Chapter 6

A little more about my high school…

Since we were already taking advanced college courses in the high school I attended, higher education was a breeze once I graduated. And, short lived. Only two years to earn my master's. But before I left high school, my counselor called me to his office. Said he wanted to see if he could help me select a career path. Said that the whole idea behind the magnate high school was to collect the finest minds in the state and try to convince us to not only use our gifts to benefit the state, but perhaps all of mankind as well.

???

So I ask him how, exactly, I go about doing that, benefiting all of mankind? He answered, saying something to the effect that maybe I should consider a career in medicine and perhaps pursue a cure for cancer, something like that.

Really?

The cure for cancer?

Now there's an interesting notion.

Not that I'm religious or anything, but who's to say that's not God's natural method of cleansing the gene pool, cancer, and there I am derailing the whole process.

Right.

I have enough to contend with in life. I don't really need to be adding 'wrath of God' to that list.

But, of course, I don't tell the counselor any of this. Instead, I shook his hand, thanked him for his time, and told him that I would certainly take his suggestion into consideration. And then I never saw him again.

A cure for cancer.

Imagine that.

Why is he trying to pin that one on me, of all people? Is he kidding? No way I'm touching it.

Well, almost no way.

There is this one exception - that I myself am diagnosed, in which case, I'd simply drive to Tulane Medical school (not far away), find a vacant classroom with a dry-erase board and map out the chemical pathway for the cure, then call in an anonymous tip. Let someone else take the credit.

Win-win.

But until that day? Not happening.

And you may hate me for that, knowing the cure and not sharing it, but you know what? If I know what the cure is, they should too. So, go put sugar in their gas tank, too, while you're at it.

Chapter 7

So anyway, you now have a better understanding of who I am - or what I am, rather. And this brings me to what it is I do for a living, and that is to make my boss Brian go prematurely bald. I get a paycheck for doing it, but really, I'd do it anyway, like a hobby or something. Vvveerrryyy entertaining, even though he'd be quick to disagree, I'm sure. Like I care.

And why do I feel that way about Brian?

Why? Because he's an impossible, overbearing asshole hell bent on making my life miserable. Always breathing down my neck, and always - ALWAYS - inflicting his unreasonable demands and rules on me...

• Be at work on time.

• Quit smoking weed in your office.

• Stop leaving early - at least work half a day.

• No sex in your office - even if the door is locked.

• Meet your deadlines.

• Quit letting the air out of my tires.

Shit like that. Such an asshole.

So, for you, Brian, two words of advice - hair plugs. Buy some.

(sigh)

I learned early on that work and I simply wasn't meant to be. The problem here is that I'm more of a 'spend my days at the beach watching bikinis while drinking rum from a coconut shell' kinda guy. But seeing how that requires more funds than I'm currently in supply of, I still require the services of an alarm clock every morning.

And this is where we left off - me walking to my office to begin yet another workday.

I reach my office, unlock the door, and quickly disappear inside. I throw my briefcase into one of the visitor chairs and make my way around the oak desk and into my plush, leather high-back chair.

A knock on my door.

"Come in."

It's Tina. She steps inside and just stands there looking at me, half snorting, half wheezing. Something tells me that if I let her, this is how she would spend her day - fraying my every nerve. I see that she's holding a single piece of paper of some sort.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

Tina's not bad - early thirties, slender, leggy, tallish, OK tits, nice ass...not unattractive, but not really attractive either. Just somewhere in between. Not that that's a real problem for me, her being only somewhat attractive, because it isn't. The problem I have with Tina is this: the woman is terminally goofy, and I'm not so sure the condition can't be sexually transmitted. Maybe it can, maybe it can’t, I don't know, but until I do, I'm not taking any chances. And the thing is, she's invited me over to her place for dinner several times. Never a restaurant, mind you, that would involve too much wasted time. Not nearly as efficient as the short walk from the dining table to the sofa, bedroom, kitchen countertop, or even the dining table itself.

And maybe you think I'm being a little presumptuous here, assuming that's what the dinner invitations are all about - cheap, gratuitous sex. And maybe you're right. Still, I think when a woman walks into your office, pulls her dress up and her panties down and invites you over for dinner, I'd say that at some point sex will be involved. But who knows? Maybe I'm totally off base here on this one.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

I finally acknowledge her existence...

"Yes, Tina. What is it?"

