This little story has been kicking around in my demented skull for a while. I hope you enjoy. Other than the usual gay male practices, there's just a hint of non-consent. Oh, and my apologies to the Moody Blues; same title, certainly not the same theme...or maybe it is...
...and thank you once again, Miss B!
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Did you ever have one of those days where it doesn't pay to get out of bed? Well, that's how mine started.
Waking up late and with a massive hangover, I rushed to take a shower, scalding myself for my trouble because of the shit-works plumbing. My landlord said he'd fixed it half a dozen times already, but, of course, hadn't. In fact, it's gotten worse. Now that comfort zone resting precariously between the extremes of lobster boil and glacial melt water was narrowing to a thin pencil line on the faucets. The stupid cocksucker was always right on time for the rent check, but MIA whenever anything needed to be done in this cracker box he calls an apartment.
After shooting a half a tube of toothpaste into the sink—goddamn these fucking, tamper-proof containers—I scalded myself again, shaving.
Worse, the steam fogged the mirror up so bad I couldn't shave for more than three seconds before wiping it off so I could see what I was doing. In between trying to shave while wiping off the mirror, I gave myself a nice horizontal laceration across the chin.
Blood was dripping everywhere, and of course, most of it dribbled onto my new, plush, white cotton towel I had wrapped around my mid-section.
The bleeding wouldn't stop—Christ, hemophiliacs have better clotting abilities—so I dug through one of the drawers for a styptic pencil. Of course, it was buried deep, and under about a ton of other useless shit that I never use.
The one positive about my apartment was that the cabinets were built solidly out of heavy oak. I found that out when the drawer with its contents landed on my foot, because I pulled on it too hard.
While hopping around on one foot I found the styptic pencil, or should I say, saw it, as it bounced away from me as if by design, coming to rest somewhere behind the toilet.
Bending down to retrieve the pencil, I inadvertently slammed my nose into the side of the toilet tank. I don't think I need to tell you how much blood flowed out of my nose, covering what little white remained on the front of my towel. Fortunately—and I say that with great sarcasm—what blood hadn't dripped on my towel, ended up pooling on the carpet at my feet.
Cleaning the carpets—this, at least, gives the landlord something else to ignore other than the plumbing.
A bloody nose and a smashed foot later, I finally had the styptic pencil in hand, only to find the bleeding from my chin laceration had already stopped—I did have to stuff about a half a roll of toilet paper up my nose before it would stop bleeding, however.
I finally got dressed without killing myself—big surprise—and had just enough time for a quick cup of coffee before catching my bus. Fortunately—and I say that without sarcasm this time—I had one of those timer coffeemakers and always set it up the night before to start brewing when my alarm went off; and it did, right on time. Unfortunately, given my drunken state the night before, I had forgotten to put the carafe under the maker. Now, eight cups of freshly brewed coffee puddled on the kitchen floor, while a nice, burned coffee stench wafted and sizzled off the warming plate. I spent what time I had left before the bus arrived cleaning up the mess.
I was halfway to the bus stop when I saw my bus pass me. I started racing to catch it when the skies opened up into an early morning thunderstorm. Even though I was soaked, I was about twenty feet from my stop, and the bus was still loading passengers.
Things are looking up
, I thought, optimistically. I was going to make it.
Tripping on the curb, I skidded about ten feet along the rain-soaked sidewalk on my stomach, knees, and palms of my hands, and coming to rest right at some kid's feet. The little bastard pointed at me while laughing uproariously—at least I made his day. I was about to kick the little fucker in the ass after picking myself—and what was left of my ego—up and off the sidewalk, when I saw my bus pulling away.
I had to wait another ten minutes in the downpour for another bus. My only solace was that if I actually owned an umbrella, I probably would have forgotten it. So, at least I saved myself ten dollars for an umbrella I'd never use.
It stopped raining just as the next bus pulled up to the curb—naturally.
At least I remembered my pass.
Things are looking up
, I thought, sardonically.
The bus was crammed with people because of the rain, and the only open space was in the aisle, way in the back.
You'd think the assholes up front could move back to provide space for those just getting on, but that would have meant they weren't assholes to begin with, so no deal there.
As I made my way to the back, pushing past and around the stupid jag-offs standing up front, I stepped on some old lady's clown feet.
At least someone other than me was having a shitty day.
I apologized to her, wondering how she found size seventeen shoes for women, and whether they came with their own zip code.
She called me a 'stupid asshole' as a, 'you're welcome,' as I continued toward the back.
I finally passed the logjam caused by the inconsiderate assholes and that woman's feet, and saw clear sailing to the back of the bus.
