by Shock Totem
“She was refilling the toner in the copier outside of the men’s washroom.”
“Tom,” Mr. Ostermeyer said again, calmly. He opened his palms toward the ceiling and gave a half smile. In his office, behind his platinum Mont Blanc pen set, in front of his framed MBA, it gave the impression he was open to working together on new ideas. Against the scrubbed egg-shell-white tile of the break room, it made him look as if he was about to apologize for farting. “Joe Pennington—”
“And that’s another thing!” Tom yelled, standing up again. “What the hell is it with everyone giving normal names to those people?”
Franklin Moss from Orders & Shipping, his back to them making a fresh pot of coffee, sucked air in through his teeth—sssss—and then went ooooh as if he had just stubbed his toe.
“Shut the fuck up, Moss!” Tom barked, still staring daggers at Ostermeyer. “Joe Pennington. Really? You honestly believe that thing is called Joe Pennington?”
“Joseph Pennington, yes. I realize that he has chosen to utilize an Anglicized version of his name in order to better assimilate to our culture. Quite frankly, I personally feel that people like Joe should feel comfortable enough to retain their names in their native tongue and be able to rest assured that we will be open and welcoming to their culture. But that’s not always the case. Is it, Tom?”
“He’s from Hell, not Nicaragua, you jackass. Also? If one of them says its name to you in their ‘native tongue,’ your ears bleed. It ate Sally Hanson. It’s wearing a tie.”
“The cornflower blue Lord & Taylor?” Ostermeyer said. “Oh, I like that one. I was going to ask him where he bought it, but he was doing something with dead mice and fire at his desk and I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“They have spikes all over,” Tom said. “Do you realize the projected outlay for office chairs alone in my department is up 450% over last quarter?”
“Now it just sounds as if you’re nitpicking, Tom. Not that I’m trying to devalue your concerns, by the way. Oh, hello Barbara!”
Barbara Phillips from Facilities Management came into the break room, looked around for the non-dairy creamer, and eviscerated Frank Moss.
Tom said, “Aw!” and then, “Awww!”
Frank Moss fell, thrashing around, heels skidding uselessly in his own blood and leaving marks on the floor like a serial killer’s finger-paint. As Barbara Phillips set about humping his open torso, the rocking motion caused Moss’s viscera to shoot into the air in broken streams. Like one of those mall fountains set to music. Like streamers at a really awkward surprise party.
Tom stepped out of the way, but Ostermeyer, not wanting to offend, stayed put.
“Are you seeing this?” Tom asked.
Ostermeyer crossed his arms and set his chin. In his office, behind his Moroccan leather executive-style desk blotter, in front of his engraved cherry wood paneling, it gave him an air of quiet resolve. In the break room, covered in Frank Moss’s gore, it made him look like a slightly annoyed placenta.
“Tom, need I remind you that it is rude to point? Now, if you have a legitimate concern about Joe Pennington’s performance I would be more than happy go over it with you...”
“What?” Tom yelled, cupping an ear and indicating Moss. “I can’t hear you!”
“Eggs!” Moss screeched. “It’s laying eggs in me!”
“I said, I’m willing to hear you out as long as you assure me that you have legitimate concerns about Joe Pennington’s work performance, Tom.”
Tom slid further out of the way as Barbara Phillips finished with Moss and perambulated out of the break room like a cross between Dr. Frankenstein’s assistant and a giant cockroach.
“Your wig,” Tom said to her and pointed to his own head. She didn’t seem to notice. He turned back to Ostermeyer. “Well, when he’s not wasting time conducting black rituals in order to bring about the return of Nog Shuggoth, Star Goat with a Thousand Teats, he’s alright. I suppose.”
“Tom, are you being fatuous?”
Tom walked over and pointed at Moss. “See this? Now who the fuck is going to make sure the Coastal Incorporated order gets out on time?”
“Eggs,” moaned Moss.
Ostermeyer said, “I understand that some of their customs may seem a bit odd at first. I don’t mean to sound denigrating when I say that, by the way.”
