I sit and work diligently as my co-workers eat up all of the goodies I purchased and lugged into the empty office early in morning. It’s a shame I can’t enjoy the food, but I did stow some French toast sticks in my desk when I was setting everything up. I forgot the syrup, though.
“Did you really do all that in there?” Frank says.
I turn around, as if I didn’t know he was talking to me. “Oh, the breakfast. Yes. All me. Just a little something.”
He gets ready to go back into the meeting room, but looks as if he has something he wants to know before he returns. “You didn’t poison it or anything, right?” he says.
I laugh. “Come on, Frank.” Even though that wouldn’t be a totally bad idea, it’s not something I would do. I’m not a sadistic bastard. “Is that what you think of me?”
“No . . . not at all. Cool. Umm . . . thanks,” he says. Then he races off to get the food before the rest of the savages eat it all.
I follow him to make sure everyone is enjoying all of my hard work, what should be perceived as goodwill. “Hi,” I say to the crowd of stuffed faces and those waiting in line to follow suit. Most simply nod and smile in response. I guess that is enough from those greedy bastards. Then, I notice Ted is in line with a paper plate in hand. He could suck a fucking dick. I can’t believe the nerve he has, going to eat my food after all of the shit he gives me at every chance. Nah, fuck him. I walk over to him and smack the paper plate out of his hand. “I’m okay with everyone eating. Everyone but Ted. You’re a douche bag. And I don’t like you.”
The other employees briefly pause their feeding, as an embarrassed Ted searches for his words. Eventually he says, “Fine. I had a big breakfast at home. And I don’t need this shit. You’re an asshole. Plus, I’ve got work to do.”
I nod my head, knowing I’ve gotten to him. He walks out of the meeting room, and like that, everyone is back to eating. Nobody even cared I yelled at Ted. Most of them don’t like him either, but for the most part it’s because they have food in front of their greedy faces. I could bring their firstborns in as hostages with rifles to their heads, and they wouldn’t even blink an eye for a bacon-and-egg croissant sandwich.
I sit back for a minute and watch as the rest of the employees whip themselves into a frenzy over Danishes and bagels. Then, I slink out of the party room undetected. I probably didn’t have to be so covert, because they wouldn’t even take notice if a spaceship landed in the middle of the room and a three-titted alien jumped out of it. Well, unless the three-titted alien took the last waffle.
I look around the office, and the cubicles are barren. Even Ted isn’t around. He’s probably sobbing in the bathroom because of the way I treated him. Good. He had it coming to him. The breakfast is serving as the perfect diversion for me to act out the second part of Jake’s plan. I go to my desk and pull out the empty black garbage bag I was directed to keep there. Then, I look around and make sure no one is watching me. I go over to the office refrigerator, which is full of brown paper bags, adult lunch boxes, condiments, frozen TV dinners, Tupperware bowls filled with last night’s leftovers, yogurts, and smoothie drinks. I begin dumping the contents of the fridge into the garbage bag, until it resembles the fridge you’d find in the loft of a supermodel.
I discreetly walk outside with my black bag in tow, like Kriss Kringle going dumpster diving. I quickly empty the bag onto the asphalt in the middle of the parking lot. Then, I get into my car and drive over all of the lunchtime goodies. And I reverse back over them for good measure.
With no witnesses, I go back inside to the breakfast party to see if I can grab some food, or at least those syrup packets for my French toast sticks. But like I expected, the pack of hyenas that are my co-workers haven’t left much for me, only a half-eaten bagel with cream cheese on it, a small box of Frosted Flakes, and a nice collection of blueberries that were picked out of the pancakes and promptly placed on a napkin. There is a swallow of orange juice left in the carton, and I want it. But paranoia has me thinking there is a reason this tiny bit was left behind. Backwash, maybe. And the syrup packets are nowhere to be found. With the trough empty, the pigs begin to dissipate from the meeting room with belches, clenched ass cheeks, and heavy breathing. I even receive a few thank-yous, smiles, and even a high-five from one co-worker as they walk out, from co-workers I didn’t think knew I even existed. I’ve never had anyone say “thank you” to me at work. Not that I’ve ever done anything thank-you worthy, but I do find it odd the one time I get congratulated I’m acting under false pretenses. But what do I care? It’s all for a great cause. I don’t even get visibly mad when some lady I don’t know, with a small bit of strawberry jam still in the corner of her mouth, comes up to me and tells me she heard I was friends with Robbie Brown. She asks if I can get his autograph for her and see if he’d be willing to play her son’s bar mitzvah. I shrug it off. I take down her info, but of course I throw out the piece of paper with her name and phone number as soon as I see a trashcan, but at least I keep my cool. I join the rest of the mutts as we go back to our kennels and go on with the rest of our miserable day.
I dive headfirst into my work, until I hear a woman wail. Time flew by from breakfast, and now it’s lunchtime. “We’ve been robbed! It’s gone. My lunch is gone.” She says it loud enough for everyone to hear, but no one rushes to her aid. Her cry catches a few people’s attention, but most continue to do whatever they were doing. It’s funny how people are reluctant to come to a fellow person’s aid, but I guess that’s a sign of the times. Maybe they’re still full from earlier, but for all we know, that woman could be dying from a heart attack or being attacked by a pack of wolverines. Nobody cares.
