by Craig Birk
Chapter Two
The Cubicle
1:41 p.m.
“So I was sitting in my cubicle today, and I realized, ever since I started working, every single day of my life has been worse than the day before it. So that means that every single day that you see me, that's on the worst day of my life.”
– Peter Gibbons, Office Space
When the phone rang, Mike Bochner was sitting in his cubicle on the third floor of the nondescript beige Qualcomm headquarters building in Mira Mesa, about fifteen miles north of downtown San Diego. He was subtly picking his nose with his left hand and playing a miniature golf video game embedded into a popup Orbitz ad with his right hand. Though the ceiling of the room was eleven feet high, his cubicle was exactly six feet by six feet by six feet. He sometimes wondered, because of this, if the devil had anything to do with his confinement to corporate prison/hell. He often wished the grey “sound-proof” walls were higher because he was sick of hearing the incessant pseudo-drama from the girl in the cube next to his (a short, blonde girl from Ohio named Molly). Molly had been married for two years and was upset that her husband was getting fat. Apparently, since the wedding he spent most of his time playing X-Box online and drinking Sierra Nevada. Mike often wondered if she realized this may be related to the fact she too had gained about twenty pounds since the wedding and was so fucking annoying to begin with that putting on headphones and cyber-joining some geeks in the Midwest to help kill a bunch of space aliens (or Germans on Thursdays) was probably the best alternative the poor guy had. It puzzled Mike that, although he genuinely disliked Molly and found her utterly unattractive, he frequently fantasized about her while jerking off.
Unlike most of his co-workers, who behaved as though their cubicle was a college dorm, Mike’s cube was sparsely decorated. He had a Padres season schedule to the left of the computer and, though he considered himself to be a staunch Republican, an autographed picture of Chelsea Clinton to the right. Three-inch-tall plastic figures of Beavis and Butt-head stood at opposing ends of the base of his seventeen-inch flat-screen monitor. On the rear wall was a bookshelf whose contents resembled the software programming section at Borders.
While generally good-looking, Mike was probably about as plain as the cubicle. At about 5’11,” 185 pounds, he was not a small guy, but he could blend in pretty well just about everywhere. He had short brown hair and was not exactly balding but had what Alex annoyingly liked to describe as “major league power alleys.” He mostly wore Dockers’ pants and Banana Republic button-up shirts to work. Every time Qualcomm stock dropped more than fifteen percent, there would be increased talk of requiring people to wear ties, but thankfully, that policy had not yet become official. Mike thought that would be the thing that would finally make him quit, but he had also thought that about a lot of other things. All in all, he knew it was a pretty good job, and it paid fairly well. Because he started with the company in 2001, he missed out on the boom years of stock option rewards during the bubble and had nowhere near the kind of money many of his older co-workers, now frequently referred to as “volunteers”, had. Nearly daily, Mike fantasized about moving up to Silicon Valley to join a dot-com or some other start-up, but at the end of the day he knew he wasn’t a big risk taker and was fairly comfortable where he was. This didn’t mean he didn’t bitch a lot.
Mike snapped up the phone quickly: “Good afternoon, this is Mike Bochner.”
Alex’s response came immediately: “Whattup douche-bag! Happy Friday.”
Mike replied with neither enthusiasm nor annoyance: “Hello Alex.”
Alex: “Hey big man.”
Mike: “What’s up?”
Alex: “I am sure you are busy, so let me get right to it. I was thinking . . . going to bars tonight, getting drunk and trying to trick ourselves that we are still twenty-six doesn’t sound terribly appealing at the moment. There is more to life . . . greater things can be accomplished. And as much as I would enjoy staying home and spanking your ass all night in Madden, there is an even better option. You deserve more, and so do I. You work hard, right?”
Mike was by now used to Alex using leading questions and largely ignored them: “Sure.”
Alex: “And that is why we are going to Vegas instead.”
Mike: “Vegas? Tonight? The two of us? I don’t think so, dude.”
Alex (assuming his closing voice): “Yes. That’s right. Tonight. It will be fantastic. Make it happen for us, Mike. Let’s do it together.”
Mike missed a one-and-a-half-inch putt in the Orbitz game and cursed beneath his breath. He finished the three-hole course with a two-under-par seven, about average but nowhere near as good as his record, a very lucky four. He hit the Try Again button to resume another game.
Mike: “I don’t know, dude. I mean if we want to gamble, maybe it would be easier just to go out to the Injin casino.”
Alex: “Fuck that, the Injin casino sucks and you know it. I think you are forgetting I grew up in Reno and there is a reason I left. I am talking Vegas here. Anyway, I don’t really want to gamble that much. I want us to go party together.”
Mike: “Dude, your family lived in Reno for like ten months so save the sob story. Plus, I heard they have a new attraction where there’s a drunk Indian in a tent or a tee-pee or something out behind the bingo room. He sits on a stool and for twenty bucks you get a shot of whiskey and a pair boxing gloves and you can take a swing and hit him as hard as you can.”
Alex: “Bullshit.”
Mike: “No, I’m serious. It is called the Drunken Indian Booth.”
Alex: “Can you hit him in the face?”
Mike: “I think so, yeah.”
Alex: “Does he get a shot of whiskey also?”
Mike: “I’m not sure, I guess probably if you buy one for him. Apparently, it’s pretty hard to knock him off the stool even though he is totally wasted. I think if you do you get a free bingo card or an entry into a slot tournament or something.”
Alex: “You are so full of shit it is unbelievable.”
Mike: “No, I swear to God. I saw a thing on it on Channel Nine last night. Some of the activist groups are like, um, all pissed off about it and stuff.”
Alex (wrinkling his nose in thought): “Interesting. Is it at Viejas or Barona?”
Mike: “Viejas.”
Alex: “Hmmm. Well . . . I mean that sounds cool and all, but even so, I want to do Vegas. We can check out the drunken Injin next week.”
Mike (laughing): “Jesus, you are stupid. There is no drunken Indian booth. But anyway, I don’t know about Vegas. It sounds like a hassle and I don’t think I want to blow the cash.”
Alex: “Come on. Sack up. I don’t want to go back to work and I am bored. If I can get Roger and G-Balls to come, are you in?”
Mike: “Yeah, right. Good luck. The Rodge is for sure dead broke, and I don’t think Gary has been out of the house since, like, they had the kid.”
Alex: “I think Roger hit a four-teamer last weekend so he should be good. Anyway, let me worry about them. It will be good for you. And it will be like the good ol’ days. Come on. Just say yes.”
Mike, like most people, for some reason or another usually went along with what Alex wanted to do. “Fine, but only if everyone is in, which will never happen,” he said. Then, after a pause in which neither said anything, he asked, “Are we flying or driving?”
Alex: “I’ll drive. It will be cheaper. Can you leave work at three?”
Mike: “Yeah probably, but like I said, I am only in if everyone is in. And I am not sharing a bed with The Rodge.”
Alex: “That’s the spirit. You won’t regret it. I’ll call you back. Tell that slap-dick boss of yours you are leaving at three.”
