Organ donor

Beer shits, dehydration and gout toes. A normal way to wake up now.

Old creeps up on you. One day your sunning on the beach, watching bikinis and drinking cold beers. The next morning, you can’t get out of bed due to the pain inside.

Staring at the hair on my shoulders and the lines on my face, I don’t want to believe it. But I do. Golden teeth and white pubic hairs are now standard.

I don’t feel old otherwise. It may have more to do with lifestyle than fact. When you don’t change the way you live – except no longer eating frozen pizzas for just about every meal – it’s tougher to emotionally change. Which for this character, is probably a good thing.

If I was wearing a suit and tie, sitting in a cubicle, hating my job … oh wait, that has happened.

If I was DVRing every television show that I’m told is “hot”. If I was listening to modern jazz or Ray Lamontague. If I felt the urge to vote for Mitt Romney. If the contents of my 401k worried me. Then, I’d be worried about myself.

Death comes easy if you let it in. Guess there are many ways to do that. The way I’ve chosen seems to be nicer. I enjoy most of my life. Just those moments of too much reflection get in the way. Yeah, I’d love to have money in the bank. That way I could go buy some new underwear that the waistband isn’t saggy, but I’m OK. They still do the job. Just have to pull them up every so often.

That my friends is getting old gracefully.

Ha.

It’s good to have a sense of humor. When all around you crumbles. Who wants to be the guy huddled in a bomb shelter, hoping it doesn’t cave in on him? I’d rather be the guy with a bottle of gin and some Robert Johnson playing while I sit in my lawn chair and watch. Are they really going to take aim at one guy in a lawn chair? Or a bunch of  townhomes full of folks huddled in basements?

The sound of a fan blowing is soothing. The fan itself is what keeps me cool in this un-air conditioned house. Yeah, I could turn it on. But then I’d have $150 to $200 to pay the electric company every month. $58 or so is much better. And, you get used to the heat. Just like you get used to the cool. Heck, when the A/C is on, I sleep more. Which isn’t necessarily a good thing. You miss life sleeping too much. It’s why I don’t take naps. Some of the best things in my life have happened when I was sleepy. If I’d taken a nap, I would have missed them.

Like right now. I’m going to open up the window and see what’s going on outside.

No people. Heaven.

An empty Pepsi can saunters down the street. It’s windblown and makes a slight clanking sound as it moves slowly down the road. In the big city, that can would’ve been swooped up by a homeless guy looking for a little cash, an environmentally driven hippie or maybe even a giant behemoth of a street cleaner – spraying dirty water on the road and sucking it back up again with whatever garbage it can.

Here it’ll get to go on a journey.

It could get buried by a freak storm in a dune, preserved for years until a hurricane comes along and exposes it to the world again.

Maybe it’ll roll into an abandoned yard, slowly making its way under an abandoned house. Safe from the elements and content to have a spider move into it.

Or it could be picked up by a kid, stared at intently and then tossed back into the world.

Or another kid may kick it down the street, over and over again.

Still another kid could shoot bbs at it.

But, most likely it’ll make it to Fort Macon Road and get run over by a car. Flattened, it’ll sit there crushed over and over again until it rains. The rain will float it down to a drain. The drain will dump it in the ocean. There, it’ll get eaten by a fish or shark if it’s unlucky. If it’s lucky, it’ll float to Cuba, where some kid will find it on the beach, pick it up and put it in a bag. To be recycled for money.

I guess the life cycle of an aluminum can is pretty depressing. It’ll always end up the same – melted back down and sold for scrap.

Sure am glad I’m an organ donor.

The voice

I walked into the newsroom. It was cold. And quiet. The silence was eerie. I couldn’t get past it. I started running. But the room got longer with each step I took. The cubicles higher with each glance to the side.

“Stop!” a voice boomed out from nowhere and everywhere. “What do YOU think you are doing!”

My heart skipped a beat. It felt like it was going to just stop working right there. That this once proud place, a place full of life and hope and laughter and tears that now could pass for an airport terminal at 3 in the morning – except a terminal would at least have a janitor vacuuming late at night still – would my final resting place. Symbolic for sure. Because I’d certainly given my life to something that didn’t appreciate it, but certainly kept feeding on it.

“WELL?” the voice boomed again.

