The Cube People

by Christian McPherson

  “Wow, cool. I want to write.”

  “Yeah? Cool.”

  “Did it take you long to write?”

  “A couple of years, but it took much longer to get it published.”

  “I bet,” she says, bobbling the book in her hands before placing it back on the table. “Sorry, but I’m a student, can’t really afford it. I’m just in here to buy a textbook. Good luck though.”

  “Thanks, no worries.”

  I’m oddly both pleased and deflated. I drain back my coffee and wish I had a cigarette, not that I would be allowed to smoke it in here anyway. Maybe if I were Hunter S. Thompson? I bet they’d let J.K. Rowling smoke in here. Shit, they’d let her smoke whatever she damn well wanted. I bet they’d be bringing her giant wizard pipes packed to the brim with muggle marijuana if she were signing her book here. Over the next half an hour, a series of middle-aged women come by and tell me that although they think it’s wonderful that I managed to get published, they don’t read science fiction.

  A tall, skinny man with long, thin hair, a ratty army jacket and thick body odour stops to tell me that he’s working on a novel. I make the mistake of asking him what it’s about. He blathers on for twenty minutes about a convoluted spy thriller that involves fifteen main characters and endless subplots. He finally leaves, telling me that he doesn’t want to give too much away, in case I try to steal his material.

  A stocky man, balding, his shirt open down to mid-chest, exposing a gold chain with a crucified Jesus resting in a thick mat of black chest hair, approaches my table. He gives me the impression of a bouncer or mechanic, a guy who works out at the gym, who’s terribly strong, but drinks far too much beer and is constantly battling his gut. Someone who watches American football on Sunday with a plate of chicken wings after washing his sports car. Someone who’s terribly illiterate.

  “Hey,” he says. “You write this book?”

  Duh. Hello there, Mr. Dumbass? “Yep, I sure did.”

  He picks it up and inspects it. “You a local guy?”

  “Born and raised here. I’m local produce,” I tell him, smiling.

  “Yeah, I’ve read a lot of Philip K. Dick, and Vonnegut, and I read Dune and some of Arthur C. Clarke’s stuff, but I’m more into Elmore Leonard and Carl Hiaasen, you know, crime stuff like that. But Jon Krakauer, admire his stuff too.”

  I’m speechless. I marvel at how profoundly wrong I can still be about the people around me. In all the years that I’ve been walking around this earth of ours, I still, it seems, don’t have a clue.

  “Well if you enjoy Philip K. Dick, I’m sure you’ll enjoy this.”

  “I’m sure I will,” he says, smiling. “Will you sign it for me?”

  “Um, sure, of course,” I say, taking the book from him. “Who’s this going to?”

  “Make it out to Don.”

  For Don:

  May this first impression be a good one.

  Many thanks, Colin MacDonald

  After he leaves, I see him in line at the cash with my book in his hand. I just sold my first book to someone I didn’t know, someone who wasn’t at my book launch. I couldn’t be happier.

  Don’s sale triggers a flurry. My confidence grows with each patron who walks by my table. A few of my colleagues from work swing by as they said they would and buy a few copies. Phil turns up at noon bringing me a shawarma for lunch and buys another copy for his mom (he bought three at my book launch). He asks me if I’m ready for the weekend. He’s getting married to Zoe in Montreal, where most of her family live. I’m the best man. It dawns on me that I still need to write a speech. Sarah calls on my cell to check on how things are going and reminds me that tonight we begin our fertility cycle. As I hang up, I see Barry’s pudgy little form skipping toward me. His Donald Duck tie and government ID tag are swishing back and forth in windshield-wiper style across his tummy.

  “So here you are Colin. Almost forgot about your little shindig until I ran into Jack from the floor with a copy of your book. So, how goes sales? You going to be quitting any time soon?” asks Barry, laughing. Barry has a way of crawling under my skin like nobody else I know.

  “I don’t think any time soon.”

  “Well, Shakespeare,” he says. The hairs on my neck stand on end. “Next week, I’ve got someone new joining your team. His name is Wolfgang and he’ll be replacing Jackie. I need him to keep the handicapped washroom quota filled, so to speak.”

  “Is he also blind?” I ask.

