13. bad day at Realife
Candi glanced at the single piece of cake still remaining in the pink
box while turning the thermostat to a colder setting. It was well
over a hundred degrees outside and with the door constantly swinging
open due to the extra commotion of the bomb threat she was feeling
the heat. Although, not quite a record for this time of year, it had
been an unusually warm spring and if the heat wave continued, the
valley inhabitants could expect another long dry sizzling summer.
Global warming concerned her little. Her mind was elsewhere. Candi
had been manning the telephone since the bomb threat. Although not
the first threat of violence to be directed towards the company,
heightened safety precautions still had to be maintained. Building
Three was evacuated and special police dogs were brought in to sniff
for plastic explosives of which none were found, as usual. Company
files were searched for disgruntled employees, and business meetings
were rescheduled.
She begrudgingly accomplished each new task with the knowledge that
today should have been her special day of honor. Instead, it was of a
day of toil and personal intrigue. She had tried to reschedule their
lunch reservations but was politely informed by Jo Sun himself that
the entire afternoon was booked. A late evening buffet was the only
other option available. She had not had a moment to herself to sit
down and read the Sutters Weekly, and was now fearing the worst from
her horoscope. She placed the last piece of cake on a plate on her
desk and threw away the box. It seemed she might just finally have a
few moments to gather her thoughts.
“Candi!” came Jim’s shout from outside. He had also been running
around all morning, being shuttled from one responsible person to
another. He pushed open the frosted glass door of the office lobby
followed by a german shepherd and a police officer.
“Candi. Could you meet me in my office? I want you to jot down a few
things before this officer leaves.” He went over to the coffee
machine and realized there was no more coffee in the thermos.
“Candi. Could you do me a big favor and make some more coffee? I’ll
wash the cups.” He directed the peace-keeper and his best friend to
his office, finished collecting the few cups that were scattered
about the lobby, and went into the men’s lavatory.
Reluctantly jacking herself out of the chair with her arms, Candi
noticed that a dark spot of chocolate icing had appeared on her
aquamarine viscose blouse just over her right nipple. She plopped
back into her chair and tried to rub the dot off with her index
finger. When this produced no result, she licked her finger and
rubbed further. Unfortunately, the rubbing action caused the
chocolate to smear into her blouse. Furthermore, due to the self-
stimulation, her nipple became erect. Self-absorbed, she patted her
nipple and shook her shoulders, causing her breasts to sway gently in
front of her, when she felt the warm presence of another human being.
Looking up startled, she was surprised to see Martin standing at the
counter with a grin stretching from ear to ear. “Martin!” she cried
and stood up, fluffed her blouse and crossed her arms in front of her.
“Is Mr. Cole free yet? He told me to come back in a couple of hours.”
“We got a bomb threat.”
“Yeah. I know. Didn’t you see me leave? Mr. Cole told me. How did you
like the cake?”
“I’ve only had that little bite this morning. It seems that everybody
who’s tramped through here has gotten their share. I’ve managed to
save the last piece.”
“So no bomb went off?”
“There’s never any bomb. Some kook just calls up once in awhile. It’s
getting kinda routine. Sounds like he’s on drugs.”
“My son’s on drugs, at least I think so.” He wiped his nose quickly
with his fingers. “What does he sound like?”
“I don’t know. Muffled and slow. He stops after every word.”
“What did he say?”
“That’s what I mean. That’s why I think he’s on drugs because he says
things like clever and money, and we are the opportunists.” Martin
looked puzzled. “But you know, everyone in the USA is on drugs. The
president is on Halcion, the kids are on Ridilen and the bum on the
street is on Morgen David Double X. What kind of drugs are you on,
Martin?”
“Viagra.”
“Well!” she chuckled, “So why do you say your son is a drug addict?”
“Because he’s an artist. All artists are on drugs. Even I know that.
Plus he’s a homosexual.” Martin had a little difficulty getting out
the last word properly.
“Wait a minute. Freedom’s an artist and she’s not a drug addict.”
Candi was mildly perturbed. “You can’t write off your son as a drug
addict just because he’s gay and an artist.”
“It’s his lifestyle. He sleeps all day, doesn’t look healthy, doesn’t
have a decent job, or a credit card, or a savings account or, for
that matter, a car.”
“Martin. These things don’t make a person a drug addict. But
whatever, I don’t want to go there.”
Martin suddenly took a deep breath and sneezed into his hand. He
quickly excused himself and darted towards the men’s lavatory just as
Jim reappeared in the lobby holding four washed coffee mugs and
moving briskly in Candi’s direction.
“Candi!” Mr. Thorndorn said, returning from a tour of the plant and
holding a pile of pink and blue forms, briskly entered the lobby.
