The Interview

It was the beady little eyes and their often vacant expression that pissed Lauren off most. Kimmy Johansen was the HR rep she had been paired with for this round of interviews. Kimmy. Five year olds go by Kimmy. Cheerleaders. Strippers. Certainly not a senior executive at one of the foremost consulting firms in the north east.

“Ooh, look at this one coming in. He’s a cutie,” Kimmy giggled.

Lauren resisted the urge to kick her in the face, and glanced through the conference room window at their next interview.

He was cute, with soft brown eyes, a dirty grin, and a small scar that split his right eyebrow where she’d thrown the engagement ring he’d given her back in his face. Not for the first time today she wished she’d reviewed the resumes ahead of time.

The receptionist motioned him through the door, and the two ladies rose to greet him. To his credit, when his eyes met Lauren’s he only paused momentarily. The split eyebrow quirked and settled hiding his surprise.

“Mr. King, pleased to meet you. I’m Kimmy Johansen, senior veep of human resources. This is Lauren Stanton, our senior project manager.”

“Ms. Johansen, Ms. Stanton,” William King held his ground. He needed this job, and needed it bad, but with Lauren sitting across the table, it wasn’t likely. Though it had been six years since she’d try to blind him with a two carat diamond, he couldn’t hope that she’d mellowed.

Kimmy sat attentively, crossing her legs kittenishly, tossed her hair and nearly batted her eyelashes. She was as coy as a randy rhinoceros. “Tell us about your work experience Mr. King.”

“Well, I’ve spent the last four years working in Hong Kong for Highland McGregor, the first two as deputy project manager, and the last two as acting project manager. We got the Takami Tower up one week over projection, but 4% under budget.”

Lauren knew of the project, and guessed that the four percent would represent roughly two million. Still, a week late wasn’t something that was forgivable.

“Konnichiwa,” Kimmy giggled. No one bothered to mention that was Japanese.

There was an awkward silence.

“Before that I was an associate project manager for the Big Dig here in Boston,” he offered a small quick smile. One of the biggest infrastructure projects this century, the Big Dig was a loaded gun. It was an engineering marvel and a legal nightmare. There was no point trying to hide it though; that job had paid for the diamond that had nearly put out his eye. “And a number of other smaller jobs before that. I understand that the current project you are looking to staff is still in the planning stages?”

“Lauren?” Kimmy needed help here.

Lauren bit her tongue. She couldn’t berate Kimmy for being unprofessional if she didn’t at least finish this interview, even though she would rather slap the smiles off both their faces, run from the room or both.

“We’re in the late stages. Ground breaking is to take place in six months time, once the t’s are crossed and the i’s dotted.”

“Understood,” William tried to project a confident air, though his insides were tangled like speaker wire. “And who would I be reporting to.”

“Lauren.” Kimmy managed to sound more confident this time.

Lauren had to admit that her one talent was knowing exactly where everyone sat in the company power structure.

“Wait a minute,” Kimmy turned toward Lauren. “Didn’t you work on the Big Dig too?”

Lauren nodded.

“Did you two know each other?”

Kimmy could feel the tension ratchet up another few notches. There was an opportunity here, and she knew what it was. “Wait, Lauren weren’t you engaged to a guy who worked on the Big Dig?”

She’d hit the nerve she was looking for. Lauren blanched, and William’s hand went to the scar splitting his eyebrow. Kimmy hid a wide smile behind a vacant expression, an expression that she had perfected very early on.

“Small world isn’t it? Let’s talk a little more about your work history Mr. King.”

Cockfight

Cockfight. Is there any other way to describe two assholes with more hair gel than brains circling each other, trying to assert their manhood over a perceived slight? Both full of booze and testosterone, each trying to prove who has the biggest dick. They don’t know yet, but it’s me.

I'm tempted to pull out a ruler, just to get it over with quicker. I see this every night of the week. It's my job to separate these ass-hats, and throw them into the street before they do enough damage to potentially make the club liable.

Better to let them kill each other, in my estimation, but lawyers and insurance agents being what they are, I signal the boys to separate them. As usual among their kind, the cockfight is over arm candy.

