“What the hell is going on? Someone trying to kill you?” he yells.
There it is again. Kill. That word keeps popping up.
16
How could anyone enjoy this? Food being sprayed everywhere, spit flying in every direction, inane jabbering… I didn’t feel like having lunch with filthy Todd Storton. I did, however. It wasn’t out of gratitude for saving my life. It was out of selfishness, a need to survive. Honest. For at any second during this outing, I might have relapsed back into the state of a delusional blockhead (right there on his intellectual level) and, though I hate to admit this point, needed his assistance. That’s all. In essence I used him. A brainless stooge.
Where we ate is not important. What we talked about is not important. The only important thing is where I am. Back in my house collecting what sense of sanity I can scrape together. I called in to work a little while earlier and told them I’d taken ill, being unable to return for a few days in all likelihood.
A necessary stratagem. Because… hearing the sound of even one more clink will kill me. I know it. All these months there’s been a meter filling up in my head. Each clank adds a little more to it. The red zone is approaching. The fatal zone. It’s come down to either me or the bowl. And I mustn’t lose. I won’t lose.
There will be no drawing tonight, no reveries, no star gazing. I’ve consigned all worldly matters to the nether regions of my thoughts. The one omnipotent question on my mind… how to rid myself of that reprehensible glass.
I’ve already tried once and failed. Simply removing the bowl is not enough. Something more must be done. But what? I can’t offer to take Wilmer out to lunch every day, can I? Of course not. Not only is it a bit odd, in a woah too close, pal kind of way, but it would break my bank as well. What to do… What to do… What to do…
Quit my job? No… Who would hire me? Transfer my desk? No, the echoes will reach me. Get rid of… no, too wild. Something new? Yes! New!
Bingo. I’ve got it! A replacement! How rudimentary a solution it is! So conspicuous a fix it boggles the mind. I’ll simply replace that infernal oversized GLASS bowl!
Ingenious, boy! But let us be circumspect here. Think it through. We may only get one chance at this… Remember Wilmer is fairly persnickety and the bowl specifics will be very important. The alternate can’t be made of anything resembling glass whatsoever. I’d be right back where I started! Wood? No, too old fashioned. Plastic. Yes, plastic, that’s convenient and modern. Although plastic bowls wear down after a time. Although it should last a sufficiently satisfactory length of time. And if it works out favorably I’d be glad to purchase another one for Wilmer at the appointed time.
Such a magnificent place. Superstores really are a wonder, especially these spacious, luxurious, palatial ones. They’ve got everything under the sun within their walls. You walk in from the dreary outside wilderness and find yourself captivated by the innumerable items before you. The store opens up into an expanse that rivals even that of the great prairies. The roof might as well be a mile high. It’s endless.
Another great facet of the one-stop-shop supermarket is all the sundry characters wandering in and out. I imagine they’d be great inspiration for a novelist or writer of any kind. Such diverse weirdoes. Putrid ones, grotesque ones, dumb ones, ugly ones, beautiful ones, intelligent ones, fat ones, skinny ones, old ones, young ones, married ones, single ones, short ones, tall ones, average ones, and a myriad of other ones.
Suffice it to say that there is a wonder of action and exhilaration in these places. Any antisocial or Agoraphobics (fear of crowds) better steer clear. As I enter the store I’m greeted by a jolly old man. He’s got a twinkle in his eye, a bald head, and is rather short and fat. I imagine he’s the employee they dress up as Santa Claus during the Christmas season. Another malformed employee shoves a cart in my direction. I wave my hand to signify I won’t be needing one. But the little twit is persistent. He rams the cart at me again, harshly -- it nearly knocks me over. This malicious worm is really out to get me! I notice he’s snarling somewhat as we battle over the cart. Is he truly frothing at the mouth? My God! His lazy eyes are pointed in opposite directions, neither one being aimed at me, so I am not entirely sure exactly what he is so intently glaring at.
I’m on one side of the cart; he’s on the other trying to pin me against the wall. This goon is fairly large, easily capable of overpowering me. I’m on the losing end of our strife. My feet are dug into the floor. Yet the smooth surface causes them to slide along, offering little resistance. I shout for assistance over and over. Help! Maniac! Help! A managerial looking fellow runs over.
