The Office Manager

by Neal Donohue

I couldn’t make it out. He gripped the bar of the forklift, imagining he could stop the inevitable. I grabbed his wrist and ripped it away, pushing him down, off the forklift. He tumbled onto the pavement like a piece of broken furniture, lying motionless. I slowly stepped off, walked around the forklift where he lay groaning. I lifted the tire iron off the back of the forklift and whacked it against the guardrail. It rang out loud, echoing down the warehouse. It was like a bell, a death knell, and it terrified him. I stood over his cowering body and I gripped it with both my fists, took a deep breath, raised it, and brought it down upon his head.

  He looked up at me one last time, his eyes craving mercy. He tried to shield his face with those frail arms, attempting to stop the inevitable. But it was too late. I hit him once, twice, three times. I heard his skull crack. I smashed him again, and again, and then one more time. His bloodied eyes rolled back into his head as he slumped over, under the wheel of the forklift. His head had cracked open like a piece of dried wood. Then he simply stopped moving.

  He was dead.

  As I was breathing heavily, I realized his blood had splattered over my face, shirt, and hands. My fingers dripped with it. But I kept staring down at the little man, lying dead at my feet. I felt nothing. Suddenly, Bill’s chest jerked up and lunged at me, as if alive. His eyes opened wide, glaring at me, but then the body spasm ended, and he fell back down onto the ground. I quickly sat on his chest until he stopped twitching. Five seconds later, it stopped. I wiped the sweat off my face with my handkerchief.

  I wanted to smoke but there wasn’t time, so I pried open a crate on the boarding dock with the crowbar, removed the styrofoam filler and lifted Guthrie’s body by his armpits, dragging him into the crate. Once inside, I shoved him into the siding with my foot, then hammered the nails shut. The last image I saw of Bill Guthrie was his small red eyes, wide open, staring back at me.

  I knew the bloodstains had to be cleaned up before it sank into the concrete. So I bleached it and had my own clothes burned. A janitor’s mop was all I needed. Afterwards, I stuck the mop into the bin outside, along with my jumpsuit, and set it on fire with gasoline.

  I felt exhausted but it was finally over. When my adrenalin collapsed I was drained. I simply dropped onto a wooden bench outside the freight entry and lit my cigarette. Taking the first drag of the day I watched the black Los Angeles horizon slowly lighten. The soft orange glow of sunrise crept slowly over the public housing units, that were east of the warehouse, making the brown city smog visible. After ten minutes, I shuffled back into my office and made a fresh cup of coffee.

  It was one hour later that Jim Carlson, the warehouse foreman, swung open the front door.

  “Hey, John! I got donuts here with enough icing to give ya’ diabetes. How many ya’ want?”

  “One, Jim,” I replied. “I may need some extra energy today.”

  “I bet you do, chasing the mice around the warehouse all night?”

  “I killed one.”

  “You did? Ain’t that Guthrie’s job.” He laughed at the thought, but had no malice in mind.

  “Where is Bill, anyway?”

  “Didn’t show.”

  “Really? Must be the first time in months. I guess the old man’s sick.”

  “Never can tell.”

  “Well, more donuts for us.” Carlson laughed as he slapped the box on the counter. “Take the fudge one, you bastard,” he offered. “It’ll make your dull life exciting.”

  “You think so?”

  The icing was thick, dark and sweet, and I swallowed it in two bites. I took a sip of the fresh coffee, then leaned back to review the inventory list for the day’s workload. Thirty half-ton crates were being shipped to Shanghai, along with Bill Guthrie. The inventory seemed in order.

  Suddenly, I heard my stereo and recognized the beautiful crescendo of Handel's Messiah reaching it's magnificent finale.

  THE END