She pulls her panties back up and lowers her dress. The wheezing and snorting increases as she steps forward with her hand extended, holding the solitary paper out for me to take. I grab it and begin glancing over the content...

"What is this?"

"A petition."

"For what?"

"To have that goose out back removed."

"Removed? Why?"

"He bit the new girl on the face and took a chunk of skin out. Being new and everything, she didn’t know not to park in the rear lot."

I put the paper down and think for a moment...

"You mean the girl with the unsightly growth on her face? Like a tumor or something?"

"Uh-huh, Alice."

"Where did it bite her?

Well, actually, it bit that growth off."

"Wait a minute. And she's complaining? I think she owes the goose a fee or something. At a minimum, she should thank him, and I don't know, maybe buy him a loaf of bread. Family size. Yellow and blue wrapper, not the red. Be sure and tell her that - NO red."

I hand the paper back to her.

"You're not going to sign it?"

"Of course not."

"Why not?"

"Because he happens to be a friend of mine, that's why. And if he wasn't before, he is now."

She grabs the paper, lets out a frustrated huff, and leaves, slamming the door behind her. I can hear her angry snorting and wheezing as she stomps her way down the hall.

"Just gotta love that thing, agent of Satan or not." I say to myself as I make a note to bring an extra loaf tomorrow morning.

I spin my high-back from the main desk to face the computer workstation and turn my PC on.

Another knock.

"Come in."

It's Brian, my manager, the guy I was telling you about earlier. A little older than me, longish, dirty blonde hair combed back and worn in a stylish ponytail. Today he's wearing his tailored brown pinstripe. Very dapper. Very GQ. Basically, a good-looking guy married to the boss's secretary, Cindy - Cindy being this drop-dead gorgeous, big-tittied natural blonde way above his pay grade.

I log in to my computer.

"Morning, Brian."

I remain fixed on my computer screen and listen to the familiar rattle of the antacid bottle he's pulling from his jacket pocket. The routine. He eats so many of those things, I never see how he has room for lunch. I swivel my seat to face him just as he's lighting a cigarette...

"Oh, great. So now you've started smoking? What's next? You gonna…"

But before I can finish, he pulls a stainless-steel flask from his jacket and takes a long pull. I pick up the phone and start pushing buttons...

"Who are you calling?"

"One of those support groups for people whose lives are coming unraveled."

He snatches the receiver from my hand and slams it down on its cradle…

"Don't be an obnoxious ass" he tells me as he rattles out another handful of pink wafers and begins chewing them…

"Bri, you're falling apart here, man. Why do you do this?"

"Do what?"

"This job. It's killing you. You're a mess."

"I wasn't a mess until I hired you."

"Now you see, you said that wrong. What you meant to say is 'I was perfectly OK until I started telling you how to do your job'. And look where that's gotten you. Next thing I know, you'll be telling me Cindy's about to leave you."

"WHO TOLD YOU THAT!!!!"

He bolts out of his chair, furious, ready to fight someone – fight me.

"Calm down, Brian. Sit down and relax, dude. No one told me anything. The writing's on the wall, man. Anybody can see it."

He sits, slumped in depression.

I reach for the receiver again…

"Let me make that call for you. You'll thank me later."

He puts his hand on top of the phone before I can get to it.

"Quit being an ass, for God's sake."

I lean back in my chair and lace my fingers together across my mid-section...

"Did you come in here for a reason? I mean, other than to grate my nerves this early in the morning?"

"Yeah, I did."

"What?"

"Big Brian's latest changes."

"What about them?"

"Where are you with them?"

"They're coming."

"They're coming? Fuck! They're due tomorrow, and you haven't even finished them? Then, when you do finish them, they still have to be tested? FUCK!"

He rattles out another handful, and he can't chew these things fast enough. Also, I notice that it looks like he has less hair today than he did yesterday. I suppress a satisfied smile and return to my 'I'm so concerned about you' face…

"Chill, Brian. Have I ever let you down?"

"No."

"Then why are you falling apart now?"

"This is cutting it close - too close."

Another rattle. I tell him...

"Look, go to your office, lock the door, smoke another fifteen cigarettes or so, and maybe some weed, and I'll call you when I'm done."

"Asshole!"

He gets up, leaves, and rattles his way back to his own office.

"Criminy! Didn't think the guy would ever leave" I say to myself as I return my attention back to my neglected computer screen.