“Has Mr. Cole …?”
“Ralph!” Candi screamed.
The three men collided. The mug inscribed ’Candi’ thumped on the
right side of Martin’s head as Jim maneuvered to keep his balance.
Thereupon, he dropped the mugs, which cracked into pieces as they hit
the tiled floor. Martin became dizzy and his knees weakened. Slumping
slowly and grasping his head, he moaned as he crumpled to the lobby
floor. Mr. Thorndorn, holding on to him for support, fell with Martin
and the forms that he had been carrying floated to the ground,
scattering throughout the lobby.
Jim who had withstood the collision, was propelled sidewards, tripped
over the potted office plant and fell onto the cooler, knocking over
the water bottle. The plastic bottle of Sierra Range Spring water
split when it crashed and emptied its contents onto the white-tiled
floor. The cool spring water soaked Martin thoroughly as he lay under
the weight of the CEO who was wrestling to free himself. Martin
started wheezing, having trouble standing up due to the slick nature
of the now slippery lobby. Mr. Thorndorn managed to stand upright
only to slip backwards towards the entrance and land on his round and
flabby butt. Martin slowly curled to the right into a fetal position,
dribbling saliva, coughing up phlegm and bleeding from the cuts due
to the broken coffee mug.
“Candi!” Paul Pickel overweight teenager and general slave for
Realife, was returning with the bakery treats Mr. Thorndorn had
ordered for his overworked staff. When he opened the frosted glass
door of the lobby, it struck Mr. Thorndorn’s lower back. The sharp
blow caused him to twinge in pain and jab his right leg out in front
of him, kicking Martin in the head with the toe of his Wally’s
leather wingtip shoe.
Hearing all the commotion and fearing the worst, the police officer
threw open the door to Jim’s office and let his barking german
shepherd race out. The dog jumped over Martin and attacked the
delivery boy, at which the pink box catapulted into the air only to
land point down an inch above Martin’s left ear. Martin, screeching
in pain, rolled face down and covered the back of his head with his
hands.
“Don’t shoot,” Candi screamed, raising her arms, palms open.
“Heel!” the police officer commanded and the dog did having managed
to pacify the intruder and bite Mr. Thorndorn’s right forearm,
ripping his sleeve and drawing blood.
Candi stood at her desk and looked down at Martin, semi-conscious,
gurgling, in a puddle of green and orange stained sugar water.
Positioned inches away from his bloodied head, was a lemon curl with
sprinkles. “What a mess,” she said, remembering a line out of movie
she had once seen. Her eyes then moved from Jim, who had fallen
asleep next to the watercooler, to Paul Pickel, lying trembling on
the floor near the entrance, and to Mr. Thorndorn who was breathing
heavily next to Paul dabbing at his bitten arm with his handkerchief.
In only a few seconds, four grown men had gone down. Only Candi
and the police officer were left standing to care for the fallen. She
shook her head, picked up the headset and looked at the police
officer. “Should I call an ambulance?” she asked, tilting her head
and placing her left hand on her hips.
By the time the ambulance arrived Jim had woken up and informed Mr.
Thorndorn that the injured man was the Mr. Griess that they were
hoping to hire. As the medics examined the injured, Candi watched as
Mr. Thorndorn fired Paul Pickel but found the grace to apologize to
Martin for kicking him in the face. She listened as Mr. Thorndorn
struck up some semblance of a conversation with Martin and promised
him a position at Realife when he was back on his feet.
When the medics had escorted Martin to the waiting ambulance, the
walking wounded went home to recover. A sudden calm ruled the office
lobby. The cleaning crew came and mopped up the mess. When one of
them noticed the cake on her desk, Candi picked it up and handed it
to her. Frustration gripped her vocal chords and brought tears to her
eyes. She would have preferred to have called in sick due to
menstrual pains than to have lived this day. There would be no hope
of satisfying her hankering for meat products, no Jo-Sun’s Special
Swiss Sweet and Sour Sauce and, worst of all, there would be no cake.
She had served everyone but herself and now there were no more
pieces. There were only the crumbs from the box in the trash, which
she dabbed with her fingers, relishing what little she could get,
wishing for more. She bulldozed the office supplies on her desk out
of the way, folded her arms in front of her and, leaning over,
lowered her head.
“No more cake, damn!” she cursed, head resting on her crossed arms.
She closed her eyes and replayed the events just passed. She tried to
put some order into the recent calamity but it had happened so fast.
She was not quite sure how Martin had been able to down three men
within seconds and have them all moaning in pain from the various
injuries they had incurred.