She plays dumb, but knows the game. This is Caveman Og writ large for the twenty-first century. She needs a provider, and either of these greased up, pseudo-evolved apes will do. She’s no Helen of Troy though; the only thing her face has launched is a plastic surgeon’s career.

“Okay girls, time to break it up and go home.” If I were a big burly guy, this would prompt the two of them to turn on me. The fact I’m five two in stilettos gives them pause; the glittery eye-shadow and cleavage distracts their pea brains with thoughts of shinies. They back down.

“She’s the best boss we ever had,” one burly bouncer whispers to another.

Just For One Day

We're all the heroes of our own stories. We'd have to be; otherwise we'd collapse into a heap, never to rise again. Each of us a protagonist, variably sure of ourselves and our own virtue. It's a rare one who thinks of themselves as the villain of their own life.

I've always thought of myself as a cool headed sort, someone who reacts well under pressure. For the most part, that's played out in the movie of my life. I'm normally quite unflappable.

Sometimes though, you end up in a situation so far outside your realm of experience that you don't know what to do. You're not sure how to react, so you end up taking cues from those around you. You become one of the mob.

It was a day like any other, a casual Friday that had ended with drinks after work. One of our colleagues was moving on, so we all went to celebrate. I was making a conscious effort to try and be more sociable, though I didn't really feel much like it.

Three beer and quite a bit of chat later, I'd had my fill. I'd never been much one for palling around with work mates; I liked to keep a degree of compartmentalization to my life. So I said my goodbyes, and headed home.

It was roughly eight thirty when I plopped down on the subway car. It had been a long day and a longer week; our quotas kept increasing the harder we worked. Every time we thought we'd come close to finishing, the goal posts were moved. I was exhausted, physically and mentally.

We rolled into St. George station, and a bunch of rowdy kids got on, trash talking back and forth between the two groups. Three young men and two young women appeared to be trying to inflate their own egos, each at the expense of the other. I tuned out their foolishness and tuned back into Bowie.

I too, wished I could swim. Like the dolphins. Like dolphins can swim.

One of the young men sat directly across from me, and the thought briefly crossed my mind to try and get a picture of him with my camera phone. I don't know where the thought came from, or why I suppressed it. And then it came.

One young man called one of the young women a particularly incendiary word. Suffice to say, it had the desired effect, and set her off. She charged toward him.
Her earring flew off and landed on the seat next to me. It was a large gold hoop, somewhat stylized, and suddenly intensely fascinating. I couldn't take my eyes off it.

This is where my tendency to compartmentalize confounds me. Part of my subconscious must have known that things were not right, and were not going to end well. The rest of the passengers sensed it as well, though somehow being seated in the midst of the confrontation, I remained bemused and detached.

Another part of my brain was fascinated with the earring. I've seen a million earrings before, what was so special about this one?

The fracas seemed to break up, with each side pulling their respective antagonist away. I breathed a small sigh of relief as the young woman walked past me to where she'd set her purse. Bowie sang of remembering standing by the wall. The earring no longer mattered.

I saw the second young woman say something to her friend, and the first one reached into her purse. A third part of my brain realized that this wasn't going to end well, setting screeching alarms of self-preservation off in my head. The rest of my brain was unperturbed.

I never saw what she took out of her purse, or really much of what happened next. As Bowie sang that we could be heroes, just for one day, she ran at the young man with the clever mouth. There were two pops.

The train pulled into the station jerking to a stop to the sound of the pops. The doors opened and pandemonium ensued. The third part of my brain was screaming to get off the train, to get out of the way, to get to safety.

The bemused part of my brain insisted that nothing was wrong. The young lady staggered past, and cried out "I've been shot." Bemused brain insisted that wasn't possible. It hadn't been loud enough. And what a ridiculous thing to say in any case.

I looked around to see that everyone else was scrambling to get out of the train and out of the young men's way as they raced out of the subway station. I watched the young woman collapse, as a spread of dark red stained the back of her white pants.
I stepped out of the train, nearly running into one of the fleeing assailants. I watched stupidly as he ran past. I did nothing.

