In Progress Cubicles

[mehisfishtaco]

( Just a little novel I'm working on. I don't think it's that great, but I could use some help if I want to try and make it great. Constructive critisism please.

This is only chapter one, I'll be posting the other chapters later. )

Chapter One:
Workaholic
If everyone is exciting, shouldn’t being exciting be boring, and to be boring be exciting?​

My brain is completely numb, I can’t think straight, I haven’t had my daily cup of coffee and my body is craving it. Usually there are two words to describe a person such as myself, workaholic and boring. This is true. I’m not going to give you crap like ‘I’m a great guy’ or that I’m ‘shy at first but once you get to know me I can be a party animal’. Because that would just be lies, and adding more lies to those that I told will only make the night that I die more miserable. Raising my head from the computer screen, which I was typing a letter of apology to an unsatisfied customer (apparently her lamp burst into flames and her living room was charred and being doused with water from firemen when she came home – though there was a label on the box clearly stating not to leave the lamp on for more than eight hours). My head hurts. I’m too lazy to stand up and get an aspirin, because that would mean walking, and right now it’s eight in the morning and I just want sleep.

I allow my gaze to wander off of the screen, that alone makes my migraine lessen somewhat. Looking at a worker in the cubicle next over, I realize he seems as bored as I am. The boss is nowhere to be seen, he grins at me. “The fatty must’ve left to go get a burger, all that guy does is eat – eat and complain, twenty four seven.” I nod, though don’t smile, because I find his words more true than funny.

“When’s lunch?” Asks the voice of another male, we both glance in his direction, realizing our boss wasn’t the only one who always thought about his stomach.

“We can’t blame him, really.” I murmur, the man looks back at me, surprised – I hardly talk so this is a bit surprising. Everyone’s always surprised when they hear my monotone voice, they act like I’ve grown another head or something. “I mean, don’t humans need to eat to survive?”

The first male who spoke with me blinks, and slowly nods. He looks back to his computer, apparently I’ve ruined his fun. I try to mimic his actions, but when I look back to my own computer I blink, my headache returning stronger than before.

It reminds me of my friend from first grade, I can’t remember his name that well, it started with the letter P. I think it might’ve been Phil. Or maybe Paul… Anyways, the kid always stared at the sun, he suffered from horrible headaches and momentary blindness. But he just kept staring, day after day. All I remember is calling his house one morning and hearing his mother sobbing, she said Paul couldn’t play, that he was in the hospital. Apparently his eyes had been terribly damaged, and now he was blind. Now I’m wondering if a computer screen is capable of doing this.

Perhaps my boss isn’t one of those nice overweight men, maybe he’s like those cruel ones. Maybe he’s trying to make me go blind.

The guy next to me is trying to start up a conversation, I glare at him. This is work, and this guy’s being ridiculous. He’s acting like a teenage boy who doesn’t want to pay attention to his lessons. Then again, I’m not doing my work either…

“Hey,” I whisper. “Shut up.”

He blinks, and looks at me, waves his hand with a roll of his eyes, and then turns back to the guy he’s talking to. So, this is work. This is life. Bullies and annoying brats come and go, and apparently this guy hasn’t broken out of his habit of throwing spitballs at the teacher - or in this case, our overweight boss.

Then we hear elevator doors open, the secretary – Laura – approaches me. She’s holding a note in her hand, but my eyes are on the computer once more. She holds it in my face and waves it around, irritated. I take it from her hand with a sigh.

Meet the boss in his office at eight forty.

I look back to Laura, she’s walking away, and I pout. Yeah, the girl’s really cruel, but I can’t help but like her a little. I have a feeling that the redhead must have a soft side to her, but I know becoming her friend would be a difficult task. I space out, daydreaming about anything and everything. Then I look at the clock, and it’s eight thirty eight.

So, I hurry towards the elevator and after a few minutes of listening to that painfully cheerful song I’m walking through the open doors and staring at my boss.