  “He has ADD,” Barry responds cheerfully.

  “What?” comes flying out of my mouth. For a split second I think Barry is pulling my leg, but then I realize this is Barry. He’s not capable of such subtle and dark humour.

  “Attention deficit disorder,” explains Barry. “Wolfgang has a very hard time focusing on a task for more than a few moments. He loses his train of thought. ADD is a very serious disorder. I was hoping you would mentor him.”

  “Why in God’s name does someone with ADD need a handicapped washroom?”

  “He doesn’t… but he’s disabled according to the guidelines set out by the Ministry, and we can’t really discriminate amongst the disabled now, can we?”

  “I guess not,” I say, hoping my body language isn’t somehow betraying me.

  “Okay, okay,” says Barry, picking up a book. “I guess I better take one of these, Mr. Steinbeck. Throw your X in it,” he orders, tossing the book to me.

  To Barry:

  The greatest manager that MRC has ever known.

  Warm regards, Ernest Hemingway

  He waddles to the cash, chuckling at my inscription.

  The Wedding

  On the suggestion of Zoe’s parents, we booked a little B&B in Old Montreal down by the port close to the church where the ceremony will be held. It’s a three-storey climb in an extremely narrow stairwell to our room and I lug an unwieldy stroller, a portable crib, my suit and two suitcases – though we’re only staying one night. I make four trips and by the last one, I’m sweating up a storm. I tell Sarah I need to have a shower. The room has its own bathroom, but it’s the smallest bathroom I’ve ever seen. After I get out, Sarah gets in (only room for one at a time) and sets off on an elaborate makeup ritual that she reserves just for special occasions. I get Sammy changed into her fancy dress. She’s going to be two next week. Here’s my little baby now walking and talking and I know it will soon be, “Dad, can I borrow the keys to the car?” My life seems to be accelerating. I thought publishing my book was somehow going to change my life. However, I’m still a nobody author who works for the government. I just don’t know how I can fill in 822 forms and make banal pleasantries in the office coffee room for the next twenty years.

  Normally on Saturday mornings I take Sammy to a parent and child sing-and-dance music program that’s supposed to be good for developing minds. I do it to give Sarah a break, let her sleep in. There are twelve kids in the class, each with an accompanying parent. Eighty percent are dads. The reason for so many dads I believe is Katia, the former Russian ballet dancer turned dance instructor. Usually she prances around in a black unitard, often stretching before class. Most of the dads seem to arrive early to watch. Although I’m missing Katia’s flexibility show this week, I’m very happy to have the day off from class. Dancing around with a scarf like a magic fairy for forty-five minutes is enough to make you right mental.

  Sammy and I are playing with her stuffed bear, Mr. Honey, who’s on a treacherous spelunking expedition in the closet after a harrowing trip to the top of Pillow Mountain, when Sarah finally emerges eons later from the bathroom, her makeup looking rather clownish. I’ve never understood why she applies so much lacquer and goo to her beautiful face on these festive occasions. “How do I look?” Sarah asks.

  “You look beautiful, Mommy,” Sammy says.

  Sarah and I look at
each other and share this moment which is heartbreakingly sweet because it is the first time Sammy has ever said that. “Oh, thank you, baby,” says Sarah, picking up Sammy and swinging her around. “Don’t you look just adorable?”

  I marvel at them.

  “And what do you think?” Sarah asks me.

  “Like Sammy said, you look beautiful,” I lie. She looks like a Tammy Faye Baker cross-dresser. Her eyelashes appear to have been dipped in motor oil.

  We make our way to the church where we find Phil and his groomsmen, Roy and Ross. Phil looks fantastic, beaming. We go about doing the multiple introductions to Phil and Zoe’s respective families. Zoe’s mother is French-Canadian and her father is Mexican, so the bride’s side of the church is not big enough to hold them all.

  Halfway through the ceremony, Sammy throws a fit and comes running up to me saying she needs her daddy. I hold her in my arms for the duration and by the time it’s done, I’m sweating something fierce. I could use a drink. Sarah takes Sammy for a walk while I do the obligatory wedding photos. The reception and dinner are at Zoe’s uncle’s restaurant, a Mexican place. On arriving, we’re greeted by a waiter carrying a tray of tall glasses of cold sangria. I snag one and greedily choke it down. The food and drink come at us, tidal wave after tidal wave. Polishing off my third drink to a mariachi serenade of “La Cucaracha,” Sarah tells me to ease off the drink because tonight is an important night in our fertility schedule.