“I’m pretty sure it was Moss’s custom to have an afternoon cup of coffee without becoming a demonic incubator. What about that?”
Ostermeyer said, “Well, maybe I can move Barbara Phillips over to Moss’s office for the time being. Although she did just put in for that position with Human Resources.”
“That’s ironic,” Tom said and moved away from Moss who was feebly grasping at his pant leg.
“You’re being fatuous again, Tom. That’s not like you.”
Tom put his hands on his hips. “You want to know what problems I have with its performance? Besides the fact that it eats our co-workers? Fine. Three out of the five prospective clients it called today had their hair and teeth fall out, one went blind, and the last had a miscarriage. That’s not good for business, Ostermeyer.”
“Okay, see? There you go. You’ve identified a tangible opportunity for improvement. Something we can work on. Joe’s delivery. His communications skills.”
“Actually, it’s not so much his sales acumen as it is the fact that potential customers who speak to him lose their eyesight and unborn children. I’m just throwing that out there.”
“Tom, I have to be honest with you,” Ostermeyer said. He stood up and brushed a piece of Frank Moss’ kidney off of his tie. “I just don’t think that this has been very productive. I sense your frustration but I’m going to have to insist that we approach this in a manner that takes everyone’s feelings into account.”
Tom blew a raspberry.
“That’s as may be, Tom,” Ostermeyer said. He stepped over Moss to wash out his coffee cup and skidded, for one precarious moment, in the blood on the floor. “What I think we should do is take a step back as this seems to be a very emotional issue for everyone involved.”
“Eggs,” Moss said, very quietly. He twitched.
“Yes, Franklin, thank you. Now Tom, why don’t you write down your feelings on this matter? Barbara Phillips in Human Resources can give you the proper form.”
“Barbara Phil—?” Tom looked towards the door, frowning.
“I would like you to have Joe Pennington fill one out as well. I’ll review them and we can set up a sit-down in my office. Just the three of us.”
“Just remember that if you read his your eyes may melt out of your head,” Tom said.
“McCarthy, McCarthy, McCarthy & Liebowitz offers full vision and dental, Tom. You know that.” Before he left, he added, “And if you want to keep your benefits, and your job, I suggest you think a little more about what it means to be tolerant of others. I mean that in a totally non-threatening manner, by the way.”
After Ostermeyer was gone, Tom looked down at Moss who had stopped moving altogether. That Coastal Incorporated order was going nowhere fast, that was for sure. He got himself a cup of coffee and sat down. The chair was still warm from Ostermeyer’s fat ass and Tom wasn’t sure if that bothered him more or less than the popcorn sound that was now wafting out of Moss’s open torso.
He wondered if he should call Janitorial Services.
He wondered if he should brush up his resume.
He wondered if the Star Goat with a Thousand Teats was something he had made up or overheard. On Jeopardy, maybe. CNN.
He wondered if that cute chick from the Starbucks on the corner would go out with him after she got out of the hospital. He thought she’d be just as cute with one hand—although maybe not as good at making Frappuccinos. Why did those things even go in there? They didn’t drink the coffee; just ordered it and then poured it over their heads.
Dave Jefferies from Accounts Payable slunk in and poured itself a cup of coffee. It looked down at Moss and the
n at Tom.
Tom said, “Don’t even think about it, fuckface.”
Dave shrugged, poured the coffee over its head and slunk back out.
Lost in thought, Tom sat for a time, while his own coffee went cold. He didn’t doubt for a second that he’d done the right thing. It wasn’t personal. He wasn’t some kind of racist, for God’s sake. On second thought, in this case he had to admit that he was a complete and total racist. But part of it was also business. He’d tried to explain as much to Ostermeyer but that fat fuck, up in his corner office with the sweet view, didn’t seem to understand.
Or couldn’t.
It slowly dawned on Tom that none of the department heads were OTH—Other Than Human. That was the politically correct term, wasn’t it? Either way, Ostermeyer never had to deal with any Joe Penningtons or Barbara Phillipses other than to occasionally watch them rape eggs into a few of his less senior employees. No wonder he was so clueless.