“I need to speak with you.” He says slowly, almost uncertainly.

I take a seat across from him, and stare at him anxiously. “Yes?”

He takes a deep breath, and chills run down my spine. I love this job, I love my boss (well, not really actually, I’ve never been a fan of him), my co-workers are alright. Please, don’t let him fire me, I just desperately hope he isn’t going to fire me.

“You’re fired.”

 

[mehisfishtaco]

Chapter Two:
Fired

If your job is your life, then what happens when you get fired?

My jaw feels limp, hanging low, my eyes bulging. I look like an idiot, well, at least I think I do. The fat man, balding and covered in wrinkles like a prune, exhales so deeply you would have thought he’s been holding his breath for hours – if that was possible.

“What?” I choke, the word caught in my throat. “What are you talking about?”

He stares at me between the two slits you could barely call eyes. Every time I look at my boss I’m reminded of how strikingly similar he is to Jabba the Hut. Just a fat lump in a chair drinking coffee, screaming, and waving one of his meaty fingers in the face of a working father of four.

He’d destroyed so many lives. Now he is just moving onto my life, working on tearing my life apart piece by piece.

“I said, you’re fired.” His voice is a deep rumble, it reminds me of the croaking of the frogs that my brother used to step on during camping trips. If only he was just another one of those frogs, I’d love to watch my brother’s giant foot squash him, making him explode from the pressure of my brother’s larger-than-life shoe.

“Why?” My voice has become slightly stronger, but only slightly.

I allow my eyes to stray, moving to my boss and his chubby fingers which are tapping the desk slowly. ‘Each tap is adding another second to my despair,’ I think, ‘he’s keeping track of how long it takes to fire me’.

“The economy’s been bad, and we have to let people go.”

I wonder if being fat makes it hard to talk, because he sure does take a while to respond to my questions. But I only wonder this, I don’t say it. Never once in my life have I hurt the feelings of another human being, not verbally at least.

“I’m sorry.”

But I know my boss feels no sympathy. Despite the fact he can say ‘I’m sorry’ twenty times, I know he doesn’t care. Why should he? Nobody cares about Nathanial Reed, twenty nine years old and soon to be unemployed.

“Nathanial, get out of my sight.” My boss says, his New York accent makes that ‘all people in New York are rude’ easy to believe. And already, he’s unwrapping a burger.
‘Fatty.’ I think to myself in disgust, watching him.
He takes a bite from the burger and that alone disgusts me, it makes my stomach churn and my head ache. He chews with his mouth open, saliva running down his chin and dripping on the only thing keeping me from running to him and trying to see if I could wrap my hands around his thick neck – the desk.

“No.”

Had I really said that? Had I really opposed the worshipped fatty, our Americanized Buddha with wrinkles, an overbite, and small beady eyes.

“I’m staying here until you give me back my job.”

He’s about as fast as a turtle, his reaction time is five seconds per word. And he chews on his burger slowly, thoughtfully. “I know you are angry.” He finally speaks, setting the burger down, I try to avoid looking at it. “But I have to do this. Now leave, before I call security.”

So, I finally nod, giving up my short struggle to withhold my job at the company that had been creating special lamps which could cause an ordinary light bulb to last for years. I scoot back from my chair, head hanging low, standing up and making my way to the door I hear my boss murmur something under his breath. Blinking, I return to leaving, not bothering to try and discover if there is any truth in the words that had escaped his two fat, wet, lips. I don’t want to spend another minute in this place.

Now I walk out of the room, into the hallway, and to the elevator. The man staying next to me has shaggy red hair, he’s a few years younger than me, but the two of us have been friends since before I got this job. Before I began to live to work rather than work to live. His name is Robert, and we’re best friends. But, he hasn’t talked to me very much recently, it’s as if we’re two strangers. Like we’ve never met one another. So, I stand at the opposite corner of the elevator – trying to keep my distance from him. He doesn’t even glance in my direction, nod his head, or show any sign of a greeting.

