CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw (5 page)

9

I’m mad as hell! Those idiotic
nametags took me thirty minutes to finish and not a second longer. Most are
illegible. Like I care anyway. I’ve been instructed to place them on a table at
the entrance to the lounge, which is where the meeting will be adjourned.

The staff members and
illiterates begin filtering into the room. I’m standing in a corner silently
observing as they enter. I see clusters of men and women bunch around the
table. Such fools. Like a herd of mindless sheep gathering round the watering
hole. Everyone is looking at the nametags, wondering which belongs to them. My
handwriting is terrible. I couldn’t even tell you what each tag says.

They squint intensely at the
papers like an archeologist deciphering a lost tablet. I can’t help but laugh
and that’s when
she
enters. Her. You know who. Natasha.

My face, still beaming with
joy, delighted by the ensuing nametag fiasco. She looks at me – one of her
eyebrows slowly rising. Obviously this conceited woman believes my laughter
must be directed at her, undoubtedly in a negative way. Not only that but it
must be a perverted, sexual thought. Self-important wench! I’m in such a good
mood that without even thinking, I wave to her. She’s revolted and shocked, but
still returns a very peculiar motion. A real slow lift of the hand without any
wrist movement whatsoever. Just a steady ascension to about shoulder level
aimed in my direction wearing a most puzzled expression upon her face.

Natasha slinks over to the
nametag table. It’s at this point that I see Wilmer Cromwell enter with Percy
at his side. Their contrasting appearances are comical. Together they form the
letter ten. One being slender and the other being a round fatso. I watch Wilmer
with eager excitement as he eyes the tags. His smiling face contorts into a
disfigured, disbelieving frown. I guess he’s noticed the writing. You see,
Wilmer is an extremely prideful fellow and does anything he can to avoid public
disputes. It’s because of this reason that I know he won’t confront me. At
least not now. Like an angry parent eyeballing their child, just waiting to get
home so they may unleash a violent beating. One which would be publically
frowned upon.

Forever the politician, Wilmer
devises a plan.

“Everyone, excuse me,
everyone! I see the nametags have become a bit…disorganized.” Yeah, that’s it
Cromwell. Disorganized. What a twit. He continues on, “We’ll skip over them
this time around. Please take a seat and we’ll get underway.”

People begin looking for a
place to sit. I can tell by the awkward way in which they move that no one has
any idea what they’re doing here. And then… quite unexpectedly another buffoon
makes his unwanted appearance.

Todd Storton walks into the
room wearing his work uniform. He’s carrying several magazines. All eyes turn
to view his unsightly, ungainly, and unwelcome lumbering body. Everyone in the
place is a bit baffled. Storton isn’t employed by anyone in the building. He’s
contracted out through the water jug company. A quiet murmur ripples out from
the crowd. Mouths turn to ears, fingers point secretively toward the tubgut.
Nobody knows it, but I’m the one who invited Storton. Just to get a reaction –
to embarrass the goon.

With all gazes fixated on the
jug man, he steps farther inside equipped with the kind of self-assuredness
only a true imbecile could possess in such a situation. Storton scans the room.
The people glance down at the numerous magazines in his hand. Another murmur
begins, this one a bit louder than the previous. More finger pointing and
cupped ear whispering. For it is upon closer inspection one can see that these
fine articles of literature are, in fact, smut mags (which I asked him to
bring). And I must say, I awarded him more credit than he deserves. I figured
he might’ve stayed and contributed to this pointless meeting. At least offer to
pass around the delightful magazines to lighten up the mood. Although it was
clear to see by the darting of his eyes, and fumbling of his gut, along with a
heavier perspiration than usual that the big man had evidently been hit by a
case of the nerves. Public humiliation had gotten the best of him. I felt
shamed by his display of cowardice. Probably too many well-tailored suits in
one room for the behemoth.

“Uhh, pardon me,” he says,
“I’ve forgotten my hat.” Storton turns around and leaves, wearing his hat -- a
few magazines slipping from his grasp, falling to the floor. Nobody says a
word. Storton doesn’t return. I chalk it up to a personal victory. Before the
commotion even has a chance to settle, Cromwell (accompanied by a nerdy looking
man) takes center stage. They introduce one another and instantly commence the
meeting, wearing the only two smiles in the room.

Forty-five minutes later the
jabbering has finally ceased. I haven’t heard a word Cromwell or the nerdy man
uttered. No one has. The room is filled with glazed over eyes and bored
expressions. Percy has actually fallen asleep in his chair and is snoring quite
loudly. Cromwell toughs out the dying crowd as he recapitulates a few of the
major points. I conclude that there will be no future meetings.

There’s no need to sit and
listen to such insipid drivel. The empty blathering of an egotistical
dunderhead. The soporific prattling of a fool.