  “But baby, this is Phil’s wedding and I’m the best man,” I plead with her.

  “I still need you to function.”

  “Don’t worry baby, I’ll be a rock.”

  At 10 p.m., after much drink, food, speeches and dancing, Sarah takes Sammy, who is very overdue for sleep, back to the B&B. I stay and have a cigar and a gold tequila with Zoe’s father. At 11:00, I realize I’d better get going. I make the rounds of the place, hugging strangers goodbye, many of them telling me how funny my speech was. Both Phil and Zoe give me a big warm hug. I’m lightheaded, giddy. Drunk, but not too drunk. And the thought of sex right now sends a wave of heat to my groin. Sarah baby, here I come.

  To my surprise, the door of the B&B is locked. I ring the buzzer and wait. Nothing. I ring it again. Nothing. I have to take a piss. I knock and yell, “Helloooo!” Then through the glass square of the door, I see the little old man who runs the place coming down the hall. He lets me in and mumbles something in French that I don’t understand, but assume to be that I don’t need to yell, that people are sleeping.

  “Yestankyougoodnigh,” slurs from my mouth as I march up the stairs, thoughts of intercourse filling my mind. On the third set of steps leading to my door, I trip, falling up the stairs. Sarah emerges in the stairwell shushing me. “For God’s sakes, be quiet, I just got her down twenty minutes ago. She was a nightmare. I had to rub her back to sleep. She’s in our bed.”

  “Do you want me to transfer her?” I ask, rising to my feet.

  “And risk waking her up? Hell no.”

  “What about love-making?”

  “We’ll do it in the bathroom,” she says with an enthusiastic we-can-conquer-any-tough-problem zeal echoing in her voice.

  “Jesus baby, I don’t know, it’s pretty tight in there.”

  Listening to Sammy softly wheezing on the bed, Sarah and I quietly disrobe in the bedroom like giddy high school kids. My cock is suddenly, to my delight and surprise, an iron bar. I follow Sarah into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. The wall is on an angle because we’re in the attic of this old building and I can only stand fully upright if I’m in front of the sink or in the single-person shower. My cock is poking Sarah in her lower back. “I don’t think this is going to work,” I say.

  “How about I sit on the toilet and put my legs up on the wall like this?” she suggests, getting into position.

  I furrow my brow. Is this even possible? There’s a tiny sink, the toilet next to it, and a shower with a door that only opens inwards because there’s no space. In front of the toilet, there’s a small window with an accompanying eight-inch ledge. Sarah’s feet straddle either side of the window. I pull her one leg up as if it were a drawbridge and scoot in. With my butt resting on the window sill, ass cheeks pressed up against the window so I’m mooning the world, I reach over Sarah and grab hold of the toilet tank for support. She inches forward and we have contact. Despite being in this slightly uncomfortable sex pretzel, I’m loving it. There’s something about the angle of penetration that seems to be working for both of us. Good news is I know that I’ll be able to cum; bad news is I know it’s going to be a while.

  Twenty minutes later…

  “My back’s getting sore, can you hurry up?” Sarah groans.

  I’ve talked about determinism before. What we think about and how we control that thinking is almost random at times for me. For whatever reason, maybe because my brain deems this to be a sexual emergency, I involuntarily flash to the bikini-clad sandy blonde from the cover of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar that I stared at for four hours while I did my book signing. But then I think about Brian Mulroney. God almighty. My brain is doing a gestalt switch, back and forth between bikini blonde and Mulroney. I ask myself why but nothing comes, including Marvin.

  “Colin, I love it, but my back is killing me. I’m going to have to stop soon,” Sarah says with pain in her voice. I hear hooting and hollering from the street below and suspect that someone has noticed, as we called it in university when we pushed our bare asses against a dormitory window, the pressed ham. I soldier on. Mulroney, bikini, Mulroney, bikini, Mulroney, bikini, Mulroney, bikini… oh God. It’s a gusher. I cum to an image of Mulroney’s head on the body of one of the most beautiful women in the world.