“No Todd, no!” he shouts, desperately attempting to pry the idiot’s hand loose from the cart. Todd? So all dopes are named Todd… This is little comfort to me! With my innards being smooshed together. The intestines tangling, rib cage collapsing, the life draining. It has become a life or death struggle. Here another employee rushes over to me, politely inquiring if I’m alright. Oh ye!, Of course I am, G-D-it!
It’s at this point I notice the cart pusher is not right in the head. In fact he’s one of those retards. Evidently this store offers jobs to the mentally handicapped. There’s nothing wrong with that and I’m all for it. But… They cannot be malicious, militant goons! For God’s sake he’s crushing me!
“Steve, you idiot! Over here!” the manager screams, prompting the airheaded employee asking me dreadfully important questions, to stumble over toward the tard. Steve and the manager somehow manage to tear the halfwit’s hands free of the handle. I feel the instant rush of relief as my ribcage slowly pushes outward – free of the obstruction.
Although a bit rattled after the incident, I am resolved to continue on into the store, to complete the mission. The manager runs toward me, once again asking dumb questions about my safety. Fabricated concern. I’m forced to shoo away the botheration several times. It’s easy enough to guess what his angle is. He doesn’t want me suing the store. I’m no serial litigant and I’ve no desire to take up suit against this store. Even though I know from working around lawyers all day that this would be an easy case. A simple assault charge resulting in a quick few million in my pocket. But currently, money doesn’t particularly interest me. In fact if you asked me what my ambition in life was, I couldn’t tell you. Most days my sole reason for getting out of bed is to see what kind of freaks I’ll encounter.
Today I’m focused. I’m on a quest of unparalleled importance. I’m here to purchase a bowl for the self-important dunderhead, Mr. Cromwell.
And thank god! I’ve come to the right place (barring the attempt on my life…) It’s amazing! The aisles are overflowing with glasses and bowls. Countless shelves hold innumerable varieties of eating dishes. Why there are so many I can only guess. I remember a few summers ago I ventured off to my local supermarket in search of a quality cup. Nothing! Only festive rubbish. Low quality at that. Not like this place… But this is spectacular! Wonderful! Brilliant! It’s good for me as I must select the perfect bowl, lest Wilmer refuse the gift. They appear to be organized by type. Glass, plastic, wood, ceramic, steel, and paper. I’ve already ruled out glass, ceramic, and steel. They’d prove far too noisy and might be even worse than what Wilmer already has.
Wood? Nobody eats out of a wooden bowl, except maybe hill people or the Amish. A few green earther, hipster types perhaps. Those are out of here. Paper? Won’t last long enough. No go. Which leaves me with plastic. A perfect choice. It’s durable, microwavable, easy to clean, and most importantly… quiet! Nothing but soft dinks or dunks emitting from the material.
I set out looking for a hard plastic bowl. One that will last for a good while, being sturdy enough to satisfy Wilmer’s many bizarre uses. It must have a good robust feel, yet not be too heavy. You’d be surprised by how many plastic bowls are weighted improperly and don’t help facilitate eating one little bit. Others are flimsy and melt down after one trip to the microwave. Then there is color to think about. What would Wilmer most enjo
y? I figure purples, pinks, and blues are out. Nothing too eccentric or feminine. A nice clear opaque bowl would be best. A neutral no one will dislike this styled dish.
Another problem facing me is the shape. Wilmer has always utilized an overly large bowl. Some kind of size queen, is he. Which means I’ll have to find a plastic bowl of similar size and shape. Just your basic half circle design, nothing fancy. I don’t require any ornate side squashed or spout handled style like so many of the “effeminate” male households use.
Don’t think I’m not a thorough planner either. Nothing can be further from the truth. In fact… I’ve even brought a spoon with me to the store. This will serve as my tester. Leave nothing to chance.
An employee heads in my direction. She’s an overweight grandmotherly woman with a slightly misshapen head. Of course she has the “old woman” style hair. It’s fairly short, curly, and plastered stiff.
“Can I help you find anything?” she asks with inquisitive eyes.
I ponder the question before answering with sharp and clear words.
