“I’m not a board member. I’m a lowly secretary. Can’t be chairman. Which is fine, really. I don’t want anything else.”
“No,” says Toby. “I mean, have you ever been tagged?”
“You mean pregnant?”
“Yeah,” he says with a stifled laugh. “Wasn’t sure if that was something I could ask. Or even should, I guess.”
“No, not yet,” she says. “Been trying. Been trying for a long time. Was hoping you could make that happen.”
Toby looks down, unsure if she’s being serious or if it’s part of an act she’s playing. Either way, he doesn’t know how to respond.
“Eat,” she whispers.
Toby looks up.
“Eat. Eat now. Fast.” she says, chowing down on her sub. “Eat and repeat. Always repeat what I told you.”
Toby looks around the cafeteria, and it’s not long before he realizes what the source of Clarice’s concern is. Freddie is escorting a group of aliens around the dining area, ten in all, each dressed in a business suit that looks like it came from The Aliens Warehouse. And if it weren’t for the pith helmets atop their heads, they would look like any other coworker, though better dressed—alien origins aside.
The group snakes its way around the tables, stopping every now and then to talk to the people nearby. Toby watches, riveted, and he’s dying to know what this is all about.
Before he has a chance to figure it out, a cacophony comes from the serving line and snatches his attention. Aliens, six of them in all, come running into the dining area, yelling and screeching. Two of them are dressed similar to the group that Freddie is escorting, but the other four are wearing poorly made, rubber human suits and are splattered with red paint.
The half-dozen aliens quickly form a circle in the middle of the dining hall and turn their screeching into a rhythmic chant. Toby has no idea what they’re saying, but the entire lot makes him think they’ve recently escaped a Far Side cartoon.
Toby throws a glance to Freddie who looks thoroughly irritated. Freddie doesn’t say anything, but simply shakes his head and whips out a little gray box about the size of a small stack of business cards and talks into it.
Within moments, two dozen aliens flood the cafeteria and it’s clear they mean business. Each has a baton in hand and slick-looking armor plates covering their chest and legs. These new arrivals club the pseudo-humans and faux businessmen like baby seals before binding them with ties and dragging them away.
Once they’re gone, only a few heartbeats pass before the dining room returns to normal. People go back to eating and Freddie returns to schmoozing with his alien party.
“What was that?” Toby asks, eyes still fixed on where it all went down.
“Stop looking,” Clarice answers. “It’s not important.”
Toby obeys. Sort of. Though he turns around, he can’t shake the event from his mind. He has to know. “Seriously,” he whispers. “What happened?”
Clarice bites her knuckle and glances around the room. Her voice drops so low Toby can barely make out her words. “They come from time to time,” she says. “Come to disrupt. They come to…come to protest.”
She doesn’t even say the last word. Toby has to do his best to read her lips to get it.
Toby mouths his reply. “Protest what?”
“Go back to eating,” she says, sipping her milk. “We’ve got to finish. Got to stick to the rules.”
Toby sighs. He’s not getting any more answers out of her while they’re here. That much is clear. Maybe when they’re in a more private place she’ll fill him in, so he decides he might as well eat and get it over with.
Toby picks up his sub and repeats her rules in his head. Fats are good. Sugars are bad. Refund the unclean.
He takes a deep breath and prepares to chow down. He wonders what this will be like and whether he’ll survive the drugs designed to turn his brain into mush.
Clarice seems to have, sort of. And he doesn’t have much of a choice, either. He can feel them watching his every move—the aliens, his coworkers, and the rest of them. They are all watching and waiting to see if he’s become the good employee they expect him to be.
It’s either that or Clarice’s paranoia is rubbing off on him.
Then again, it’s not paranoia if it’s true.
“So, have you two bumped uglies yet?”
Toby spins around to see Matt pull a chair over to the end of their table and plop down in it. He then sets his tray that’s complete with gyro and orange juice at his spot.
Toby waits a moment for Clarice to reply, but when she doesn’t, he feels pressured to say something. “We’ve been, um, working on a new project.”