I watched as the young woman lay crying on the floor. Her friend cried as she pressed a jacket to the wound. I did nothing.

My brain tried to process what had happened, still not believing that two shots had been fired from point blank range in a half full subway car, and that only one had hit, and that shot to the leg.

I gave my statement to the police, and decided to walk home. I thought that I should feel something more, fear or something appropriate. All I really felt was detached.
Though I didn't consciously feel anything, it took me a long time to get to sleep that night, and for the next few days. My brain tried to consolidate the incident into my life experience, to make sense of it.

I fantasized that I could have done something different. If I'd done something, maybe the girl wouldn't have been shot; not that she'd been entirely undeserving of what happened. I could have stepped in and defused the situation.

I could have tackled the young man who ran by me, and held him for the police.
I could have reacted differently. I could have done something that would have made the situation make sense. I could have done something.

In the end, I realized there was no lesson to be learned from what amounted to a random event. Stepping in could have resulted in getting either stabbed or shot.

Tackling the young man wasn't likely to have gone well either.

I did the only thing I could to take control of the situation. Eleven months later, I testified to my recollection of the events. I lost the arrogance that made me believe I would be heroic in a tense situation.

I'm just a normal guy, doing what a normal guy does to make it home.

Abandoned

Great Uncle Todd had lived and died here. The house reeked. The stench of old man, dust, and musty desperation assaulted my nostrils as I stepped through the door.

The house creaked ominously under at least thirty years of accumulated junk. There were narrow paths carved to and from the front door, bay window, a corner with a twelve gallon bucket and hot plate, plus a small spot for sitting on the overstuffed and ancient sofa.

I’d only met him once, just after I’d started grade school. My mom was aghast as Great Uncle Todd presented me with a cheque for seven dollars to start saving for college. I could tell that Unca Todd was not someone like the other adults I knew. He just didn’t fit in.

Home from school with no immediate job prospects, I’d been assigned to clean up his hovel, now that he was pushing up daisies. He’d died in the front room, rotted and mummified among the piles of papers, magazines and trash. It was nearly seven months before anyone checked up on him.

His entire five bed room, three story house was filled to rafters with junk, until he could only live in the front room, sleeping on a dingy cot, cooking canned food on a beat up hot plate, relieving himself in a bucket in the corner.

I’d arrived yesterday, opened the front door, and nearly passed out. I held my breath long enough to crack most of the windows I could get too, then locked the front door and found a motel. I hoped that a night of airing out would make the clean up process less unpleasant.

The left wall was dominated by soot stained brick fireplace, its mantle filled with porcelain and kewpie dolls, and a lone, one armed cabbage patch with its eyes punched out.

The back wall at first looked like it had several small heart and star shaped mirrors on it, but was actually one large mirror, painted over with the shapes scratched out of the paint.

The potty bucket was next to it, and on the right hand wall next to it was a narrow window, which looked to have been used to empty the bucket. There had been no running water here for over a decade, the coroner/funeral director had told me. Electricity had been cut off for longer than that.

Any doors out of this room were closed and blocked by junk, though one looked to have been nailed shut, boards criss-crossing it haphazardly.

The only other window looked out to the dooryard, and was covered with heavy, dark drapes. Empty cans once containing beans and spaghetti-o’s lay on the floor by the window, half kicked under a chair that Todd must have sat in while watching the world pass him by.

Judging by the smell, the cans contents had been replaced with mouse droppings. I picked one up tentatively, hoping the rubber gloves and the latex gloves beneath would keep me from getting lockjaw, or worse. The chef in the big white hat looked sea-sick.

I decided to start from the door, and slowly work my way in. The first stack of junk was newspapers, five feet high. The top date was New Year’s Day, 1999. I adjusted the dust mask I’d picked up; it was going to be a long day.

The End

They were plotting against me. Again. It was time for this to come to an end.

Watching from the edge of the platform, I could see the six of them standing there. His agents, dressed as they always were, in an innocuous melange. They were tall and small, all the same age, but blending in.

If I hadn't known they were after me, they would have looked like anyone else. I'd learned to interpret the signs, the seemingly casual gestures, the signals to the other Watchers and Plotters. They were after me; my cover was blown.

