As I’m crossing the street back to work, I’m dizzy. I press my fingers to my neck desperately searching for a pulse. I’m having an anxiety attack. I haven’t had one in a good long while and this one takes me by surprise. Phil’s talking a mile a minute and doesn’t seem to notice I’m in distress, for which I’m glad because I’m hoping that this wave of panic will soon pass. It thankfully does as we wait for the elevator.
Hacking my way through the forest of emails, I come across a bizarre one. It’s from me, dated last week. I don’t have a smart phone, nor was I in the office, so I’m not sure how this is possible unless somebody logged onto my computer with my user ID and password – but I don’t think that is possible. Even if they did, who would send this and why?
From: Colin MacDonald
Date: 2010/04/02 PM 1:22:02 EDT
To: Colin MacDonald
Subject: Wasn’t it always going to happen this way?
Dear Colin:
Be on the lookout for a package in the mail.
Your Loving Uncle Buck
My loving Uncle Buck? I swivel in my chair, squinting into the light of Dan’s SunSquare Plus.
“Can you turn that goddamn thing off? It’s been on for the last half an hour.”
“Will do, Colin. Gotta keep fighting the depression,” he says, flicking it off.
“Listen, did you see anyone use my computer last week?” I say gruffly.
“No, no one that I know of, but as I told you I wasn’t here Thursday or Friday.”
“Wolfgang, did you see anybody using my machine last week?”
Spinning around, Wolfgang shakes his head. I look over at Carla and she shakes her head in anticipation of the question.
“Strange,” I say.
“What is it?” asks Dan.
I smell burnt toast. Am I about to have a seizure? Just as I finish saying, “Does anyone smell that?” the fire alarm sounds. Normally people wouldn’t do anything, but living in a post-Crazy-Larry world, coupled with the odour of something possibly ablaze, people start hustling toward the fire exits at a good clip. The smell of smoke is strong in the stairwell and I wonder if going down is the best idea, but the smell dissipates after passing the fourth floor. We all gather outside as the fire trucks come roaring up. Speaking with others, it turns out that there is indeed a fire on the fourth floor, and it’s widely suspected somebody named James Morgan had a toaster oven in his cubicle and somehow it overloaded the circuit, setting his cubicle afire. I mill about for thirty minutes and realize it’s almost time for me to go home anyway. I find Bruce and tell him I’m splitting, just in case somebody plans on doing a head count. I wouldn’t want anyone looking for my charred corpse.
My mother’s sitting on the couch knitting and watching The Young and the Restless when I walk in. “Shhhh, not too loud, the twins are sleeping,” she says, raising an index finger to her lips. The TV seems to be at regular listening volume, so I find her statement rather puzzling. And since when does my mother knit?
“Where are Sarah and Sammy?”
“Uh, they went to get groceries. Victor Newman is about to be poisoned.”
“That’s nice Mom. I’m going to go down to my writing room.” She nods ever so slightly, so engrossed in her show that I wonder if she really knows that I’ve come home, or whether she’s on autopilot? Have you ever driven home and not known how you got there? The brain is a marvellous thing.
As soon as I log on to my computer, I hear the cry of one of the twins over the baby monitor. Back upstairs I go. Sarah bursts through the front door saddled down with a zillion bags of groceries. Sammy has a plastic bag, too. By the strain on her little face it appears to weigh more than she does. Sarah looks haggard. As I help Sarah with the bounty, both babies wail out and my mother is screeching at the TV, “Don’t drink it, Victor! Don’t drink it, Victor. It’s poison, Victor! Poison!”