“I’m just trying to do my job,” I said. I don’t even know why those words came out of my mouth, but they did. Almost like an instinct they came.

“Didn’t you get the memo?” the voice said with a slight chuckle.

“No, I received no memo,” I said. I hadn’t checked my e-mail at work in months. It seemed pointless. All it was ever filled with was bad news. So, I just didn’t do it anymore. Guess there are consequences to every decision you make.

“That’s not good,” the voice said. “You were terminated, but you are still here. And by now, all of the security guards have been terminated too!”

“So what you’re saying is, I have the run of the place?”

“No! You must leave. NOW!”

“No. You’ll need to come down from your office and do it yourself.”

“But … “ I heard the hesitancy in the voice, it gave me confidence to continue what I was doing. A plan was starting to form in my mind. “I am not in a position to do that. You must leave.”

“I’ll get right on that, chief,” I said. I looked at my cell phone. It was a work paid for model. It appeared to still be working. This, of course, was a shock. I started dialing a number.

“What are you doing!” the voice sounded worried.

“I think you know exactly what I’m doing,” I said with a smirk and a middle finger in the air. I felt good and stupid doing that at the same time.

“Hello?” a voice on the other end answered. “Who is this?”

“It’s me, dumb ass, you’re editor,” I said.

“What? But the paper closed down yesterday?” a very confused Paul responded. “Randy, is this some kind of perverse joke?”

I thought about it for just a second before answering. I’m sure Paul saw my work number calling him and expected it to be someone from corporate hounding him one last time. But no, it was me. And I had a plan.

“Paul, it’s me. Just but on your clothes and get your ass over here,” I said.

“Over where?”

“The office, man. The office.”

“But…”

“No fucking buts man. I walked in and found everything here still. I didn’t even know about the firings yesterday. Hell, my key card still worked the front door. I guess that night on a barstool paid off for me. They seemed to have forgotten about me.”

“Oh shit. So, what are you planning on doing? Taking some shit or something. I mean, those computers are fucking ancient man. And you can only use so many reporter’s notepads.”

We both laughed. It felt good.

“Hell no brother,” I said. “We’re going to fucking put out one last edition.”

“How? What? You and me?”

“Of course not, asshole. After yesterday, I’m betting everyone I call will come down here.”

I was mostly right. Three people had already moved out of town. One day later. Man life goes on quickly for some folks. But I’m a dwelling. And this is my dwelling. Another guy said he was too drunk to fuck, let alone put out a newspaper. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, but said “If you sober up, or just get ornery enough to come in, do it!”

After about 45 minutes, a skeleton crew of reporters had arrived. As did two photographers. I simply said “You have 6 hours to write whatever story you want. It can be whatever you want, but it has to have impact.”

I said 6 hours because that’s about how long I figured it would take “the voice” to figure out we were doing something. I was still talking to it, and as long as I kept it occupied, it didn’t seem to think I was doing anything.

“Why won’t you leave?” it asked me again.

“Because this is my home. What would you do if someone came in and took away your home?”

“That’s silly. It’s just a job. Not your home.”

“You see,” I said to the voice, not knowing why I was trying to reason with it, “That is exactly why you don’t get it. We’d die with this place. Yet you still want to just kill it off.”

“It’s about profits,” the voice boomed. “Everyone in the office heard that one.”

“Yes, I understand that. But there is a difference between a profit and a sustainable profit. All you want is the first, damning the second to a quick death.”

“It does not matter. It is done.”

“You’re right,” I said. It had been six hours now. We were ready to go to press.

“Where are you going?!” the voice said as I left the newsroom. Heading straight for the press.

I flipped a knob and it roared to life. It was an older one. Reminded me of all those old movies where they had papers being printed with the headline of whatever dramatic moment needed to be portrayed on screen. Doing that with a web page or a cell phone app in a movie will never be the same.

“Noooooooooooooooooooo!” the voice boomed. “You can’t do that!”

“Too late,” I said.

Soon, the real last edition rolled off the presses.

We put them in the backs of our cars, with the circulation sheets from the night before printed out. An army of reporters, photographers, copy editors and desk clerks; press operators and sorters; janitors and secretaries. We all smiled as we left this time. We’d be delivering the news. And that’s all we ever wanted.

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.