“Why yes, yes you can. I’m looking for a bowl about yay big,” I hold my hands out to show the size. “Also, it cannot make any noise or very little noise when this spoon clinks against it.” I retrieve the spoon from my pocket, dramatically thrusting it into the air. The woman’s eyes glue to the object, like I’ve just presented a priceless artifact.
“Hmm, okay. I’m sure we can find something for you sweetie.” She looks at me with squinty eyes and a sweet, dear smile. Can I trust such a vile creature? This little grandmother waddles over to the rows of plastic dishes, a slight hunch protruding from her upper back. She begins pointing them out. She grabs one off the shelf and offers it to me. I don’t dare take it from her hands -- but instead, simply tap on the rim with my spoon. A dull thud resonates. Hmm…Definitely not the sharp, high-pitched sound of glass. This particular bowl would be very suitable, but… is it the best? I can’t run the risk of having Wilmer reject my gift.
My lips pull to one side of the mouth with hesitation.
“Mmhmm,” grandmother says. She nods her head and sets the bowl down. The woman then picks up another, holding it toward me. I tap on it. Another dull thud emits. The sound is tolerable. But again, is this the best choice? Surely there are better bowls available. The woman replaces it on the shelf and we move down the row.
“Oh my God!” she exclaims, covering her rosy cheeks with soft, tiny hands.
I look where she’s looking -- we both freeze. Neither of us can move. We’re spellbound, entranced, mesmerized.
“It’s…” I cannot even finish the sentence.
“It’s…” she says, still holding her cheeks.
My hand, wielding the spoon, reaches out ever so slowly… it unconsciously taps the on the brim. There’s barely a sound. The color is clear opaque, the plastic is sturdy, and on its label is written the word: MICROWAVABLE.
“It’s perfect!” we both whisper, still in amazement.
She reaches out to retrieve the bowl with absolute reverence and the utmost of care. I grab her wrist to say, “May I?” The woman nods understandingly, and slinks to the rear. The room begins to disappear, everything is vanishing. There are no background noises. It’s just me and the bowl. I extend my hands to pick up this treasured gem. The weight is flawlessly balanced. It truly is the greatest work of plastic craftsmanship that I have ever encountered. Wilmer Cromwell will be unable, by virtue alone, to refuse this fine of a dish.
I’m running to find the nearest cashier line. But here I notice an obstruction. One which I caught sight of some moments ago off in the distance. Here he comes again… An odd looking character equipped with a hook nose, caveman brow, and the beady eyes of a rat. What a putrid appearance. But wait! What in god’s name is he doing! He’s coming toward me now, isn’t he! He is! Christ!
The goof stands before, a wide smile on his face. Uh oh…
“Finding everything all right, sir?” the voice cuts through the air as I turn to leave. What does he want? Why has he been following me! Everything all right, sir? My mouth is beginning to shake a bit. The top lip is quivering slightly.
“Umm, what?” I ask the freak.
I look around the store for a moment to see how the other people are acting. No one seems to notice this brute attacking me. I’m being brutally violated here! In a last ditched effort, my head snaps backward before it nods weakly in the affirmative. My eyes are shut momentarily, but when I open them I see my hands and arms have become T-rex like… They’re at chest level, shaking feebly.
“…Yes,” I somehow mumble.
This gesture coupled with that tiny word seems to do the trick, magically. The greasy haired animal smiles, nods, then departs. This is the third time I’ve spotted him. He asked me the same question some time ago. Accosted me really, endlessly. What am I doing here? I find myself so befuddled by the encounter… Well, I’ve got a plastic bowl in my hands. That’s right! Cromwell’s gift! The one he surely cannot refuse. Maintain ol’ boy, just find a register. A few aisles over and you’ll be home free… Trek on ol’ boy.
What the hell! That idiot! He’s coming back! Christ! Somebody should help me, why does he persist so aggressively! Can’t they see what is going on? Don’t they know? The world is so G-D apathetic these days… And here I am mixed up in this plight. This same maniac is coming at me—with, what the—a smirk on his face of all things! A menacing glare. There’s a name tag on his red shirt: Todd.
Another one! Dear god!