“Dude, right, that stamp thing,” Matt replies. “Wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”
“You did?” asks Toby, putting his sub down.
“Totally,” he says. “I don’t think it’s fair you get such a righteous nameplate when I have Kay.”
Toby’s face is hit by a massive ball of confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“Dude, nameplates? Titles?” says Matt, eyebrows arched. He leans back a little and crosses his arms over his chest. “Stop being a peal. You know what I’m talking about.”
“Right, titles,” says Toby, still not following but not wanting to antagonize the surfer. All he wants is for the guy to go. “What about them?”
“You’ve got massive letters, brah,” says Matt. “‘Vice President of Communications and Investment Opportunities for the Acquisition of Hostile Companies,’ has ninety of them. I counted. Mine’s only eighty. That ain’t right.”
Toby’s clueless expression doesn’t change. He glances over to Clarice for help. But when she only shrugs, he takes the best guess he can. “You’re jealous at the length of my name tag?”
Matt shakes his head as he finishes off his juice. “Just saying that’s not right, dude.”
“Why’s that?”
Matt tears off a bit of a paper napkin, balls it, and throws it at Toby’s head. “I said stop being such a peal, dude. Bigger name tag, bigger prestige. That’s like asking why you’d rather ride a fat wave instead of an ankle snapper.”
Toby shrugs, indifferent to Matt’s assertion. “I was over you before, you know,” he says. “What’s the big deal if I’m over you now?”
“I’ve got three secretaries,” he says. “That’s what.”
“You’ve only got one right now,” Toby corrects.
“Well, I will have three once Freddie ponies up.”
Toby raises an eyebrow. “So you’re saying because you have three secretaries, you think you should have a longer tag than me?”
“Exactly. I’m clearly better than you. Kay’s a bunny–my bunny. All you’ve got is Clarice. She looks like she wiped in some coral coming off the bomb.”
Toby balls a fist at his side, under the table. He’s not about to punch Matt over mere words, but he likes to imagine smashing the kid’s nose across his face for saying something so mean.
“I’ve got to go,” Clarice says. To Toby’s surprise, she seems indifferent to the entire conversation.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” she replies. “Bathroom and all. Have to go.”
“Ciao,” says Matt. When she passes by, he grabs her arm. “My bad. Didn’t mean anything by that last thing.”
Clarice pulls away. “I know,” she says. She then looks over to Toby. “Eat. Come back to my place. Need to talk. Want to talk.”
Matt watches her leave and when she disappears into the women’s restroom, he turns back around and says, “Even if you bag her tonight, that doesn’t change anything. I still deserve a better tag than you.”
“I honestly don’t care who has what name tag,” says Toby. “Besides, I didn’t give myself the job. Freddie did. Remember? Maybe you should take it up with him.”
“Dude! You’re right,” Matt says, shaking his head and laughing. “Totally my bad, brah. Here I am thinking
you hacked me, and it wasn’t your fault at all. Let’s get the Big Kahuna in on this.” Matt twists around and eyeballs Freddie’s group until the alien happens to look his way. When he does, Matt waves him over.
“Freddie,” Matt says once the alien arrives. “I’ve got a humungous problem here. Like, worse than a beach full of whales with butt floss.”
Though Matt is talking to Freddie, the alien’s gaze isn’t on Matt. It falls on Toby’s plate–Toby’s full plate of untouched food to be more precise. “What’s the matter, persie?” Freddie asks. “Not hungry?”
Toby stiffens at the unexpected observation. His mouth runs dry as Clarice’s warnings run rampant through his mind. “No, no. I got distracted,” Toby says. He grabs the sub, takes a big bite, and washes it down with a gulp of milk. “It’s good.”
Warmth builds in Toby’s stomach. Not as fast or as hard as it had with the Rice Krispy Treats, but it’s there, nonetheless. His senses start to dull, as if he’s had his first big swig of triple-bock beer on an empty stomach.
“I knew you’d be happy here,” Freddie says.