It’s about 11:30, just after I’ve fallen asleep. Sammy woke up having peed the bed, so I do the whole sheet-changing business and get back to sleep. Maybe an hour later, the twins wake up. So now it’s two in the morning and I’ve just helped Sarah give the twins a feed and I’ve changed their diapers. But for whatever reason, they’re not settling down. I don’t want them to wake up Sammy. Sarah looks as if she hasn’t slept in eons. I put the twins into their bucket car seats and take them for a little drive. They both fall back to sleep after fifteen minutes, but I continue to drive for another fifteen, just to make sure they’re out cold. Carrying them back inside, I dare not traverse the creaky stairs for fear of waking up anyone and setting off a chain reaction. Still in their car seats with blankets snuggled around each, I place them on the floor of the living room and go about fashioning myself a bed out of couch cushions and an itchy red and purple afghan. I close my eyes and I’m out.
I dream of shoving body parts down toilets and having sex with Angelina Jolie. As I’m fucking her, all six of her kids are watching. She doesn’t seem to notice; she’s just wild. Sarah and I haven’t had sex in several months. It’s difficult to maintain a regular sex life through this baby stage of our lives. We just need to ride this wave out. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
I awake as the sun is climbing out of bed. The sky looks like a copy of the afghan which I’m clutching onto for dear life because I’m freezing and have the biggest aching boner of my life. Kurt and Alex are still sleeping. The house is quiet. I grab Marvin and decide to deal with him promptly while fresh visions of Angelina’s breasts still dance in my head. I stroke quietly and quickly. Oh Angie, you bad girl. Oh you dirty, dirty girl. Oh… Alex lets out a small cry. She’s stirring. I try and stay focused. Come on Marvin, don’t let me down. “Waaaaannnn,” cries Alex, then seconds later Kurt lets out a howl. Fuck. It’s not working. I can’t finish. Pulling up my boxers, the elastic band of my underwear snaps Marvin back, choking him into wilting submission. I get them out of their car seats and bring them up to Sarah for breastfeeding. Sammy awakes and asks for juice and if she can watch her Wiggles DVD. I go about accommodating these requests. I make some breakfast for everyone and prepare to go to work on three hours of sleep.
Two months later…
Quitting Time
From: Central Services
Date: 2010/06/04 AM 8:01:00 EDT
To: Colin MacDonald
Subject: Removal of Hazardous Materials
As you are aware, all items deemed to be a possible fire hazard have been removed from the building. You were found to have an item(s) in your cubicle that was considered to be dangerous. We have removed your coffee maker from your workstation. You may pick it up at the security desk on the ground floor when exiting the building.
Thank you for your understanding and cooperation in this important matter.
—Central Services
My coffee maker has been seized. After the toaster-oven fire, there was an official sweep. A crackdown is what Barry called it. Government safety inspectors went from cubicle to cubicle, searching for whatever management deemed to be any possible fire hazard. So if you had anything – coffee warmer, electric pencil sharpener, CD player, etc. – it was gonzo. Even Dan’s SunSquare Plus was removed. I can’t say that I’m too sad about that. He’s gone to the union and is fighting to get it returned. Without my coffee maker, I’m depressed (maybe I could use a little SunSquare). The only joy I had in my cubicle has been stripped away. I log onto the Stanzas website and check how many copies of my book are at the Sunshine Valley Mall location: still four. “Hey MacDonald,” yells Dan from behind me, “you sent me two specs to review, but they’re exactly the same. Which one do you want me to review?”
“Are they exactly the same?” I fire back, realizing I must have accidently attached my document twice.
“Yeah, I looked really closely at them and they’re identical, even checked the date and time stamp on them and they�
�re the same.”
I have a missile-launcher mouth jammed with fresh cut, grade-A go-fuck-yourself sarcasm and it’s ready to fire right at Dan’s head, but what comes out instead is a polite, “Then I would just do the first one.”
“Okay, thanks buddy,” he says, happy to carry on.
I turn back to my screen, close my eyes and rub my temples. I repeat to myself, I won’t kill Dan, I won’t kill Dan, I won’t kill Dan. BEEP, chimes my machine. I have an email. I Alt-Tab over. There’s a message from Line that a package for me has arrived. As I approach Line, I spot a manila parcel sitting on her desk. The sender’s name in black marker in the upper left-hand corner reads “U. Buck” and has my previous home address. “Do I need to sign for it or anything?” I ask Line.
