Jack Rebney vs. the cats

The place smelled bad again today. Like some kind of furniture polish mixed with bleach. Unbearable, for sure, but it came with the territory.

Each day seemed to bring a new odor. Some days, it was easy to tell what it was. If the bug guy had been there, and he was there often, it would smell of bug spray and vinegar. If it was the beginning of the month, it would be of potpourri, as the janitor’s wife always gave him a new bag on the first. If it reeked of shit, then the toilets were clogged up. Usually by Richard. And if there was paint, it meant someone punched a wall and it had to be covered up.

The cubicles were all the same. Some people decorated with pictures of family and friends. Others had action figures and toys. A few just had dirty wrappers and napkins from weeks of fast food purchases.

The floors were marked with black circles at each desk. The more a person spent in their desk, the blacker the circle was. The floors were cleaned about twice a year if there was a reason. A dead mouse sat behind an abandoned desk. It had been empty for months, since the last round of layoffs. A newsroom was no place for people anymore.

The computer came on. Taking time to boot up its store of over a decade-old software. No one used CS2 anymore, right? Wrong.

Finally, his computer was done booting and he logged in. And sighed a long sigh.

“Hey, buddy, what’s happening?” a voice said from behind. It was Mike. He was way too chipper now that he had lost weight. It was good for him, but it also made him more annoying.

“Same job, different day,” he replied.

“Heh, heh, heh,” Mike laughed and went back to work.

Staring at the walls he couldn’t help but look up at the stains on the ceiling. They appeared to be blood. Crusted and dark the stains were. Just above his desk. He fantasized often about it being from the last person in this cubicle, who finally had had enough and just blew his head off, spraying some blood on the walls and ceiling above. The wall, they just painted over. The ceiling, it just absorbed it. Those tiles made out of corkboard. Blood and mold.

He shuttered thinking about it and stared at his computer screen. A balding man stared back at him. The screen saver was of the Winnebago Man of internet fame. It got him through the days sometimes, just having a staring contest with Jack Rebney.

After about six minutes of this, another sigh. And this was enough to make him get up.

He walked through the newsroom, staring at the empty cubicles. The ones that still had people in them, all looked sullen and wasted. Plus, they all had headphones on. Every single one of them. Hell, the phones never rang anymore, so I guess it didn’t matter.

After opening the door to go outside, he held his breath. Walking through the smoking area always made him angry too. Why the hell did it have to be right next to the main employee entrance. It seemed to defeat the purpose of making them do it outside. Hell, if the newsroom was full of smoke, maybe it would feel like a newsroom again. Maybe the newsroom itself would realize exactly what it was again and something good would happen?

Nah.

He walked to the back. There was a beat up old van there with broken out windows. The keys were in the ignition. They were always there. I guess no one needed a van bad enough to take it.

Past the van were the recycling areas. Giant 18-wheelers just sitting there waiting to be filled with newspapers. Most of them just printed and then thrown away. A great scheme in the old days. If you printed them, you could say that was the circulation. Charge more for advertisements and then print some more.

It didn’t work that way anymore.

He walked past the trucks to an empty patch of grass. It seemed so out of place in this industrial complex. But it was here.

He’d heard two days ago that a couple of mailroom employees sneak out into the woods and fuck. That seems to be silly. Why do it there? Just use a cubicle.

Feral cats were everywhere in the field. It appears that folks feed them as empty tuna cans and pieces of tin foil are strewn about. The cats are all well fed and not exactly friendly. Bastards. You’d think if we’re feeding ya, you’d want to be nice.

He sat in the field and stared at the cats.

“This is more enjoyable than staring at Jack Rebney,” he thought with a smile.

Before he knew it, three hours had passed. He looked down at his leg. It was asleep and covered with ants. He’d sat right next to an ant hole and they were not taking on the job of devouring his body.

For just a second, the thought of being slowly taken apart by ants as appealing. His job was that bad, he thought to himself.

But it really wasn’t. Hell, it was easy. Mind-numbingly easy to be exact. One day, he wouldn’t be working there anymore. And he’d probably end up with a tougher job.

He hoped at least.

