by Jeff Strand
CYCLOPS ROAD
By Jeff Strand
Cyclops Road copyright 2016 by Jeff Strand
Cover design by Lynne Hansen http://www.LynneHansen.com
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author.
For more information about the author, visit http://www.JeffStrand.com
PROLOGUE
We're halfway up the first hill when I suddenly decide that roller coasters are better suited for guys twenty years younger. Of course Becky, fearless, is laughing and has her arms in the air.
I make a joke about how amusement park ride inspection standards have declined over the years, and Becky makes a joke about having seen somebody walk away with a piece of track that she hopes wasn't important. I explain that, due to rising material costs, roller coaster designers have started using a less durable type of steel, which isn't dangerous as long as we don't move around too much, and Becky explains that there are a lot of sinkholes in the area, which is unlikely to be problematic but which should be noted just for the sake of being an informed rider.
I mention, casually, that if you smack into a bird while you're hurtling down the first hill, the impact can be so great that the bird's beak will go all the way through your skull and pop out the other side. Becky acknowledges the truth of this statement. In fact, she explains, there was a recent incident where an entire pelican went through somebody's skull while they were going down the hill of a roller coaster—not this one, don't be alarmed—and the bird flew away as if nothing happened. The rider, sadly, did not survive. It was a pretty memorable way to go, though.
This isn't a very popular theme park, and the other riders are four rows back, so nobody else can hear what we're saying. This is important to us. My wife and I bonded over a shared dislike of inconsiderate people.
And now we're almost over the hill, and, wow, two hundred feet is higher up than I remember. Immediately after we get off the ride, I'll probably hurry into the men's room to discreetly dry heave, but for now, I'm laughing and having a crazy amount of fun.
* * *
We're seeing Rent for the third time. The first time I saw it, I was forced to gaze deep into my soul and admit that, yes, I like Broadway musicals. Sure, I can't help but think that it wouldn't kill some of these characters to get jobs, but the music is unbelievably good and will be happily stuck in my brain for days afterward.
I didn't share this secret with Becky for a while. If I confessed that I enjoyed musicals, I'd risk losing the relationship credits I received for being dragged to them. Tragically, she caught me bobbing my head during Cabaret, and I was busted.
Still can't get into ballet, though.
Becky is coughing a lot, but she's careful to do it only during the loud parts. Fortunately, Rent is a high-energy show, so she doesn't have to hold in the coughs for very long. It's a good thing she doesn't enjoy somber, quiet theater.
Did I mention we got the tickets for free? Radio contest. Seeing a show for the third time, even a beloved one, seemed too frivolous, but somebody's knowledge of '90s grunge music came in rather handy. Third row center. Suck it, everybody whose knowledge of '90s grunge music and ability to be the ninth caller to a radio station is inferior to my own!
* * *
I am a cheese melting genius.
Becky is an outstanding cook. Even if she were a sullen, unpleasant smelling, penis-severing madwoman, I probably still would have asked her to marry me after the first night she made spaghetti. I often have impure thoughts about her chicken Parmesan.
I do all of the cooking now, which means a lot of Hamburger Helper and pre-packaged salads, but tonight she was actually hungry, so for a special treat I decided to go with fondue. I'm not saying that I made the fondue from scratch. I am saying that I added garlic and other seasonings to the cheese, and it is mind-bogglingly delicious.
Becky dips another piece of bread into the cheese and pops it into her mouth. "This is sooooo good."
I jab a slice of granny smith apple on my fondue fork and dunk it, swirling the apple to ensure full cheese coverage. "We should have this every night."
Becky grins. "I'd be eight hundred pounds."
"I wouldn't mind." She's a long way from being overweight these days. "I'd give you sponge baths every morning. We could knock out that wall so you could leave the house when you wanted."
"We'd have to rent a crane to move me."
"Well, how much is a crane these days? It can't be that much."
"I think it is, actually."
"Okay, so if we only had fondue six times a week, you'd be, what, seven hundred pounds? I'm sure you could walk by yourself then."
Becky nods and stabs another piece of bread. "Deal. Damn, this is good."
Heh heh. She doesn't even know that I've got chocolate and strawberries for dessert.
* * *
We couldn't have asked for better weather. If I had completed a weather request checklist and e-mailed it to God, we wouldn't have gotten anything more perfect. Getting caught in a rainstorm is all romantic and stuff, but I much prefer sunshine, clear skies, and seventy-two degrees.
Perfect weather on a day that Becky is feeling up to leaving the house. Hell yeah!
"I'm even having a good hair day," Becky jokes, patting her bare scalp.
The park ranger was right: the trail is completely wheelchair accessible. We're not even inconveniencing the other people. It's so smooth that Becky could sleep on the way back to the car, and she probably will.
And yes, we are capable of appreciating nature without a constant stream of chatter. I just push her along, quietly enjoying the trail and Becky's happiness.