“No, no, just take it off my desk and have a nice day,” she says, continuing to type away without bothering to make eye contact. It’s about the same size and weight as a shoebox containing an explosive device – at least that is what my paranoid imagination surmises. How much does dynamite weigh anyway? U. Buck? Uncle Buck. What did the email say, be on the lookout for a package in the mail? I wonder if Phil is playing some sort of an elaborate practical joke. Nervously, I rip open the paper at one end and inspect the contents. There appears to be more paper, Christmas wrapping paper with little Santa Clauses on it. Written atop the present is an envelope which reads, “Open the letter and gift in a private place,” in the same black marker and handwriting. Could it be Crazy Larry? Maybe it’s a nail bomb? He wants to make sure he kills just me and nobody else. Jesus. Now I’m not sure what to do. Maybe I should go get Phil? The Santas look like the Coca-Cola Santa, a Norman Rockwell Santa. In Santa I trust. I go to the handicapped washroom and lock the door behind me. I sit down and open the letter.
Dear Colin:
First let me apologize for having deceived you. I always enjoyed our conversations and considered you a good worker and a dear friend. I took advantage of your good nature and used you to further my own gain. For this I’m terribly sorry; however, I will not apologize for the theft. Over the years, I saw so much rampant abuse of government dollars that I figured it was time for my share. Rest assured the money is going to a noble cause.
For all the inconvenience and suffering that the RCMP and/or police have put you through, please consider this gift as a small restitution for my actions. Try not to let that good conscience of yours get the better of you.
Warmest regards, Peter Cann
PS: Congratulations on the publication of The Cube People. It’s a wonderful book.
I tear into the Christmas wrapping and discover three hardback copies of Stephen King’s Nightmares and Dreamscapes. Peter and I have discussed King’s work in the past; however, I was hoping he would have sent me some money. I open the cover of the first book and sure enough, Peter has removed the guts of the book, leaving only the tiniest edge of paper. The paper’s been replaced with three stacks of one hundred dollar bills. Same for the other books. I do a quick count and there is approximately $300,000. “Holy shit,” I whisper. I rewrap the books, bring them to my desk and put them in my backpack. I pretend to do work, but my mind is in fantasy land, sipping tropical drinks with little umbrellas underneath palm trees on the beach. Should I give the money to the RCMP? Maybe I should just give them the note and copies of another book, and keep the money? This may be my only chance to get out of this place. My phone rings. “Hello,” I say.
“Colin?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Sarah.”
“Yes, hi, how are you?”
“Are you okay, you sound strange?”
“No, just busy here at work.”
“Can you pick up milk on the way home?”
“Sure thing.” After I get off the phone, I’m hot and my face feels flushed. I can hear Dan cutting his toenails. I pick up my knapsack and toss in my Shaggy and Scooby Doo action figures, my picture of Sarah and the kids, and a Pollockesque drawing that Sammy has done for me. As I pass by the handicapped washroom, I stop. I go in and lock the door. I turn off the water to the tank and flush the toilet, emptying the tank dry. I remove the tank’s lid. While balancing with one foot on the toilet seat, I use my other to kick the plastic innards of the tank into smithereens. As I replace the lid, I’m struck by a sense of levity. All my flesh is coursing with life and when I breathe, I have new lungs. In a state of euphoria, I leave the washroom and make my way down the corridor.
There’s Barry, sitting at his desk, warming himself by the glow of his monitor. Today he’s wearing a tie with yellow rubber ducks on it. “Barry,” I say, leaning into his office, hanging on the doorframe.
He looks up smiling, “Yes, Colin, what can I do for you?”
“I quit.”
“Oh,” he says, looking confused, like a waiter has brought him the wrong food.