“Well, the food is delicious,” says Toby, taking another bite. The warmth in his belly spreads through his torso and runs down his limbs. The tips of his fingers tingle, and the milk he drinks no longer quenches his thirst. He wants an ice-cold Sprite, and he flirts with the idea of getting up for one.
“What seems to be the problem?” asks Freddie.
Toby stops eating and considers the question. Sure, he doesn’t care for the atmosphere in the cafeteria all that much, but it’s nothing to have a meltdown over, especially when a little mood music and better lighting would do the trick. So as far as he’s concerned, things are peachy keen.
“I’ll tell you what the problem is, boss,” Matt says. “Toby here has ninety letters to his nameplate, and I only have eighty. Not cool at all.”
“Aw, silly persie,” Freddie says, patting Matt on the head. “We can’t give everyone long name tags.”
“I’m not everyone,” protests Matt. “I’m nailing Kay, aren’t I? You’re getting me two more secretaries, aren’t you? Even if they aren’t Emmas, three secs makes me badass. More badass than Toby for sure. He’s only got Clarice. And my office is totally gnarly. His isn’t heinous or anything, but it ain’t all that.”
Clarice? Toby stops chewing at the mention of her name. There’s something about her he was supposed to remember. Something important. He closes his eyes, tries to think. In his mind, he can see her staring at him, telling him to never forget. Don’t forget what? Don’t forget to turn off the lights? Don’t forget to file the TPS reports? Try as he might, Toby can’t come up with anything.
“You know, you’re right,” says Freddie, cutting into Toby’s thoughts. “You’ve been very assertive in climbing the corporate ladder. I like that. My guests really like that. Let’s correct that right now. Does that sound good?”
“That sounds totally rad!” Matt says with a fist pump.
Toby wants to get up, get another sub, and trade his milk in for a soda, but when Freddie whips out a little box-shaped device, he stays seated in the booth and figures something is about to happen that he doesn’t want to miss. For a few seconds, he watches Freddie fiddle with the device. It’s apparently not cooperating with Freddie whatsoever, for the alien taps it a few times on the table before he looks up at Matt.
“What’s your job title, again?” Freddie asks.
“Vice President of Marketing and Development of Strategic Positions in Volatile Environments,” answers Matt.
Freddie taps his box a few more times until it beeps. “There we go,” he says. “So, let’s make you the Executive Vice President of All Marketing and Development of Strategic Positions in Volatile Environments. That’s ninety-two letters long.”
“Sweet.”
“Best make the announcement now,” Freddie says. “All of our guests will be eager to know as well, and I hate to have to repeat myself.”
Repeat? Toby knows that word. It’s a special word. He runs his fingers through his hair, digs his nails into his scalp. Repeat something. Repeat what?
Matt taps him on the shoulder. “Hey brah,” he says. “Just so you know, if Clarice wants to bail and come back to me, I’ll make her stay with you.”
“Huh?” says Toby.
“Just saying, if she bails on you for me, name tag and all, I’ll tell her she works for you,” Matt replies as he leans back in his chair. “It’s the least I can do.”
“Oh god, Clarice,” Toby says.
“But I don’t think she’ll really bail on you, dude. No worries.”
Toby shakes his head as her warnings about this place, the food, and the dire need to empty his stomach and suck down ink come flooding back. But even with that revelation, his mind continues to fog, and holding on to those warnings is near impossible.
Thankfully, Toby still has enough wits left to realize he’s losing it. He knows he has to reach a bathroom posthaste. His hand reaches into his pocket. A small bit of relief washes over him. His salvation, the Bic pen, is still there.
As Toby stands and excuses himself, the lights go out, and a spotlight falls on Freddie. He’s a dozen feet away, standing in the middle of the room, holding a microphone.
“Good evening, patrons and persies from far and wide,” Freddie says. “I hope you all are having a wonderful last lunch before the start of a new and exciting season.”
Numerous cheers and claps fill the room, and Freddie basks in the praise, bowing, and waving in a half dozen different directions.
Toby inches away as he heads for the bathroom. Must refund. Must purge. Must be clean. His eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark, but he thinks he can see well enough to not bump into anyone or anything and avoid an incident.