The elevator stops. “Bye.” I mutter, he doesn’t ask me if I’ll see him again. He can tell from the look on my face that I’m not going to show up tomorrow. So, he nods his head, watching me leave. I approach the exit, and behind me the elevator doors close.

 

[mehisfishtaco]

Chapter Three:
Escaping Life

Suicide Is Just an Easy Way Out Of the Challenge We Call Life

Mold – the smell of it burns in my nostrils. I feel the gagging reflects come into action, and I heave forwards, I gag several times. Vomit rushes up my throat, I taste it on my tongue, and it begins to run down the corners of my mouth and drips onto the floor. I have to stop living like this. The dishes are stacked in grimy piles near the sink, I’m not sure how many days I’ve been unemployed - just like I’m unsure whether my neighbor has two cats and one dog, or two dogs and one cat. But things like this don’t matter. All that matters to me right now, is getting a job. But I don’t want any job, I want my old job. Because I don’t have the guts to just come marching back in, and having toad-man looking at my work from over my shoulder.

I couldn’t care less about my friends. Really, they weren’t my friends, just co-workers. There was only one woman who I felt something more for, but she moved off and got married. Now I’m alone. Now I have absolutely nothing.

I know, I sound stupid, I sound like a whining two year old. But this is how I feel. In a way I do want my job back, I want the economy to be back to what it was. The first night I came home I remember waking up in the middle of the night, thinking it had all been a bad dream. Now, I’ve been thinking, if I have nothing to live for then what’s the point of living? Sometimes, thoughts crept into my mind. Things I shouldn’t take pleasure in thinking about.

But, I thought about these things. I pictured myself, my body hanging from the ceiling, a twisted rope knotted around my neck, my face blue and bloated, and my eyes wide and gaping at the wall. Now, I know this isn’t something I should think about. I know I should go see professional help if I’m thinking about these things seriously.

I look at my reflection in the mirror, and I look like hell. My green eyes which are usually serious and wide awake - are now red and heavy with lack of sleep. And my skin, it’s plain, not pale or tan. I would never, in a million years, describe myself as attractive – with my brown shaggy hair that sticks out everywhere, and the stubble on my face from lack of a good shave – I’d say I’m far from it. Then again, don’t even celebrities believe themselves to be ugly once in a while? After all, isn’t that why they fall into the trap of plastic surgery?

My thoughts are always drifting back to death now, I never thought of it before, even when my grandfather died at the age of twelve. I didn’t think of it happening to myself.

‘It’s a fact of life,’ my father had told me on his deathbed only two or so years ago. ‘I don’t want you crying, it happens to all of us. Don’t mourn my death, I’ve lived my life, and I’m proud of it’.



And that was it. I never thought of death as anything bad. If someone was murdered on television, then it was just their time to go, and that was the way they were meant to be sent to the grave. If a pregnant woman was stabbed to death, then she wasn’t meant to have her child, neither her nor the child were going to live another day on this cursed world. Now, I’m not saying that this is true, it’s most likely not. I’m just saying how I feel. As for what happens after death, I don’t think that matters to me, I won’t worry about it until I’m dead. And when that happens, I’ll find out.

Now, I was becoming really into suicide, like, seriously considering it. I mean, it was either that or starving to death because I had no money for food. So, I was serious, I had finally marked a date on the calendar and everything. And for the rest of the week I was going to straighten up my relationships, say goodbye to everyone I know, all that. So, as I’m walking to the couch with a phone in hand I flip through the phone book. It falls out of my hand, and lands face up on an advertisement.

The job is nothing that big, some man who needs a caretaker because he’s in a wheelchair from an accident that happened a month ago. I’m interested. Not because I want to help the man, but because of the amount of money he’s offering. I’m staring at the ad and thinking ‘Dang, this guy is filthy rich!’. And I know that I have to get this job before someone else takes it. So, I pick up a phone, and dial the number.