“All of the lunches are gone. The fridge is empty. We need to call the police,” she continues. Now, this is major disaster territory. All of the lunches gone. Now, everyone quickly assembles in the office kitchen. Well, it’s as quickly as they move. They’re not the most athletic group, but they seem to turn into the Six Million Dollar Men and Bionic Women, pushing themselves to their physical limits when their lunches are involved. I wait awhile before I go over to the kitchen. I don’t want to bring any attention to my total disinterest.
I make it over to the kitchen, and about twenty-five employees are jam-packed into a seven-foot-by-seven-foot room, all jockeying to get a glimpse at the empty refrigerator. By looking at the expressions on their faces, an onlooker would think the fridge was full of severed heads. The woman who initially found the empty fridge is being consoled by a woman whose name I don’t know. She rubs her shoulder and places a cold rag on her forehead, as if she just pulled her from a car accident.
“Maybe the cleaning lady cleaned out the fridge?” a man says. Nobody is buying his hypothesis as a logical solution to this catastrophe.
My bewildered co-workers don’t even move. I find this extremely weird, almost to the point I want to confess, because I’m tired of them staring at the refrigerator like their lunches are gonna magically reappear if they will it hard enough. Maybe they think we have the David Blaine model of Frigidaire.
“I bet somebody put all of the food in the freezer by mistake. Check there,” another man says. Not staggered by his stupidity like I am, someone checks. It’s empty as well.
That must’ve been the cue that we’ve reached rock bottom on the company’s dumbness scale, because to our rescue comes Dontrelle. “Yo, sons, I’ve found the lunches. They’re outside,” he says. I was wondering how long it would take for them to find them.
The pack of galloping dumb fucks follows Dontrelle out to the parking lot, where they see all of their lunches, treats, and whatever was in the fridge strewn about on the hot parking lot tar, wearing fresh tire marks and mangled like roadkill. Tupperware containers are broken. Salads have their croutons replaced with shards of glass. If they were stunned before looking at the empty fridge, they are now completely mortified. You would think there was a pack of baby seals, all clubbed, in the parking lot, and we’ve accidental
ly stumbled upon their remains, like the opening of an Animal Planet police procedural: Law & Order: ASPCA.
“What sick, twisted person would do this to someone’s food?” I say, as everyone shakes their heads. “This person would have to be a complete threat to us all.”
A few people start to see what they can salvage from the pile. Frank puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “At least Kevin got us that big breakfast this morning. If not, I’d be starving right now and even more upset.”
“Yeah,” says the crowd.
“I’ve found someone who might be able to put together some of the pieces of this puzzle,” Jake says as he walks toward the crowd side by side with one of the landscapers. “He was out here the whole time and saw everything.”
I take the initiative to serve as the spokesperson of the group. What better way to show off my leadership qualities? I approach the landscaper. I speak slowly so he can understand me, using only small words: “What . . . did . . . you . . . see?” I emphasize see by pointing to my eyes. I thought that was a nice touch. He looks at me. “Who . . . did . . . this . . . señor? Tell us . . . por . . . favor.” I’ve exhausted all of the Spanish I remember from tenth grade, and I hold up a dollar bill as reward for his info.
The landscaper says in perfect, succinct English, “I saw a man come out here really upset and pace back and forth. He was doing a lot of cursing. He resembled a squirrel in many ways. Balding. Glasses. He muttered something about not being invited to a party. Then, he went inside and came back out with those lunches. Then, he drove over the lunches with that brown minivan.” He points to Ted’s car.
“Are you sure it was that car?” I say.
“Yes, I’m positive.”
“Thank you, landscaper. You’ve been extremely helpful.” I hand him the dollar bill and turn to the crowd. “Wow, I wouldn’t expect that from Ted.”
“I would. He’s a piece of shit,” a woman says.
“I’m a hit that motherfucker with a brick until blood leaks from his bald-ass dome piece, son,” Dontrelle shouts. He didn’t even have a lunch in the fridge; he’s just adamant when it comes to altercations of any kind.
“No, you don’t have to,” I say. “There’s a better, more sensible way to take care of this.”
* * *
An hour later, inside of the office, Ted is being questioned by Hunter while surrounded by security. “This is ridiculous,” Ted says. “I would never do that. I wasn’t even here. I was working.”
“Working on destroying our lunches after you couldn’t join our breakfast party,” the woman who discovered the empty fridge says.
“That sounds like a perfect motive,” Hunter says. He takes Ted’s nameplate off his cubicle.
Ted hands over his badge. He’s going out in a more agreeable fashion than Monta or Creepy Bathroom Chuck. Good for him. I still hate him, but at least I can admire how he’s handling this. He really did nothing wrong, but he was a douche bag that nobody liked. And that’s enough. The only bad thing that comes of Ted’s firing is Hunter making every employee sign a decency contract before we leave for the day. It’s amazing how fast he draws that shit up. Now, we have strict guidelines to follow for our behavior in the workplace. And it literally describes not touching someone else’s possessions or food. Thanks, Ted.