I scan the immediate vicinity, planning my escape route. Holy! But as I turn back, there’s no longer a Todd written on the tag. It now says RETRIBUTION and the man it’s attached to is smiling broadly. I bet he’s got a gun. One of Wilmer’s henchmen… No, probably a knife. He’s been sent here to gut me right at this spot, to spread my entrails out in the store.
“Finding everything all right, sir?” he questions.
Am I going crazy? This is the twelfth time or so it seems that he’s asked me the same question in as many minutes. Is he crazy! Who cares, Cromwell! You won’t get me this time! Time for me to leave, now! Think boy, think…
I glance in the opposite direction and say, “Actually I think I saw someone grab a bowl and run out the backdoor just now. Is that possible?”
“Wait,” he says, sticking out a hand at belly level, “some one just took a bowl and ran out?”
“Yes,” I restate. “Right out the backdoor.”
“Was he wearing a red shirt?”
All the employees are in red uniforms. So is this imposter.
“No. He had a black hooded sweatshirt on with some sort of gang writing along the back.”
The henchman pauses for a minute. I guess Wilmer didn’t instruct him well enough… I sense the wheels of thought spinning in his mind. I’m losing him. He’s got to be convinced. I must remove all doubt!
“It was a black guy!” I shout, almost wheezing with exasperation. Sweat dripping from my sideburns.
“Oh crimmity!” screams the duncepot. He takes off like a madman sprinting toward the backdoor, yelling for assistance. Something about a code 13. Two other workers follow after him. Everyone in the store glues their eyes on the ensuing scene as I make my way to the nearest register. Take that Cromwell!
There’s a pretty girl standing behind the register. She has beautiful blue eyes accentuated by an angelic face.
“Hello,” she says, “find everything all right today, sir?”
Good god! Another one!
That night I slept well. Heck, better than ever. Dreams of Wilmer accepting the bowl titillated my thoughts. I imagined his face as he saw the dish for the first time. I envisioned him sitting in his office eating… silently!
17
A friend of mine back in high school thought he’d committed the perfect crime. Not a murder, only a crime. He was a simpleton. I only remained friends with him to make myself feel better. The most rudimentary of ideas confused him to no end. Although
the boy possessed an ambitious and fearless personality, those traits were combined with an unsurpassed ignorance and stupidity – he was destined for failure.
Still, he executed the crime to the best of his abilities, which is to say, not very well. You see, my friend had a bitter rivalry with the teacher’s pet. A preppy looking kid with blond hair and blue eyes, reminiscent of a little Hitler youth. This nitwit believed himself to be God’s gift to man, or at least the teacher’s.
His loathsome, effusive compliments lavished upon the instructor are still fresh in my mind. Imagine a little dork equipped with a high-pitched voice saying these lines:
“You look lovely today, Ms. Blackwell.”
“That’s a very funny story, Ms. Blackwell.”
“You’re so smart, Ms. Blackwell.”
Yadda, yadda, yadda. His name was Buckner White. Never “Buck” or “Bucky.” He’d only respond to Buckner. My friend, we’ll call him Roger Mills for now, decided to pull one over on ol’ Buckner.
Here’s what Roger did. It took him all of four days to plan this perfect crime. His goal was to frame Buckner for a nefarious deed. An expulsion worthy offense. Tarnish the reputation of that little creep.
On the Thursday before Spring Break, the school received a dangerous bomb threat. Somebody had left a note on Ms. Blackwell’s desk threatening to blow her up along with the rest of the faculty if she didn’t marry the love struck, soon to be bomber. And who had written the note? Why Buckner White of course. At least that’s whose name was signed down at the bottom (in rather poor hand writing…).
Roger Mills had made one major flaw. He’d used an old assignment paper of his to write the threat on. He wrote it on the blank backside. However, all one had to do was turn the paper over and see his name written on the front. That alone didn’t mean anything. It’s easy enough to steal someone’s paper, isn’t it? But the writing on the front, Roger’s writing, matched the bomber’s handwriting on the back, perfectly. The same scribbled chicken scratch. School officials announced it to be a hoax fairly quickly and Roger was soon apprehended. He denied any involvement of course, but the evidence proved damning.
CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw Page 8