He gets a few steps toward his goal when a second spotlight falls directly on him, and he realizes he’s not going anywhere.
Chapter Five
Toby freezes like a deer caught in headlights. He knows he can’t bolt for the bathroom, but he also knows he has to do something to ward off the drugs, so he does the first thing that comes to mind. He drives one foot into the ground so that the same two toes he injured in Clarice’s apartment scream in agony. His eyes water, and it’s all he can do not to cry. But he can think clearer now.
“I have an announcement,” Freddie says, beaming at Toby and Matt. “I’d like to announce a promotion! Our dear friend Matt is now the Executive Vice President of All Marketing and Development of Strategic Positions in Volatile Environments, effective immediately!”
Applause, shouts, and whistles fill the room. Calls for a speech follow. Freddie raises all three of his hands and bids the crowd to be quiet. Once the room’s volume drops twenty decibels, he waves Matt over. “Why don’t you come say a few words?”
“Wow, dude,” Matt says stumbling with his reply. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Start by taking the microphone,” says Freddie, offering it to the surfer.
The unseen crowd erupts in laughter.
Matt jumps out of his chair and hurries over. The spotlight follows, and once again, Toby is in the dark.
“Go, Toby. Go,” he says to himself. He darts to the bathroom and manages to avoid most of the obstacles along the way. He does bump into a few people, but thankfully his quick apologies smooth over any transgressions.
Toby reaches the men’s room and yanks the door open by its cold, steel handle. Bright, white light pours out, and Toby shields his eyes momentarily as he enters. Small tiles on the floor gleam under the fluorescent bulbs above. The air smells of disinfectant, and Toby is impressed at how clean the place looks.
Toby hurries past the sinks and mirror on his left, past the three urinals on the same side, and opens the first of two stall doors. Wrapped around the toilet seat is black and yellow caution tape, and there’s a sign above that says, “Out of order.”
“Gah!” says Toby, moving on to the next stall. His mind clouds again, and
he drives his battered toes into the wall. The fire that races through his foot and leg is a welcomed one and clarity returns.
Toby tries to open the second stall, but it’s locked.
“Someone is in here,” a voice says.
Toby instantly recognizes the voice. It belongs to Boris, and that’s a guy he’ll never forget no matter how many drugs are pumping through his body.
“You wait till I am done,” Boris tacks on.
“Sorry,” says Toby, instinctively backing up. He paces around the bathroom and tries to convince himself it won’t be long. Judging by Boris’s constant grunts, strains, and distinct lack of splashing sounds, Toby thinks otherwise.
Toby considers using the urinals or the broken toilet in the other stall to puke his guts into, but figures the foremost would be bad to use if someone walked in, and the latter would leave evidence behind. And that, he decides, can’t be good. He doesn’t want to explain things to Freddie.
Toby repeats the first two rules in his head, over and over. Fat is good. Sugar is bad. Refund the unclean. As the pain in his foot subsides, his concentration wanes. The rules become harder and harder to repeat.
“Fat is sugar. Refund the un-good,” Toby mumbles. He shakes his head, grits his teeth. “Think Toby,” he says. “Think. Think. Think.”
The rules in his mind turn vague. He knows they’re important, but he can’t remember what they are. He does remember, however, that pain seems to bring them back. Pain can help. Pain does help. Toby kicks his foot against the wall again, and it offers a brief respite from the drug’s effects.
“Fats are good. Sugars are bad. Refund the unclean,” he whispers with a bright smile. He’s back. He prays it will last. But it doesn’t. A few repeats later, all Toby can say to himself is, “Refund the unclean.”
Toby paces for what feels like an eternity. The drugs claw at his mind, so he kicks the wall again with his foot, only this time, it barely helps.
Desperate, Toby stumbles into the empty stall and drops to his knees. The tile floor does a number on his knee caps, which is enough to buy him a few more moments of clarity.
Toby whips out his Bic pen, shoves it down his throat, and pukes. Bits of partially digested sub spew out of his mouth. Most of it goes in the toilet, but some splatters on the floor.
Office Preserves Page 5