Chapter Sixteen
Going to see Winston today feels more obligatory rather than the usual recreational. The more I’ve become dedicated to the office, the less time I’ve had to do things I enjoy. But I guess that’s what being an adult is all about. You don’t get to waste time at an amusement park shooting the shit with friends. But Winston isn’t just any friend. That’s why I’m here now. Checking in on my old buddy.
As I search for my season pass in my glove box, I realize how long it’s actually been. Two months. Normally I’d be here at least once a week. Twice a week when times were tough and I really needed my batteries recharged.
Regardless of the last time I was here, the park still looks familiar, even though it doesn’t seem like anyone recognizes me. But that’s probably because I have a new air of success surrounding me. The ring-toss booth still looks the same. Same ol’ prizes. But Winston isn’t manning the booth. It’s a teenage Hispanic boy.
“Hi, is Winston off today?” I ask him.
“Who?”
“Winston, this is his booth. The guy who normally works here.”
The boy’s face turns white. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says.
“Sorry about what?”
“He . . . he passed away,” he says.
What? How could this have happened? Why didn’t anyone call me? I thought I was his emergency contact. Tears begin to well up in my eyes. I just saw him . . . shit, that was two months ago.
I finally compose myself, and find the kid has his hand on my shoulder.
“How did it happen?” I ask.
“I . . . I don’t know.”
How can he not know? I would think that’s some pertinent information you should know if you’re breaking someone’s death to people. As I wait for a better answer from the uniformed bad-news messenger, I hear a distinct cackle. It’s Winston. Now, the kid is laughing too.
“I’m sorry. It was too good, but I couldn’t keep a straight face much longer,” Winston says.
“What’s going on?” I say.
“Mr. Stansbury gave me instructions to tell anyone who looks like a bill collector and comes around here looking for him that he’s dead,” the kid says.
I look at my outfit.
Winston nods while pointing to my outfit.
“This is Victor, my apprentice. I’ve been training him the past month,” Winston says.
“Oh, okay.”
“And this is my friend Kevin,” Winston says. “How have you been? Things must be going well.”
“I know it’s been a while. You know, you just get caught up with projects and deadlines.”
“Yeah, I remember how it was,” he says, with a look as if he doesn’t have fond memories of his office-working days.
“I think I’m getting closer,” I say.
“To what?”
“The promotion.”
“Is that still what you want?” he says.
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know, why wouldn’t you?” he says.
I hand over a five-dollar bill for three rings.
“I saw you on TV the other day,” he says.
My head sinks.
“That was brutal,” he continues. “Mad Dog is a coon.”
“Ain’t he though?” I agree.
“I tried to warn you about that woman.”
I toss. I miss. Rust.
“Yeah, I know,” I say. “But how are things with you?”
He sighs. “It’s good. The kids are good. The grandkids were over just last weekend. I’m through with this place, though.”
“Why?”
“Just tired. I know this isn’t much, but I feel like it’s too taxing on my body.”
“I thought you’d never slow down, old man.”
We laugh. I toss another ring. I hit.
“It’s time for me to take a break. Or one day you’ll come here and Victor won’t be lying about my death. I don’t want to die at an amusement park, passed out into fluffy creatures. Plus, I’ve worked enough in my life.”
“I feel like that sometimes too,” I say.
He looks at me.
“What?” I say. “These last few months have been tough.”
I toss another ring. I hit. Back in my old groove.
“You wanna play another round?” he says.
I look at my watch.
“I can’t. Got an early presentation tomorrow. And I want to go home and prepare.”
“Look at you. I’m halfway proud,” he says.
As I walk back to my car, I realize this is the first time in a long time that I’ve hung out with Winston and didn’t ask him for advice. It feels good to be able to figu
re things out on my own.
* * *
Coming home from work feels more and more gratifying. I’m getting a lot of work done during the day, but part of me is really getting a kick out of getting people fired. At first, I felt bad about making innocent folks lose their job. But when I thought about it a little bit harder, I realized they did sort of deserve it. They were assholes who were benefitting from the kindness of good people like me and bringing the overall work environment down drastically. In a way, this was my first executive decision. While driving home, I sit and anticipate Jake’s nightly phone call, and who’s he gonna say is next on my list. I feel like a deadly hit man waiting for my next target. Walking to my condo door, I’m too elated to even think about what I’m going to have for dinner.
Then, I see her waiting for me at my door. I have no idea what Alexis is doing here, but I won’t let her bring me down. I keep strutting toward the door. “Can I help you with something?”
“You changed the locks?” she says.
I laugh. “I gave you that key when I still had hopes of you coming to live with me.”
“Can I come in?” she says.
I unlock the door and crack it slightly, but stand in the doorway. “Not really, I’ve had a long day. And I would like just to relax.
She says nothing.
“Is this about your brother’s rehab?”
“No, but he did call me about getting kicked out because of an unpaid bill. Why’d you stop paying?”
“He’s not my brother,” I say.
“But he used to call you bro.”
I go to close the door, because I don’t like where this conversation is going. She stops me by shouting, “I need your help.”
Shooting Stars Page 23