As I moved quickly down the aisle, I slipped on what I hoped was a discarded burrito, landing hard on my ass and into a large puddle of rain water that had collected along the floor—at least, I hoped it was rain water, it seemed awfully warm for rain water—and invariably splashed whatever it was across everyone's shoes and pants. Above all the loud murmuring of those nearby questioning my parentage and masturbatory habits, I heard the clown-footed woman cackling at my misfortune.
Jesus, that laugh was like nails against a chalkboard, and must drive all those within earshot, insane. I swear, even dogs and cats must throw themselves into traffic whenever she cracks a joke.
I ignored her. I figured with my luck today she was probably some form of demonic witch, and any further confrontation would just result in her turning my crotch into something unnatural. Besides, I didn't want to attempt passage through the burrito minefield, again.
The rest of the twenty-minute ride was spent being hacked on by some elderly Asian guy. I offered him my handkerchief to keep as much of his SARs-laden phlegm off my clothing, but he declined, saying he never uses them.
I could see his point. Why waste a perfectly good hankie when a stranger's dress shirt was so convenient? He thanked me, at least, before yakking more mucus in my direction.
I tried to move away from him, but a large, oafish goon who smelled of stale cigar smoke mixed with overly ripe cheese, boxed me in.
The thing that bugged me the most was that I was enduring this crap for a job about which I really didn't give a shit. Oh, I was happy to have it—given this economy and the fact that it took me over six months to find it—but it was still a fucking bore. It was a lot of data manipulation and entry with absolutely no thought or imagination involved in the process. Still, it did provide a decent enough paycheck while I looked for something better, so I couldn't complain too hard.
********
I got to the office twenty-minutes late. I tried to make my way to my cubicle without being spotted by my boss, but no such luck. I caught him peering at me through the plate glass window of his enclosed office. He tapped his watch, highlighting my tardiness.
What a tool.
That was the other problem with this job, my boss, Scott Conklin. I've been working here for about six months, and as near as I could figure, he spent most of his time staring at everyone from his office window. Men and women alike, he didn't discriminate with his lecherous leering. You would almost feel his hard stare anytime you left your cubicle to get coffee, or confer with a colleague on something.
Often, his leers were accompanied by an obscene habit he had of touching or tapping fingers to his pursed lips, or scratching his chin absentmindedly as he gave you his patented, moronic smile. His whole demeanor was one of inspecting you, intently, under a microscope. I didn't want to guess what he was thinking, as he stared at you long and hard with that insipid grin on his face.
He gave everyone the creeps. It got so bad at times that very few of the women, and even some of the guys, wouldn't venture away from their desks unless it was lunch or quitting time. We all referred to him as 'Stop Gawking' whenever his name came up in conversation.
He looked a little like Yul Brynner, with his closely cropped hair, heavy brow, and chiseled, hawk-like features—not the older and wiser, more thoughtful, Brynner from 'The Magnificent Seven,' but rather the younger, more petulant Brynner from 'The Ten Commandments' or the 'King and I.'
In fact, whenever Conklin wasn't scratching his chin or tapping his lips as he leered out from his office enclosure, he would often stand with hands on hips, striking a pose as if he were lording over his subjects. All he needed was a pair of red-velvet pantaloons and a short open vest, and he would have struck the very image of Brynner's king.
Etcetera...etcetera...etcetera.
Once I got to my cubicle, I kept my head down and stayed busy with my duties for the rest of the morning.
********
Before I knew it, it was close to lunch time—thank god.
I still had a splitting headache from my hangover, and hadn't eaten anything since the previous night. I was hoping I could sneak out a bit early and get a quick bite from the street vendor, then take a slow walk around the block to clear my head, when that sound that always made my stomach lurch, shattered my plans.
So, what else is new?
The phone intercom crackled to life, loud and inconvenient, as it always did seconds before I'd hear 'Stop Gawking's voice of doom.' He sounded harsh and raspy coming through the poorly designed speaker, "Madison, come into my office before going to lunch."
Fuck me, I'd rather take the toilet in the face again.
I looked at my watch. It read two minutes to twelve. I just knew this asshole's going to keep me through lunch break, probably as punishment for being late.
This was another of Conklin's idiosyncrasies I've come to know and hate, about every two weeks or so, he'd get a bug up his ass about some major company 'brush fire' that needed quelling. Normally, the problem was just in his head, but he always got half of us to spend half the day working to fix his 'problem,' only to be told to forget about it a few hours later. All this shit did was put us behind our normal workload, which we had to make up working late or on weekends, naturally.
Division productivity must sink through the floor every time 'Gawking' had one of these fictitious brush fires that needed to be put out. Upper management had to know this, yet they still kept the moron employed. I figured Conklin had pictures of the company President fucking a goat or something, making him bulletproof.