I wasn’t put on hold, in fact someone answered on the second ring. How eager is this guy? I think as he coughs on the other end, he’s coughing loudly, and clears his throat several times, leaving me waiting and in an awkward position.

“Hello?” he rasps, his voice is a deep growl, finally he clears his throat and his voice comes out clearer and stronger. “Hello?” He asks again.

“Hello,” I reply, forcing myself to sound as polite as I can despite my lack of a friendly personality. “I’m Nathanial, I was calling in regards to your advertisement in the phone book.”

We talk for about thirty minutes or so, the conversation very formal and awkward for me. It was like my job interview all over again. Finally, he said I sounded perfect for the job, gave me his address and hung up. I hadn’t had a friend for ages, not since Robert, who strayed far from me after a while. And part of me was longing for a friend. Now I’m looking at the sheet of paper, his address written on it in my barely legible handwriting. Placing the sheet of paper on the kitchen counter, I went to sleep, since Kale wanted me at his house by six and his home was going to be a two hour drive.

 

[mehisfishtaco]

Chapter Four:
Kale

Friendship – though seemingly unnecessary – makes life easier.

Those camping trips that I talked about earlier, the ones where my brother would step on frogs, spit and pee in the lakes that supplied drinking water for the area, this place is exactly like that. It’s huge, and empty. My family had always loved these places, but as for me, I’m terrified of them. Because the trees are so thick, and it’s so quiet, you never know if someone’s watching you or not. These kinds of places drove me off to living in a city. I could never handle living in a place as empty as this, where the empty spaces are only filled with trees to create an illusion.

I’m sitting in the car, staring at the red light, my mind is numb since I haven’t had my morning cup of coffee. My watch is broken, I have no way to know if I’m running late, and I’m not exactly sure if I’m going to be early either.

The sun is rising, the light hits my eyes, blinding me for a moment. I should have brought my sunglasses. After driving past fields of green, large beautiful trees, and luscious fields of flowers, I’m wondering if I was given the wrong directions.

All of my negative thoughts are driven away once I see a house in the distance. There is a truck in the driveway, the windshield wipers are bent crooked sticking out at the sides of the truck, the glass of the window is shattered, glittering on the front seat which is stained with blood. The rest of the truck is collecting dust, and the mirrors and windshield wipers have cobwebs. The old truck is covered in rust as well, chipping away at the dark blue paint.

‘Pity’ I think, pulling over my crappy car. ‘If the car wasn’t such a mess, I could accept it as payment.’

So, I pull my car over next to the truck, and spend a bit of time inspecting the wreck. Beneath all the wreckage, I could tell it was a nice truck when he first bought it. Sighing, I then turn and walk down the sidewalk towards the home. The truck wasn’t the only thing that was a mess. The chain link fence that creates a small space for a backyard is falling apart, it’s got giant gaping holes in it. And the front yard is infested with weeds, killing off any plants that would look nice. Plus there’s this one big ugly tree, that looks like it’s about to topple over at any moment, and it’s leaning right towards the house. I can only pray that a thunder storm won’t cause it to fall over and kill Kale. That would make me unemployed… again.


Walking down the cracked sidewalk I cannot help but notice how empty his neighborhood is, there aren’t any houses around, just a vast space of empty land. The field stretches on as far as the eye can see, and I’m a little upset about the idea of having to mow his lawn. At least he’d pay me well enough, and I couldn’t expect getting that much money if I did nothing for him. But I just can’t stand the idea of doing any sort of physical labor.

Why did I get this job? Oh yeah, to avoid starving to death.

I walk up the sidewalk. A corny smile on my face that makes my cheeks ache as I hold it while knocking on the door and waiting for an answer. The irritating sound of wheels rolling over wood can be heard on the other side as my fake smile is plastered on my face, the constant quiet bump from each time the wheels pass over a crack that separates each strip of wood.
Bump.
Bump.
Bump.
Bump.