She remembered the awful sounds of the coffee mug cracking against
Martin’s skull, his screams of pain as he was kicked by Mr. Thorndorn
and punctured by a pastry box.. Suddenly, another violent memory
crept out from her subconscious and played out in her mind: the sound
of Little Lisa Pisa being struck by a Ford Galaxy 500.
Little Lisa’s grandfather had died and the teenage Candi was put in
charge of baby-sitting Little Lisa. She was taken to stay at Candi’s
house across the street during the morning while the rest of the
family attended the funeral. At one o’clock, the Pisa family was due
to arrive home.
As the Pisa family station wagon pulled into the driveway, Candi got
Lisa who had been in her coat and ready to go since the appointed
hour, and attempted to cross the busy street separating their homes.
Candi spread her arms in front of her to restrain Lisa who was
anxious to be reunited with her parents and away from Candi’s smelly
house. When Candi assumed it was safe, she relaxed her arms allowing
Little Lisa to pass. When she noticed the white Ford Galaxy racing
around a bend in the road, it was too late. Before Candi could signal
the danger, Little Lisa Pisa was bolting across the street.
Mr. Pisa turned off the motor just in time for his family to hear the
terrible sounds caused by the accident. The screech of the brakes,
the gurgle of rubber being scraped from the tire and the thud of
Little Lisa’s body slamming into the polished chrome bumper. The
entire Pisa family turned in unison to see Little Lisa Pisa execute a
perfect triple spin somersault and crash down on the recently mowed
green front lawn of the Pisa property.
Mrs. Pisa flung open the car door causing it to swing back with equal
force and catch her right calf between the door and the car frame as
she was trying to exit. Mr. Pisa, who was out of the station wagon
running in the direction of the accident, tripped over a garden hose
and landed on an exposed metal sprinkler, smashing his knee-cap in
three. The remaining Pisa kids were unable to unlock the back doors
due to the child protection locks. They instead wriggled themselves
free by scrambling over the front seat, tackling Rose wracked with
pain, and crawled out the driver’s side. Screaming like there was no
tomorrow, flapping their arms about madly, the children ran between
their writhing father, trapped mother and screaming baby sister.
Rose, who was unable to unfasten her seat belt in her hysteria, was
finally freed by one of her sons and limped over to her felled child.
She knelt in front of her infant, beating her breast, and asked
almighty God, “Perque non mio,” in strong low tones.
The surrounding neighbors, who had been enjoying the warm afternoon
puttering in their gardens, witnessed the tragic family drama. Their
utmost disbelief at the calamity that had befallen the Pisa family,
compounded by the recent death of the grandfather, caused those
arriving on the scene to break out into loud collective sobbing. Soon
there were twenty adults of many nationalities in various states of
grief all attempting to help.
Wailing and warped english could be heard among the screams and
moans of pain. Rose, who had fainted on Little Lisa, was helped into the
house by Libertia and her older sister Mona. The back of Rose’s legs
scraped on the brick steps leading up to the house as she was dragged
inside. The oldest son retrieved his injured sister who flailed about
uncontrollably in his arms. Carrying Lisa inside, he was followed by
their shattered father, being assisted by two male neighbors.
“What am I gonna do?” Candi sighed, filling her lungs with air. It
was a painful memory. She aligned her spine to the back of the office
chair and began rocking, trying to erase the feeling of guilt that
had crept back in her heart. In doing so, she gently rubbed her
genitalia on its synthetic covering. A bubbly warm sensation slowly
coated over her negative feelings and she smiled, remembering one of
the practical tips offered by Ms Sunshine.
“Self-stimulation during periods of low self-integrity, unwarranted
stress or self-pity will help balance a troubled psyche.”
She rocked further and retrieved the Sutters Weekly from the top
drawer. She threw the copy onto her desk and scooted her office chair
into position. She opened the Weekly to the second last page and
found her sign. She took a deep breath and began reading.
Plunder. Devastation. A sense of despair. Resignation ain’t the word.
You are over it. Or is it over you? Today is the end of the world as
you know it. “What am I going to do?” you are probably saying to
yourself. Yeah. You should have stayed home but it would have
happened there also, just differently. There is only one consolation
I can give. From now on, it will only get better. You can count time
>from this day forward. Everything you do from now on will make the
difference. Tread slowly and don’t force. Let it happen. So, to do.
Scooby dooby do.
The telephone rang, startling Candi. Before answering, a strange
feeling descended upon her. She hesitated for a moment, remembering
what her horoscope had advised. “Realife Consultants. Chemicals are
the building blocks of life. Candi Powers speaking?”
“I want to speak to the Mr. Thorndorn …,” came the same guttural
voice on the other end of the line.
She shrieked in alarm, covered the microphone, and immediately
connected the call to Mr. Thorndorn’s voicemail.
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