However, I did receive one
benefit from the gathering. If you wish to call it that. This little episode
granted me to the opportunity to see exactly just what kind of ill-formed,
mouth breathing, moronic ignoramuses work in my building. I never wish to see
such a nauseating sight as long as I live…
Gadzooks!
Do I see it? Yes, yes
I do. That flashing movement of the eye. Natasha had been staring at me. I’m
certain of it. My head turned in her direction and her eyes averted
immediately. I wonder what she was looking at. My charming demeanor? Muscular
physique? Neither of which I possess. She’s avoiding my gaze, looking away as
if I am an old man’s heavily infected exposed crotch region. This gives me the
perfect opportunity to inspect her features, absent of risk.

Her hair is letdown today,
being draped along the neck, flowing magnificently over her shoulders to about
mid-back level. She’s wearing a peerless white blouse and spectacular black
skirt. Her tan skin looks radiant against the colors. I can’t wait to get home
and “cartoonize” this woman. But I mustn’t look too long. That would be a bit
odd to stare for an inordinate amount of time, wouldn’t it? So I make a quick
note of her nose and chin protrusions before exiting the room. The remaining
workers slowly come back to what little senses they have and trickle out of the
lounge like dazed idiots, wondering what exactly it was they had witness.
Everyone is clueless. I’m loving the day.

Back at the office I know a
confrontation with Wilmer is due at any moment. Sure enough. He enters the room
(muscle shake in hand) and without saying a word waves me into his office. I
follow obediently (the shamed dog walk). But what’s he going to say?
The
nametags were a little below the expected quality.
Big deal. It was menial
work to begin with. Let’s get on with the overblown, pretentious comments.

“Jones,” he says, still
holding a strained smile. “The nametags were… a little below the expected
quality.” I never saw it coming.

“Yeah, about that,” I say
before rattling off my prepared answer. “The pen I was using had a dented tip
and I couldn’t write straight with it.”

I anticipate the question he’s
going to ask but don’t give him a chance. “There wasn’t enough time to find
another one. I was running behind schedule as it was.”

After a long, drawn-out sigh
he says, “That’s okay. You did your best. In the future please try to be a bit
more prepared… Good work today!” There’s that sickening smile again. I look at
the clock. 12:40… Christ, lunchtime. The thought of enduring one second of his
interminable clanks is unbearable. I’m forced to think fast, efficiently or run
the risk of dying within the next few minutes.

“Mr. Cromwell,” I blurt
amiably. “How about I take you out to lunch today?”

“Well I’m not sure,” he
hesitates. I know I’m losing him. But the clanking must
not
begin.

“Sure, comon, Mr. Cromwell.
It’s the least I can do to make up for the nametag debacle.” I’ll say anything
to get him away from that oversized glass bowl. His face softens. I can tell
I’ve snagged him.

“I’m buying!” I throw in add
just to solidify his answer. Then I recall he is a big eater due to all the
muscular bulk… and I’m on a secretaries, err, lawyer’s assistant’s salary.

“Alright! Where’re we going,
Jock?”

At least it’s a J…

10

Do I have a split personality?
An alternate personality? I wouldn’t say so. I’ve got a latent personality. One
that I repress due to social constraints. As I assume everyone does. You have
your public persona and then you have your private persona. They’re rarely the
same. My case is no different. I’m normal just like everyone else.

“Jaques,” Wilmer says to me
between bites of chewy chicken, “Are you a fan of strongman?”

I stare blankly for a moment,
unsure if this is a reference to the muscle fetish culture or some other
perverse notion of Cromwell’s.

“Haha,” he chuckles to himself
with a dip of the head, as if realizing his own mistake. “Of course you’re not!
Look at that toothpick body! Scrawny as a—as a toothpick! Anyway, Jorgen, my
favorite is a sturdy man named Dariusz Poodginowskee The most celebrated
strongman competitor in history…”

I cast my gaze out the window
allowing Wilmer to drone on and on about this marvelously muscled man. A young
girl in a blue dress skips across the street. The mind wanders. It sure beats
being reduced to a near death state listening to the clangorous clanks of his
infernal glass bowl…

“And I’ll tell you, Judah! I
read in a magazine that he drinks at least three muscle shakes a day! So you
know what?” Cromwell pauses. The silence goes on long enough to pull me from my
stupor. He’s staring right at me with an expectant grin.
Oh…
I give him
a grunt of curiosity.

Wilmer continues on, evidently
satisfied with the response. “So I like to drink at least five a day, minimum.
Every day. Right for breakfast, first thing. I down a shake. And then whenever
else I can during the day.”