How the heck am I supposed to handle that constant quiet noise for hours on end? My smile falters, but returns when the wooden door creaks open, followed by a screen door, and I look down at the elderly man seated in the chair.

 

[mehisfishtaco]

Chapter Five:
My Work Begins

No pain, no gain.

Kale looks nothing like I’ve expected him to, I thought there would be some little old man, scrawny and weak. So when I came upon this muscular and strong looking man I couldn’t help but be surprised. His light brown eyes were narrowed and I could practically feel his stern gaze scrutinizing me as if I was a poorly done work of art and he was an art critic. His skin was a little darker than mine, he appeared to be of Hawaiian or Native American heritage, maybe even Spanish. Kale’s face was angular and stern, he appeared to be a statue carved into marble, face positioned into a permanent frown of disappointment. The dark forehead was covered in creases, thoughtful wrinkles, which when they slowly disappeared I nearly sighed with relief.
“Are you Nathanial?” he asks, coughing a little after he finishes speaking and taking the cigarette from between his fingers and puts it into his mouth and he smokes it slowly.
That explains the cough.


Already, I can imagine myself in a hospital, everything is white. Blinding, bright lights shine from the ceiling, and I have to squint. A doctor looks at me dramatically and after a pause whispers.
“You have lung cancer.”
Cue the dramatic soap opera music..
“It seems you’ve been exposed to second hand smoke.”
And I’ll laugh. “It’s a dream come true.” I’d announce. “I’m going to die!”


But my pleasant daydream is interrupted when this Kale fellow clears his throat, and I nod quickly while muttering an apology.

“Come in.” he says, voice losing any sign of friendliness.

The house is trashed, anyone can see that. The floor littered with newspaper articles and wrappings from various packaged granola bars.

“I guess I’m a bit of a health nut.” Kale says in the wheelchair next to me, with a chuckle.

On the wall, framed, are medals from the military and a police badge.
“Were you an officer?” I ask, looking at him.
“Yeah,” he nods, running his fingers through his short black curls. “My father fought in a few wars. But he died from a drug overdose. The war was just too much for him, I suppose.”


I frown, this poor man, he’s lost nearly everything.

“My father’s-” I take a shaky breath, trying to calm down and get the words to escape me. “My father is dead too.” I say, hoping to relate to this man somehow, to form some kind of relationship. “He’d had heart trouble almost his entire life, I guess it finally killed him.”

I’m crying.
I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.
I promised my father not to mourn him.

Kale watches me, the cigarette is placed between his lips, and he pulls it out and smiles at me.

“I tend to have that effect on people.” He says.

I should call my mother and my brother. I’ve avoided them for too long. I wouldn’t be surprised if they hated me.

I hate myself as well.
Maybe we could start a club. We’d call it the ‘I Hate Nathanial Reed’ club. It’d be all the rage. Everyone would join, even my friends – no, especially my friends, and of course I’d be the leader of the club.

“How about I start you off with working outdoors?” Kale says, moving the wheelchair towards the hall closet, with that irritating soft thump as he moves over each floorboard. “When it gets too hot or rains you can work inside.” He takes the cigarette and flicks it into the sink then takes a new one and lights it, before putting it in his mouth then looks at me and raises an eyebrow inquisitively. “Does that sound good to you?’

Of course not, it sounds horrible. I hate this house and I hate you for trying to become my friend. Maybe I should have killed myself. That crash should have slaughtered you - you should have been suffocated by the air bag or crushed to death. You should be road-kill and I should be dangling from a rope. Then the world would be a much better place.

“That sounds great.”

He hands me some gloves, a rake, a shovel, and a garbage bag. Taking the items I head for the front door, only to stop when he weakly grabbed the back of my t-shirt.

“Thank you, thank you so much.” He says to me, and when I see the look in his eyes I feel a little better.

This job could be fun.

 

[mehisfishtaco]

Chapter Six:
Jealousy

Without jealousy we would have no drama. Without drama the world would be boring.