“I’ve got to go now, but I’ll be in touch in the next few days.” I walk away and half-expect him to chase me down the hall, begging me to stay, but he doesn’t. As I step on the elevator, a man and woman are already on, engaged in a conversation about applying for a competition. The woman seems annoyed by his banal banter and I wouldn’t be surprised if she suddenly punched him in the nose. Within the thirty seconds it takes me to walk to the elevator, I’ve become an outsider. These are not my people anymore. I never have to make small talk again; I never need to be annoyed. My days in the cube are officially over.
BING. The elevator doors open. I’m free.
Hungry Hole: Chapter 21
Ryan screamed as he fell. The air rushed around him. His body was tense, bracing itself for the impact that he assumed would come at any second. No impact came. He kept twirling and twisting in the darkness. He could no longer see the light coming from his basement’s naked bulbs. There was just darkness and the whistling of wind in his ears. He expected the tentacle to grab him, but it didn’t. Just falling, darkness. After a while, his body relaxed. He began to play in the air, twisting this way and that, rolling, flipping. The sound of the rushing air seemed to dissipate. Ryan was floating in space.
A flash of light whizzed by. Then another. Then another. They kept coming, but this succession of comet streaks eventually began to slow. They were windows. He tried to see what was inside, but he couldn’t make it out. They continued to slow. He saw faces. People. Office workers. The windows slowed like an elevator. Ryan stood in a glass elevator. It came to a stop. The doors opened.
“Ryan, this is your floor,” said the blonde woman to his left. He didn’t understand what was happening. He recognized her. This was his old office building. He stepped out into the hallway. People rushed about him. He walked down the hall and through his company’s glass door. As he walked, people kept tapping him on the shoulder, saying things like “Good luck,” and “We’re going to miss you around here.” He continued to walk to his cubicle and sat down on his chair. Had he been dreaming? He touched the desk. He tapped on it. Solid. Real. What had he been thinking about? He couldn’t remember. The phone rang. He picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Hi honey, how was your goodbye lunch?”
“Gillian?”
“Yeah silly, it’s me. How was your goodbye lunch?”
“Goodbye lunch?”
“Listen, I’m picking you up right after work at four and we’re going straight over to look at the house with the real-estate agent, okay?”
“Okay,” Ryan said.
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
* * *
When Ryan climbed into the car, he looked at Gillian as if she were a ghost. He reached over and touched her face.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Just making sure you’re real.”
“Did you smoke dope at lunch?”
“No.”
She looked at him. Ryan smiled ba
ck. “You sure?” she asked.
“Positive. Let’s go.”
* * *
The house seemed so familiar to Ryan, like a childhood home.
“So, Gillian here tells me that you quit your office job to become a writer. Quite a big move. That’s a gutsy thing to do. What kind of stuff do you write?” asked the agent.
“I write horror books,” said Ryan.
“Really, just like Stephen King?”
“Just like Stephen King,” said Ryan, wandering down the hall. He came to a door. He opened it. There were steps leading down.
“It’s a little creepy, but I’m sure a writer like yourself will love it,” said the agent from behind him.
Ryan flicked on the light and managed to hit his head on a cross beam on the way down. “You okay?” asked the agent.
“I’m okay,” assured Ryan, rubbing his forehead.
Two bare light bulbs illuminated old wooden shelves atop flaking white walls. Behind the paint, sporadically exposed, was the rust-coloured underbelly of the foundation. It looked like the skin of a scab-ridden burn victim. Gillian came down the stairs. “Jesus, an Amityville-Horror-serial-killer-pit-of-hell down here,” she said.
“Great for cold storage,” said the agent.
“You could put your pickles and wine down here,” said Ryan. As he said that, something flashed in front of his eyes.
“You okay honey?” Gillian asked.
“No, I mean yes, I think I’m just having a déjà vu,” said Ryan.
The Cube People Page 18