On and on it went…

The night air felt refreshing
on my warm skin. I stood outside, the green grass of my lawn sticking up
between my toes, staring high above at the full moon. For some reason the
darkness is comforting to me. Most people fear the blackness and its fleeting
shadows; the whistling of the wind or the creaking of an old oak tree. I love
everything about it. The peaceful breeze sweeping through as it wraps around
your body. The millions of stars overhead, though they’re somewhat obscured by
these terrible city lights. I held my arms overhead and sucked in a large
breath of air before expelling it forcefully.

The witching hour. A time of
immense supernatural activity. All the demons of the night are at their most
powerful. The etheric energies surge. You can feel their ubiquitous presence
encircling the world.

I took one last look at the
moon previous to heading inside. Earlier in the night I had finished another
drawing of Natasha, one I felt quite excited to see again. This particular
piece being styled after the pin-up fashion. Underneath her seductively posed
body I wrote the following:

Lust, carnal desires of the
flesh, unrequited love, violence, intrigue and murder. Unfulfilled ambitions,
dashed hopes, lost souls, cynical cretins, and lackadaisical sensationalists.

I’m not sure if the words have
any meaning to them. All I know is that I had the pen in hand and the words
flowed -- like automatic writing. Perhaps some entity of the night possessed my
body for a brief moment. The witching hour muse.

My word of the day --
Lucubrate
:
To study, work, or write at night.

A term I discovered at random
but which seemed most fitting to my habits. All is calm, all is peaceful. I lie
in bed, fearing a break-in, as always. Worrying, wondering, despairing. Who
will come to kill me tonight? Will I live to see another morning? Natasha….
These are the things that keep me up at night.

I walk down the hall and hear
the whispered mocking comments of my fellow employees besmirching Mr. Cromwell.
Talk of his boring, bland meeting and general demeanor. This pleases me
greatly. As a result I appear happier today. Although, this new demeanor is
surprising to me. It’s an ingratiating conduct. A great many people returned a
smile or a friendly wave of the hand. Normally I’d never receive or give such a
gesture. But I’m finding that the more unpleasant the people around me are, the
happier I’m becoming. Every time I see despair, I grin. Every failure of my
fellow man is a triumph to me.

I enjoy seeing the suffering
of others. They have a word for that in German: schadenfreude. It means taking
pleasure in the misfortune of others. Such a mental viewpoint is a terrific
mindset to have in today’s world. In Russia they say it’s better to see a
neighbor lose one million dollars than to acquire a million dollars yourself.
Very wise people they are.

The office is quiet today. Mr.
Cromwell has squirreled himself away in his little cove. I assume it’s because
of yesterday’s calamity He’s a proud man and no doubt waiting for the shame to
fade before greeting familiar faces again. His office door is shut completely.
A rare occurrence. Meanwhile the sleazy associate known as Percy Sullivan is
out gallivanting with a prospective/ client. Some elderly woman entering her
dotage with an ample supply of money, naturally

I can just picture the
sickening smiles Percy is flashing. And the trite jokes he’s telling. The woman
will find him adoring. She’ll grow bubbly inside and hope to see more of the
clown. If he finds her bank account suitable enough, then a relationship will
be formed. Exorbitant bills will be discussed over candlelit dinners and late night
trysts (which she will pay for, no doubt). She’ll never question a single thing
as her life’s saving dwindles away until there is nothing left. From a legal
standpoint everything is legit. I believe so anyway. They act of their own
volition, voluntarily signing over whatever Percy requests.

Not my problem. I just make
the appointments and push the papers.

Todd Storton has walked past
my office window three times today without even so much as a dirty glance in my
direction. Perhaps it’s because of the trick I played on him. Though walking
into a room where you obviously don’t belong isn’t that great of a prank, or
much cause for immense embarrassment. However, doing that while toting several
smut magazines increases the shame to a lovely comical degree. I’d told him to
meet there on break and we could discuss his favorite adult models. What a
fool.

There isn’t an ounce of
remorse in me. This sad attempt at revenge for his Natasha comment is just the
beginning. Storton has much, much, much more coming to him. Here he waddles
now, walking by the window again. I call out his name and signal for him to
enter. Storton does so hesitantly. He places the four empty water jugs down on
the floor, pulling up a seat without being asked to do so.

Natasha saunters along on the
other side of the window. I know she’ll be heading to the break room. It’s a
habit of hers. Every day at the exact same time she enters the break room by
herself for five minutes, doing only God knows what in there. I’ve fantasized
over several scenarios.

“How’s it going, Storton?” I
ask pleasantly.

He’s eyeing me suspiciously
like I’m about to attack at any second, perhaps spring some kind of trap on
him. My fingers are intertwined, clasped in front of my chest. There’s a
treacherous smile stretched across my face. Mostly just for show. I want to
play with his mind. Make it look like I’m up to no good.