A crackling sound snapped Tom out of his reverie. He glanced over and saw that Moss was now covered in hundreds of tiny creatures which looked very much like centaurs if centaurs were bottom-half crab and top-half Frank Moss. One of them shot Tom the finger.
Tom stood up and pitched his Styrofoam cup into the waste basket. He gave Frank and Barbara’s kids a wide berth and headed for his desk where he dialed Ostermeyer’s office.
“Mr. Ostermeyer’s office,” the receptionist said.
“Yeah, this is Tom Nolte, Janice. Is he in?”
“One moment, Tom.” She put him on hold with muzak. The Girl from Ipanema. It was always The Girl from Ipenema.
Tom’s cubicle was right next to Joe Pennington’s. While he waited for Ostermeyer to come on the line, Tom stood up and looked over the divider. Joe was staring at something on its desk resembling a flesh-colored bowling ball covered in arcane symbols. Which was breathing. Tacked up on the wall behind Joe was a movie poster for Steel Magnolias.
“Hey there, Joe,” Tom said. Joe looked up. Or, at least, Tom thought it did. Joe’s general lack of eyes made it hard to tell. He started to ask about the poster when the phone said, “Tom?”
Tom put the phone back to his ear. “Ostermeyer?”
“Yes?”
“I quit. Oh, and by the way,” he held the phone back away from his face, “Joe? How would you like to take my job as the department head, buddy? Big promotion.”
Ostermeyer started to raise a very vigorous objection but was drowned out by the screeching noise of a group of cats being boiled alive. Tom wondered if that meant Joe was happy. Several computer screens in adjacent cubicles cracked. Joe kept making the noise.
Ostermeyer had been right; Tom had never liked working for McCarthy, McCarthy, McCarthy & Liebowitz much at all. Even before the new employees. He’d just gotten into a rut. The pay was decent, the work was non-taxing at best. No motivation to change his lifestyle when he could just stay where he was in relative comfort.
Who knew that one of these things would have lit a fire under him? Although they were known to light actual fires just about everywhere else.
He decided that on the way home to update his resume he was going to stop by the Starbucks to see if that cutie was back at work. He wondered if she’d decided to change her lifestyle. He wondered if his next job would have good benefits.
“Thanks, Joe,” he said sincerely and put on his coat and left.
—//—
Tom Bordonaro was born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio and now lives in Annapolis, Maryland, with his wife and their two young sons. Although he’s been writing from an early age, this is his first published story.
TRAGIC AND GORGEOUS
A Conversation with Rennie Sparks
by Mercedes M. Yardley
If you want to hear murderous, melodic ballads, you’re going to want to listen to the husband-and-wife group The Handsome Family. Rennie Sparks writes the melancholy lyrics as well as providing vocals, bass, and banjo. She is an artist, painting colorful works with strong animal themes, as well as penning the short story collection Evil. I was thrilled that Rennie agreed to an interview, and even more excited to hear her darkly delicate, intriguing answers.
To learn more about The Handsome Family and Rennie’s music, literature, and art, please stop by their website at www.handsomefamily.com.
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MY: Thank you so much for the interview! I greatly appreciate it. What have you been up to recently?
RS: I’m working on lyrics for a new Handsome Family record. The songs are all concerning little creatures like spiders, toads, flies, ants, jellyfish, as well as woodpeckers, octopuses, snow geese and antelopes.
MY: I’m a new fan. I was recently turned on to your group, The Handsome Family, and then to your collection titled Evil. For somebody who is newly discovering your sound and prose, what would you suggest that I pick up? What embodies you and your work as a whole? Give me Rennie Sparks 101, if you please.
RS: People seem to think that our third record, Through the Trees, is most exemplary. I don’t know. When I wrote that record each song was like a failed suicide note. I kept trying to say what I needed to say before throwing myself off a bridge, but I just never got it right so here I am…
MY: Lucky for us! Your lyrics are tragic, and gorgeous. I think it’s safe to say that you are known for blending tragedy and beauty together. Why do you think this is? Is it a conscious choice, or a voice that comes naturally?
