attractive woman with a backpack wanders into my line of vision and I catch her gaze. “Hi, looking for some exciting reading?” I ask, trying to lure her in. However, as she comes closer, I realize she’s quite young and probably still in high school – this makes me feel lecherous, spider-like. She picks up a copy of my book and flips it over in her hand and reads the back. I find myself suddenly nervous, as if I’m being graded, judged.

  “This your first book?” she asks.

  “Yes, first one,” I say, still smiling away, feeling artificial, silly.