Fun.
I’m beginning to regret describing physical labor as fun. What was I thinking? I’ve been working nonstop and I see no progress with the lawn. Three hours, and I probably have four more hours to go.


“You can work inside when it gets too hot.” I mock Kale’s words under my breath. “It’s ninety degrees, if this isn’t hot, then what is?”

I need a distraction, I’m exhausted, and thirsty. My mind needs to focus on something else. And for some reason, it drifts off to my father and my brother. I was my father’s favorite, to put it bluntly. My brother had been ignored when I was born. I was spoiled, my father just gave me what I wanted, meanwhile my brother had to work for it. I think he made it his goal in life to outshine me – to just once know what a father’s love could feel like. Then dad died. And that was that. No e-mail’s, phone call’s, not even a birthday card. My mother however – treated us equally, automatically making her big brother’s favorite. My father gave him hard work and claimed walking all the way to the
grocery store (he didn’t have a license and dad had taken his bike from him for bad grades) at one-hundred degrees was nothing.

‘Parents had different parenting styles.’
That was what my teachers and friends parents had said with a sigh. My brother earned no sympathy.

And now, drenched in sweat and gasping for air, I wish I’d said something to my father. Maybe I could have changed things. Or maybe the heat is messing with my head.
“Hey,” I hear Kale call out from the doorway. “How about you come inside for some lemonade?”

I agree, of course, and rush into the tiny house with a fan cooling off the kitchen. Walking towards the tiny circular table only fit for two people, or maybe four small children, I sit down in a chair and wait.

I watch him pour the lemonade in my glass.
I hate lemons.
I hate lemonade.

“Tell me,” says Kale, setting the glass in front of me. “What job did you have before this?”

“I worked in a cubicle,” I reply before taking a gulp of the lemonade, shuddering as the sour taste floods my taste buds. “For a company called Evershine. Sold lamps, I took the customer complaints and wrote apology letters. Well, actually they were e-mails, but-.”

“What’s the company’s name?” Kale asks, tone suddenly serious and expression grim.

“Evershine.” I laugh nervously, trying to hide the fear that’s building up inside of me as a result to Kale’s expression. “Horrible name, I know. I don’t know what they were thinking. It sounds like a stuffed animal factory, or a children’s show.”

I try to ignore the glare in Kale’s eyes, and am relieved once it fades as he stirs some sugar into his lemonade with a spoon. I can’t help but wonder why I was never offered any sugar for this horrible excuse of a drink.

“Tell me more, what’s your boss like?”

“My boss?” I tap my fingers on the table, trying to think of a polite way to describe the obese creature that’s constantly mocked behind his back. “He’s intimidating, cruel to his employees. I wouldn’t be surprised if-.”

“What’s his name?” There’s an edge to Kale’s voice, making me chew my lip a little, and take another sip of lemonade.

“Paul Cook, why?” I raise an eyebrow, this time not noticing how horrible the lemonade tastes.

This causes Kale to smile sadly, though he still doesn’t look at me, he’s staring off into the distance with a bit of an exaggerated dramatic effect added by the look on his face. “How’s his wife, Lucinda, doing?”

“The guy has a wife? She must be an idiot to marry someone like him!” These words cause Kale to glare death at me, and I now regret saying those words. “Sorry.” I say immediately.

“She wasn’t an idiot. I’ve loved her for years, and Paul just stole her from me. I’ve hated him since then, she was too good for him.” Sighing shakily, he looks over to me once more, he quickly brightens up, smiling at me. “Well, we’ve had a long day. Why don’t you just go home now, alright?”

I nod, and stand up, an awkward feeling in the pit of my stomach. Placing the glass on the counter, I turn and leave the house, taking the time to look up at the sky. There are several dark clouds in the sky, menacing and huge, threatening to pour rain onto the road making this drive harder than it should be. Groaning with dissatisfaction as I climb into the car and I begin driving home.