Adjusting my gloves, I prepared to make my move. They'd followed me in here, but I was sure they hadn't spotted me yet. My silver crucifix concealed me from their penetrating gaze.

I slid behind two of them as the train approached, swirling papers that had fallen to the tracks. The largest and the smallest, the brain and the brawn, the most dangerous of the six. If I could eliminate them, I'd be safe. The others would be too confused without their hive control to make a move.

Timing was to be crucial. I took a deep breath, adjusted my position. I am ready.

I shove the largest one, and he tumbles to the track. Quickly, I switch targets and shoulder the smallest onto the track. One of the other Watchers reaches out to catch the small one's elbow.

The train brakes screech. The Watchers scream. I push my way through the crowd, melting through as I've practiced so many times.

Panic erupts, and I ride the wave of passengers exiting the station. The route is plotted, and has been practiced many times. I run up the alley and across two yards, euphoria fueling me as my chest heaves.

Across the park, through the parking lot, and over the fence that separates the school from the street. Soon I will be safe. I throw my hat into a trash can behind the school.

Footfalls pound behind me. I'm being followed. I must shake this tail.

I don't dare glance behind. My lungs are burning. I can't breathe.

The world slants sideways. I crash to the ground. One of them is on top of me.

I am theirs. Undone. It is ended.

An Open Letter to My Sanity

Dear Impulse Control:

I just wanted to send you this short thank you note for all the work that you do day in and day out. It's not an easy job, to be sure, but I know Face appreciates how often you keep Mouth in check. The fact that we've only be hit a dozen or so times is a testament to your skill. We all know that Mouth is a handful.

Also, thank you for keeping control of Humour, especially his tendancy to tell jokes. We've all reviewed your helpful memo on when Jesus jokes are not appropriate (church, funerals, the subway, before everyone but the hardcore cynics have been put to bed).

We also reviewed the helpful memo about singing in public, and the fact that reworking lyrics to pop songs to be more suggestive or filthy is not appropriate at Wal-Mart. I know that Justin Timberlake is not singing about *my* sexy back, that Crabs is not an appropriate substitution for Fab, and that it is not alright to sing Hey Mr Vaseline Man, grab some lube for me. These are not appropriate song re-imaginings, especially in a public setting, just as 'hey shit-for-brains move your cart' is not an appropriate substitute for 'excuse me please, kind sir who is blocking the entire bloody aisle with your cart and behind while you debate the merits of chunky versus smooth peanut butter'. Even though the first is more succint and efficient.

But please know that we all love and appreciate you, no matter what. That being said, there's been a couple of lapses recently that have started to concern us all.

Let's just say that we're getting quite concerned about how close Hand comes to checking the element on the stove to see if it's on. There's no reason for Hand to touch the element, but there's been a couple of close calls recently. I don't think that we need to experience second degree burns to know that they hurt. This also applies to dishwater.

There's been an alarming increase in escapes by Mouth. The reply to someone's question as to why they can't figure their syllabus for Intro to Calculus should not have been a 'because you're an idiot' mumbled nowhere as near under our breath as it should have been. While 'I didn't ask for your attitude' fairly begged for a response, and while 'We didn't ask for yours either' was entirely appropriate, it really wasn't necessary, and certainly didn't add anything positive to the situation. I understand that it can be tiring constantly being on your guard, and that you catch more than you miss, but we are all concerned (especially Face) that Mouth is going to get us hurt one of these days.

Liver would also like to have a few words with you though, especially about the tequilla. My theory is that you're allergic to alcohol, which is why you are nowhere to be found when the bottle comes out. This can create uncomfortable situations for us all, especially Stomach when she has to turn herself inside out, and Inner Ear, when he can no longer tell up from down as the room seems to be spinning. Just keep in mind that it would be nice if you could man up every once in a while when a bottle comes out.

All in all though, great job.

Love,

Me

Not a Christmas Story, Written over Christmas

He awoke from the dream. Pain bubbled up, dulling conscious thought. Moments passed, as he summoned the concentration needed to open his eyes. Ronnie was there as always, hair the colour of stoked coals, complimenting his ashen complexion. Her hard beautiful face betrayed only traces of concern.