Heads down, Thumbs up

“Jones, we’re playing 7-Up!” Hamilton screamed in a lusty, slurred voice.

I was taken aback. There was a moment. A small little look in her eye that said “Yep, I remember.” But how could she? That was first grade. I was a bowl-haired goof. She was a giant, long-haired bully in a blue jacket. Now, I’m a 40-year old goof. She’s a short, plump lesbian who keeps trading in for new 23 year olds. We have a lot more in common than a first glimpse would give.

“Come on now, Jones! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven UP!” She put her head down on the barroom table. One of those circle jobs with chrome to put your feet on. Only problem was she was too short to put her feet on the chrome. Hers just dangled in the air.

“Heads down, thumbs up! Heads down, thumps up, Jones!” She yelled it over and over again. The mostly college-aged crowd looked on in wonder and dumbfoundedness. I started to think “do kids even play that anymore?”

My uncomfort must have shown as my lady friend Alli gave me a sympathetic look. Kimmy was drunk. There was no stopping this game.

While standing there in a bar called Banditos with all those kids from Virginia Commonwealth, I was catapulted back to elementary school. A skinny, bleach-blonde kid who always wore t-shirts from colleges all over the county. And KISS shirts. That was my wardrobe. I liked me. And I liked a girl. A blonde girl. Her name was Buffy.

I was happy. I was a jokester. I was way too smart for my own good. And I knew it. As did the other kids. But only because I told them so. Over and over again. So much so it ingrained in their brains. At my 20-year high school reunion, a gal named Melissa tried to pick me up. I wasn’t interested, but I played along. Figured I was past due for some attention from a girl in my hometown. Eventually, she called me an asshole, but kept trying to get in my pants. After too many shots of whiskey, our banter moved closer and closer to each other. I almost kissed her at one point, but I pulled back. She called me an asshole again. I agreed.

“You were just like that even when you were a little kid,” she said. “I remember you getting up in the middle of class one day when I was reading out loud. I was having trouble with it, and you said “I’ve already finished. Can I have a different book. That hurt my feelings. Always remembered that.”

Wow I thought. Maybe I actually had people’s attention back then. Never knew it.

She offered me a blowjob later that night. I said no. A buddy of mine from the high school soccer team, who I had not seen since our graduation just laughed. Over and over he said to me, and anyone else still lingering at this sad affair, “damn, that Jones is one cool cat. He’s turning down pussy.”

Funny how things change.

Or how little they do. Watching Hamilton act out Seven Up brought back my own memories of that very same classroom where I was the asshole kid. Of playing that game. Of always picking the same girl. And her, knowing full well who picked her, never picking me.

I’d always raise my hand when the teacher asked who wanted to be up front for Seven Up. Everyone in that room also figured out pretty quickly who I was going to pick. The beautiful blonde-haired girl. The one we all had a crush on. From Danny my best friend to Danny the smelly one. From Lee the redhead to Mike the already-a-preppy. We all liked her.

The teacher would take the seven up front. Then she’d say the words “Heads down, all around.” Everyone still in their desks would put their head down. Of course we all cheated. Looking at feet. Peeking through the space between the desk and the elbow.

Knowing this, we all walked around the room. Many times over. Trying to pass the same people. Using each other as shields. One person would stand close by and then you’d touch the person’s thumb. Pushing it down.

Well, everyone but me. I’d do the laps, same as everyone else. But with seven, there can only be three pairs. One left out. And I’d always tap her thumb. Just doing that was a thrill. Even for a seven year old kid.

After seven thumbs were pressed. The teacher would cry out “Heads up, stand up!” And the seven whose thumbs were pressed would stand up. You’d get one guess to pick who pressed your thumb. She never picked me. Which meant I’d stay up front. When I’d say who I picked, there were always giggles. But I never stopped picking her. And she never stopped not picking me.

Thinking back now, Hamilton must be channeling that inner kid.

“You gonna pick me? She asks with a grin. Or that blonde over there?”

She does remember. I wonder where Buffy is today, I wonder. Married. Kids. Fat. Most likely. God only knows. I hadn’t thought of her in a long time. I think she’s why I don’t dig on the blondes. Never dated one. Never will.

“I think she’s more your type,” I say.