* * *
I'm not going to lie. When we play Crazy Eights, it brings out a level of competitive ferocity in Becky that would cause your average coach in the Super Bowl to run yipping back to his mommy.
It doesn't even matter that I have to hold the cards for both of us. She can tap the card that she wants to play, no problem, and though her trash talking is just a whisper, I can see in her eyes that the outcome of this game is more important than any nuclear weapons treaty negotiation.
I was tempted to let her win, since this could be our last game, but no. If she thought for one second that I wasn't playing at the height of my Crazy Eights abilities, I'd be floating down that tunnel toward a white light ahead of her.
I play a six of clubs.
Becky only mouths the word "shit," out of respect for Ellen in the next bed, who does not appreciate cursing.
I show her the top card from the draw pile. She mouths "shit" three more times before she can play a six of hearts.
I don't have any sixes or any hearts. I practically have to draw the entire frickin' deck to get one. I know that my devastating loss is imminent.
* * *
As I flip through the channels, I see that our favorite movie is on. There's only twenty minutes left and it's edited for television, but still, it's A Fish Called Wanda, and I hold her hand while we laugh our butts off. Technically, Becky just smiles, but I laugh enough to successfully detach each butt.
Becky asks me to turn off the TV when it's over, because this way it can be the last movie she ever saw.
It doesn't quite work out that way. She actually dies two days later while Ellen is watching Miss Congeniality 2. But I choose to remember the fun we had watching A Fish Called Wanda, and these are my memories, so I can pick whichever ones I wa
nt.
CHAPTER ONE
I'm sitting at my desk, trying to decide if I'm going to tell my boss to go to hell.
I probably won't. I guess he's not the most horrible guy in the world. Company policy said that my three days of bereavement could be extended to five days with manager approval, and he gave the approval. Actually, everybody was nice when I came back a week ago. Flowers, hugs, and sincere sounding recitations of "I'm sorry."
But I've despised Dirk for years, and my job for even longer. Part of me says, hey, your wife just died—maybe now isn't the best time to be removing other elements of stability from your life. Another part says, you've been putting up with that smirking weasel for way too long. If you're suddenly motivated to get out of this place, even if it's only because you're emotionally fragile, then go for it.
I'm not sure which part is right. The idea of quitting my job, selling my house, and leaving Florida has a lot of appeal. I don't necessarily want to move up to a land of glaciers, but I'm over this swampy bug-filled southern heat. Somewhere halfway up the country would be nice. Get a fresh start. Becky and I were together for nineteen years (well, we would have been, if she'd made it another month) and lived in Tampa the whole time, but there aren't any ties here that I can't sever.
I shouldn't be impulsive. I should start selling my stuff. Put my home on the market. Find a new job in a new city. Then tell Dirk to go to hell.
The logical part of my brain makes a good point. I've got a little bit of money, but not nearly enough to just uproot myself at the age of forty-four and go off in search of an unknown future. I did have several months where I could've worked out the details of this future, but my post-Becky existence wasn't something I wanted to deal with before now.
I'll wait to quit my job.
And when I do quit, it will be in a polite manner, with no grievances aired and the appropriate two weeks' notice.
Suddenly Dirk is at my cubicle. "Evan. My office." He leaves without waiting for acknowledgment.
As my boss, he is well within his rights to have the attitude that I should drop everything to meet with him. But I've got a phone to my ear. He doesn't know that I'm on hold. What if I was listening to a customer?
I hang up and walk into his office, where he's already sitting behind his desk. He motions for me to sit down. After I'm uncomfortably seated, he looks at me with his rat-face and smiles.
Some people were born with a rat-face. It's not their fault. They're perfectly nice people, yet nature gave them a face that looks mean and untrustworthy. Dirk, on the other hand, has a perfectly normal, even handsome face that he contorts into something rat-like. I'm sure he doesn't do it on purpose. When he's being condescending, which is often, his awful face makes it even worse.
Dirk is ten years younger than me. Having a younger boss doesn't bother me at all, but Dirk thinks it does, so he brings it up as often as possible. He's a master of the art of being a prick without ever crossing the line into a Human Resources violation.
"How're you holding up?" he asks, in such a way that I know he didn't call me in here to find out how I'm coping with my wife's death.
"Fine. Just trying to keep busy."
He nods. "Busy is good. Got to keep your mind occupied."
"Yeah."
"So. The spreadsheet you sent this morning."
"Yes?"
He swivels his computer monitor around. "See this?" He taps the monitor with his index finger. "I can zoom in if it's too small."
"I can see it."
"Then you see the problem, right?"
"Ah, okay. Sorry about that."
"Tell me what you think the problem is. Just want to make sure we're on the same page."
"Extra zero. Sorry."
He swivels the monitor back to its original position. "I know it's only a tiny little zero, but it does mean the difference between forty-nine thousand dollars and four hundred and ninety thousand dollars. That's a discrepancy of four hundred and forty-one thousand dollars."
I know for a fact that Dirk can't subtract those numbers in his head. He did the math before I got here.