“Fine,” he says.

“Good, good. Finished
replacing all the jugs I see.”

“Yeah, what of it?”

“Oh, nothing. Just an
observation.”

Then he pops the question I
knew he’d been dying to ask.

“Why’d you send me to that
meeting room with my dirty mags?”

“Ah yeah… About that Storton.”
I let out a sigh and begin bobbling my head with a despairing expression. “I
didn’t know there’d been a meeting scheduled. Dreadfully sorry. Just one of the
vicissitudes
of fate, I guess.” I threw in the word
vicissitudes
to
screw with him a bit. Any word beyond a first grader’s comprehension is out of
his range.

“Right,” he says, nodding his
head knowingly. I can tell he doesn’t have the slightest inkling what I’m
talking about.

“Say, Storton, you don’t still
have those mags with you?”

“Actually I do. They’re
downstairs in my truck.”

What a stroke of luck.

“Can you bring them up?” I
request innocently.

“I could. No tricks this
time?”

I look shocked. “Me Storton?
Tricks? When have you known
me
to play games?”

“Yesterday for one.”

“I told you, simple
misunderstanding. I wasn’t aware of the meeting.”

He looks down for a moment
before shaking his head in the affirmative.

“Great,” I say, “bring them up
here and meet me in the break room. We’ll be alone.”

“Hmm, sounds a bit dodgy to
me,” he replies with a sneer.

“Hey, I’m not
you know
and I assume you’re not
you know.
”

“I’m not,” he says
indignantly. Storton stands and exits the room.

I listen for the sound of
Storton’s lumbering footsteps. The timing has to be perfect.
Gung. Gung.
Gung.
His plodding footfalls. It’s show time! Here I duck down underneath
my desk just before he reaches my window and peers in. Those dull eyes of his
are scanning the room.
Where pipsqueak? Gone?
Yes tubgut! I’m gone…
Already gone on down to our meeting place… Now the goon will head into the
break room where I know Natasha is still abiding. Although the desire to
witness Natasha’s reaction as Storton enters is strong, I fight off the urge
and remain under my desk. After all, who wants to be seen consorting with the
oafish, dirty magazine packing water jug man? Certainly not I.

Mirthful images race through
my mind. I imagine what is taking place in the break room at this very moment.
But I don’t have to wait long to see the aftereffects of it.

Minutes later, I witness
Natasha strolling hurriedly down the hall. She walks past my window. I notice
the offended, repulsed expression she’s wearing. How could I not? It’s hanging
from her face! Natasha’s hair is pulled back into a bun and fixed in place by
some Chinese chopstick looking thing. I observe her skin is looking slightly
paler than normal. This tells me she’s not been tanning in a few days. Still, she
remains a picture of beauty -- although the tan would perfect her otherwise
flawless image.

I hear her office door slam
shut. Another victory.

Storton is going to be angry.
His oafish, oversized head comes into sight and I see him peer toward Natasha’s
office. I’m guessing it’s to make sure she’s not coming out. I quickly pick up
the phone and pretend to be engaged with an important client as Storton bolts
into the room.

“That will be fine. I’ll put
you down for a 4:00 meeting… Yes, uh huh. You can discuss the specifics then.
Alright great, see you at 4:00.”

Storton’s arms are folded
across his chest. One corner of the magazines is sticking out under a fleshy
limb. He’s trying his hardest to conceal them.

“Yes?” I ask naively.

“Where were you? You sent me
there on purpose!”

“What? Oh…” I palm my
forehead, feigning regret. “Right, right. Jesus, Storton, I’m sorry. An
important call came in and I couldn’t leave until just now.”

“I bet,” he responds acidly.

“Now Storton, don’t be
petulant. You know very well I’d never play tricks on my good pal. What
happened down there?”

Todd Storton looks behind him
for a chair. He pulls it up in front of my desk and sits, then leans over close
to me. He smiles a little.

“Well I went in there alright.
And who did I see?” He pauses. “Snobby Natasha!”

I cover my mouth. “No!”

“Yes,” he reiterates firmly.
“Boy you should have seen the look on her face when she saw me with my dirty
mags!”

“Oh, I bet,” I add with a
laugh of sincerity.

Storton pats me on the
shoulder. “Now you’re not the only one she thinks is a pervert!” He cackles.
The discolored teeth upset my stomach. I attempt to force a laugh but it’s
barely audible. I can only muster a kind of strained, transparent cackle. The
sort where you wish to smile but your cheeks are unwilling to move. You just
know your face looks phony. Luckily for me, Storton isn’t very bright.

I reflect back over the
situation and ponder how easy it was to set him up. How easy it was to mislead
and beguile him. Why, I could trick him into doing just about anything. He’d be
the perfect fall guy if the need ever arose.