RS: That’s just the way life feels to me at its essence: tragic and gorgeous, mysteriously magical and inexplicably cruel. I can’t separate it out. Bittersweet is a good word for it.
MY: Were you a dark little girl?
RS: I had terrible nightmares as a child and awful sleepwalking incidents. I once slept over a friend’s house and woke up in their living room pulling all their houseplants out of the pots.
MY: I understand nightmares and sleepwalking. I still do the same thing. There’s something otherworldly about letting your eyes clear and realizing that you’re standing outside under the moon when you had no outward intention of being there. When you walked in your sleep, was there a certain area that drew you, where you most often found yourself when you awoke?
RS: No, I think it was more that, the normal “sleep paralysis” we have when dreaming wasn’t working, so I literally got up and started walking into my dreams. Strangely, I often had problems with being so frightened as a child I couldn’t move. I had the “sleep paralysis” while awake instead of while asleep.
I wonder if you were somehow drawn to the moon. We women are guided by her movements whether we know it or not. Maybe you have a more active pineal gland that is crying out for some moonlight! You should sleep with an overhead light for a few days to simulate sleeping under a full moon and see if it helps. Or else you should just give in and head to that black mass in the pines your sleeping self knows it is invited to. I suppose you’d need some flying ointment then. Recipes are hard to find!
MY: The unearthly reality of nightmares and sleepwalking is easier to handle as an adult, but how did you handle that as a child. How did you say, “Listen, I’m terrified to go to sleep every night,” or did you?
RS: Oh, yes, I told everyone I was terrified. My parents put on Burl Ives records to play thinking they would calm me down. Of course I developed a deep, terror of folk songs like “On Top of Old Smokey” and “The Little Black Bug,” which still influences my thinking to this day. I don’t think I’m entirely wrong in this. I think old folk songs that speak of mountains, moonlight, rivers, forests are like fairy tales—a dim memory of when the woods were really full of creatures (magical or otherwise).
MY: Also, I’m interested in what your friend’s family had to say when you’re standing there with unearthed plants in your hands. Did they think, “Oh, that’s just Rennie,” or was it something more? You just broke the happy little girl mold, you know. You can’t hide that any longer, if you had chosen to do so in the first place.
RS: My friend’s f
amily was sympathetic, but shocked. I woke up when my friend’s dad grabbed my hands to stop me from tearing up more soil. I can still see those hands. I like men’s hands, especially old men. So rough and worn, but warm.
MY: There is often a stigma associated with being a woman who writes about things of a murderous nature. Have you felt this, or has standing apart worked well for you in your career?
RS: Oh, yes. People always assume my husband writes the lyrics. As I get older the stigma lessens. When I’m eighty it will be fine. We are all comfortable with the wicked old lady, but girls up to a certain age are expected to smile. Once I turned forty men stopped saying that to me on the street, but as a young woman I remember strangers always walking up to me and saying, “Come on and smile!”
After forty I find I have disappeared into the woodwork. I now have the cloak of invisibility that William Burroughs cultivated. Recently I was sitting in a chair at an airport and a man actually sat down on my lap because he didn’t see me. Invisibility is a powerful gift for a writer. Eavesdropping is easy.
MY: I read an earlier interview with Zack Kopp for the Denver Books Examiner. I was interested in your theory that we exist in some kind of hellish realm where kindness is more or less not tolerated. In light of some of the environmental and humanitarian struggles that are currently taking place, this is, as I would expect, a darkly beautiful concept. Would you mind exploring this idea with me briefly? Is this theory something that creates comfort or chaos when you ponder it?
RS: It comforts me to think that beauty and balance are glimpses of a higher plain. Of course I’m still horrified of the traditional Judeo-Christian idea of Heaven and angels. Give me snakes and singing frogs and scuttling shadows! Guess I’m not ready to move on yet. It is comforting to think that all the mountains of cruelty in this world perhaps have some meaningful use as an expiation of karmic weight.