  I look out the window and sure enough there are three young men cheering, clapping, drinking. One of them gives me the thumbs up, while another spins around and drops his pants exposing his white buttocks to me. I smile and wave in acknowledgement of their approval. Moving into the bedroom, I note Sarah lying on the floor with her feet against the door, making sure that all of my drunken sperm stay deep inside her. I gingerly transfer Sammy to her portable crib, managing (thank heavens) not to wake her.

  I lie down and I let sleep pull me deep into its loving arms.

  Wolfgang AmADDeus

  From: #The Refrigerator Committee

  Date: 2009/04/20 AM 6:47:01 EDT

  To: #FLOOR

  Subject: The Abuse of “No Expiry”

  To All Fifth-floor Employees:

  This is a reminder that the refrigerator on this floor is for everyone to share. As everyone is well aware, every Friday afternoon a member of the Refrigerator Committee cleans out the fridge. Any food items that are not clearly marked with a name and an expiration date are tossed out in the trash. Some people have condiments in the fridge that have been labelled “no expiry.” The “no expiry” tag was intended for such things as mustard and hot sauce. However, since the “no expiry” tag has come into effect, there has been rampant abuse. One Refrigerator Committee member found a container of yogourt that had turned into a mossy green forest because someone had marked “no expiry” across its lid. Clearly this kind of abuse must end. Yogourt does go bad. Even ketchup goes bad.

  From this Friday forward, ALL FOOD INCLUDING CONDIMENTS MUST HAVE AN EXPIRY DATE. Failure to comply will result in the aforementioned disposal.

  Thank you in advance for your cooperation.

  –The Refrigerator Committee

  Attached to the email is a Far Side cartoon, “When potato salad goes bad.” If this isn’t silly enough, Barry has sent out a floor-wide email about mandatory participation in next month’s Earth Day campaign: Operation Spring Clean. We’re all going to wander around outside the building and pick up garbage. Lovely. I must say, I’d rather collect trash than sit in here and die another day. I wonder how poor Carla’s goin
g to handle this. Bruce has sent me an email stating that Wolfgang will be reporting to work today. There had been a problem with his security clearance, so his start date had been delayed for three weeks.

  Opening Internet Explorer, I navigate to the Stanzas website where I can check to see how many copies of The Cube People are sitting at the Sunshine Valley Mall location. Still five. No sales in three weeks. I Google myself hoping to find a review of my book. Nothing new. I check the weather and the CBC headlines. After reading a story about a dog that called 911 to save his owner, I log into the mainframe to start my day’s work just as Carla comes in and takes several big glugs of hand sanitizer.

  At 10:30, Bruce lightly raps his knuckles on my desk. “Hi, Colin, finally he’s here. Let me introduce you to Wolfgang Peters, ta dah!” Bruce says, holding his hands out magician style.

  Standing before me is a slightly fatter version of a young Peter Falk wearing a white shirt with a red plaid vest and a thin black tie. He looks as if he should be a bartender in Scotland. When I shake his hand, it’s wet and clammy, toadish. Bruce asks me to run him through the log-in procedure and get him set up, make sure he has all the accesses he needs to get going.

  Wolfgang and I sit down at his desk, Jackie’s old spot, and surprisingly manage to log in on our first attempt. Thirty minutes in, as I’m explaining one of our reporting log procedures, Wolfgang’s expression goes blank and he tilts his head up toward the ceiling. I look up to where he’s looking and see nothing but office ceiling tiles. I look back at him. He’s frozen, a statue.

  “Wolfgang?” Nothing. “Wolfgang?” I repeat, waving my hand in front of his face. This seems to slightly arouse him back into a semi-conscious state.

  “Hmmm yes,” he says dreamily. I assume here that Wolfgang is having an ADD moment. I’m not sure what I should do. How long will his state (for a lack of a better word) last? I have no idea. Although he’s no longer staring at the ceiling, he doesn’t seem to be fully back with me as I continue to explain the log. It’s only a quarter after eleven, but I suggest we break for an early lunch.