"I understand," I tell him. "Again, I'm sorry."
"I get that you're distracted. That's completely reasonable. I just don't think I'd be a very effective manager if I let this slide, right?"
I wonder if my desire to grab him by the hair and bash his face against his desk until he has no teeth left is an overreaction.
I think, considering the circumstances, that one typo in three hundred lines is actually pretty good. I don't want to lose my temper. Don't want to do anything I'll regret. His job is to ensure a high standard of quality amongst his employees. I did indeed add an extra zero that should not have been there.
Of course, this is an internal report. Nobody is ever going to see it but Dirk. I can't help but believe that a man who wasn't pure evil would have just corrected the error and not called a new widower into his office.
Am I trying to use Becky's death to excuse my mistakes? I don't want to be that guy. I want to take responsibility for my own actions. But, thinking about this calmly and rationally, it is my calm and rational opinion that he is being an unbelievable dickhead.
That's fine. I'll quit later. I'm not going to let him push me over the edge.
"Anyway, no big deal," Dirk says. "Just send me a revised one when you get back to your desk."
Okay, I'm over the edge now.
"No disrespect," I say, "but you could delete the extra zero yourself right now, couldn't you? I mean, the cursor is right there."
"I could, but I'm not the one who put it in there, now am I, Evan?"
I don't feel the true white-hot rage until he gets to "now am I, Evan?" He's spoken to me like this many times before, and I shouldn't expect him to treat me any differently now, but at the moment, I'm really not in the mood for this.
I sit on my hands to ensure that I don't punch him.
"You condescending little creep," I say, leaning forward.
"Excuse me?"
"I'm not going to be treated this way by a wretched, wormy, arrogant jerk." Neither "wretched" nor "wormy" were my original word choices, but I made a last-instant decision to avoid profanity.
"I don't much care for your tone," Dirk informs me.
"I don't much care for your—" I start to say "rat-face," but, no, I should take the higher road and focus on his personality, not his physical appearance. "—tone, either."
Wow. That was weak.
"Clearly you returned to the office too soon. I'm going to ignore the quality of your work and this outburst, but I'll need you to behave like a professional."
"Screw you."
"What?"
"Seriously, Dirk, screw you. I'm done taking crap from a pathetic, snotty, unintelligent, demeaning, reprehensible..." I trail off. I'm really terrible at this kind of conversation.
"Do I need to call security?"
"Only if you can't handle somebody telling you what a cretin you are. An idiotic cretin." Idiotic cretin? Who the hell says that? What's the matter with me?
"You realize that you're fired, right?"
"Indeed I do."
"Then please leave my office and box up your personal belongings. I'll arrange for a security guard to escort you out of the building."
"Fine, you..." My mind goes blank. I can't think of a single devastating thing to call him. I'm going to be fired without getting to unleash a decent tirade. My frustration level is off the charts. If I'm going to burn this bridge, I want to obliterate him with my words, not have him remember me for my inept babbling.
Nope. I've got nothing. This is the worst job-quit ever.
I desperately want to punch him.
Not desperately enough to face assault charges, though. That would add an extra level of pure suck to this experience that I'm not ready to handle.
I want to give him a steel-eyed gaze, but he's looking at the phone that he has now picked up, so I stand up and walk out of his office, pretend
ing that I've retained my dignity. I try to slam the door behind me, but it's one of those doors that has a damper to control the speed at which it closes, so it basically just swings most of the way shut and denies me the satisfaction of a loud bang. It also kind of hurts my arm.
As I stride toward my cubicle, a lengthy anti-Dirk rant appears in my head, fully formed. Of course.
I walk past my cubicle and keep going. I don't care about my personal possessions. There's nothing in this hellhole that I want.
By the time the elevator has reached the ground floor, I can think of at least nine things I want, including a framed picture of Becky. I'll have to come back and get it later. I'm sure that won't be awkward.
At least I didn't start sobbing.
I walk out of the building. Okay, well, I'm free of my employment now. Aside from the horrified thoughts of "What the hell have I done?" that are exploding through my mind, and being positively sick to my stomach, and the urge to curl up into the fetal position and twitch, I'm feeling pretty good.
I double over and throw up onto the grass.
I should've thrown up on Dirk's car. Nobody could prove that I did it on purpose.
I'm sure I can manage another round of spewing, but his car is in the opposite direction from mine and it's not worth it. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and walk to my own car.
What the hell have I done? What the hell have I done? What the hell have I done?
He'll take me back, right? He has to. You can't fire somebody for misconduct while they're mourning the death of a spouse. Company policy would never allow that. And when I replay the whole conversation in my mind, as painful as that is, I don't think Dirk actually told me that I was fired. It was very strongly implied, but "You know you're fired, right?" isn't the same thing as "You're fired." I may be okay.
No. I'm not going back. I should have done this a long time ago. Perhaps after one of the eight hundred times that Becky told me I should look for a new job.