“Bad night?”

“Very.” He tested his breathing. Shallow was okay, anything deeper than a half breath brought lancing pain that set off fireworks at the corner of his vision. It looked as though this would be his best day in quite a while.

Daniel Cyr was dying. He’d been dying his entire life but more-so during the past twelve years. He’d held on as long as he had, through pain that often made him doubt his sanity, for twelve years, three hundred and sixty four days. Today marked the thirteenth year, one for each of his son’s victims.

He’d never been much of a father. The kids’ mother had done most of the parenting while he’d been chained to a desk processing claims for a mid-sized insurance company. He was strictly a weekend parent, and not much of one at that. Still, he had managed to raise a dentist, a lawyer and a serial killer.

Jonathon Devon Cyr, better known as Devon the Devil, had killed twelve young women. Butchered them really, and then forced each successive one to eat part of a prior victim. Countless books had been written about him, examining everything from his past and childhood to determine how an otherwise average middle class teacher could turn to murder and mayhem.

When the police had knocked on Dan’s door that cold October morning over a decade ago to ask if he knew Johnnie’s whereabouts, Dan hadn’t been surprised. He’d always suspected something was wrong with that kid. There was something creepy and off; neither his brother nor sister had ever wanted to spend any time with him. His mother had noticed, but never treated any of the kids different. This led Dan to believe that he *had* to have been the cause.

“How’s the pain so far?” Ronnie asked.

“One click,” he replied, setting down the clicker which with a simple flex of his thumb sent morphine into his system. He limited himself to one click an hour at most, no matter how bad the pain. He didn’t like the way morphine dulled his thoughts, completely opposite to how the agony crystallized them. And he felt that he was due a little agony, to in some small way make up for those twelve young women.

Ronnie’s thin lips were set in a disapproving line. Though they’d never discussed his reasons, she knew why he didn’t click more often. But she knew.

Today was going to be a big day. Twenty-two miles away, in roughly forty minutes, Johnnie would be strapped to a gurney, his arm wiped with antiseptic, and a needle would be inserted. A few moments after that, a fatal cocktail would be coursing through his veins, slowly bringing his heart to a stop.

This would all happen in full view of parents of his victims. Not all of them, Dan was sure, but at least some. He’d gotten to know the families, in an odd way, over the past twenty years. First at the trial, that they’d all attended every day, then through the constant appeals, and then that one final appeal. He’d also come to know them through the interviews and books.

It wasn’t the same as talking to them face to face, but he had come to know them.
After the call came through, the call that would finally signal that his nightmare son’s life was over, Dan planned to give the morphine dispenser ten clicks, and drink his own cocktail, one of lye, arsenic, and the cheap vodka that the tea-totalling Ronnie had tucked beside his bedside.

“Are you going to be okay without me?”

Ronnie nodded. She knew he had to do this, and there was no point in discussing it. She would miss him, but she loved him too much to watch him extend his suffering any longer.

Dan knew that she was too good for him, that he didn’t deserve the kind of love that she had for him. His first wife had loved him too much too, and because of that he’d given into her white picket fantasies of the perfect nuclear family.

That fantasy had ended with twelve dead young women.

Dan and Ronnie passed their last minutes together sitting in a companionable silence, with the occasional dry jab at one another. Though she looked mirthless, Ronnie’s dark eyes would occasionally take on a roguish glint, and her wicked wit would unleash a charm attack that would leave him gasping for air. Then, and only then, was the pain welcome.

The phone rang.

“It’s time.”

Ronnie nodded and rose. They’d agreed that she’d leave the room, so there could be no repercussions. Death was not a right, and helping someone achieve it, regardless of their circumstances was still something most people couldn’t or wouldn’t understand.

“I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.”

In fifteen minutes, a combination of morphine, lye, arsenic and cheap vodka claimed Jonathon Devon Cyr’s last victim, a full twenty minutes after the monster himself had slipped loose of the bonds of this life, and descended into hell. Devon’s only question now was whether his father/creator would follow him.

Dan closed his eyes. He slipped gratefully back into the dream.