The Cube People (18 page)

From: Central Services

Date: 2010/06/04 AM 8:01:00 EDT

To: Colin MacDonald

Subject: Removal of Hazardous Materials

As you are aware, all items deemed to be a possible fire hazard have been removed from the building. You were found to have an item(s) in your cubicl
e that was considered to be dangerous. We have removed your
coffee maker
from your workstation. You may pick it up at the security desk on the ground floor when exiting the building.

Thank you for your understanding and cooperation in this important matter.

—Central Services

My coffee maker has been seized. After the toaster-oven fire, there was an official sweep. A crackdown is what Barry called it. Government safety inspectors went from cubicle to cubicle, searching for whatever management deemed to be any possible fire hazard. So if you had anything – coffee warmer, electric pencil sharpener, CD player, etc. – it was gonzo. Even Dan's SunSquare Plus was removed. I can't say that I'm too sad about that. He's gone to the union and is fighting to get it returned. Without my coffee maker, I'm depressed (maybe I could use a little SunSquare). The only joy I had in my cubicle has been stripped away. I log onto the Stanzas website and check how many copies of my book are at the Sunshine Valley Mall location: still four. “Hey MacDonald,” yells Dan from behind me, “you sent me two specs to review, but they're exactly the same. Which one do you want me to review?”

“Are they exactly the same?” I fire back, realizing I must have accidently attached my document twice.

“Yeah, I looked really closely at them and they're identical, even checked the date and time stamp on them and they're the same.”

I have a missile-launcher mouth jammed with fresh cut, grade-A go-fuck-yourself sarcasm and it's ready to fire right at Dan's head, but what comes out instead is a polite, “Then I would just do the first one.”

“Okay, thanks buddy,” he says, happy to carry on.

I turn back to my screen, close my eyes and rub my temples. I repeat to myself, I won't kill Dan, I won't kill Dan, I won't kill Dan. BEEP, chimes my machine. I have an email. I Alt-Tab over. There's a message from Line that a package for me has arrived. As I approach Line, I spot a manila parcel sitting on her desk. The sender's name in black marker in the upper left-hand corner reads “U. Buck” and has my previous home address. “Do I need to sign for it or anything?” I ask Line.

“No, no, just take it off my desk and have a nice day,” she says, continuing to type away without bothering to make eye contact. It's about the same size and weight as a shoebox containing an explosive device – at least that is what my paranoid imagination surmises. How much does dynamite weigh anyway? U. Buck? Uncle Buck. What did the email say, be on the lookout for a package in the mail? I wonder if Phil is playing some sort of an elaborate practical joke. Nervously, I rip open the paper at one end and inspect the contents. There appears to be more paper, Christmas wrapping paper with little Santa Clauses on it. Written atop the present is an envelope which reads, “Open the letter and gift in a private place,” in the same black marker and handwriting. Could it be Crazy Larry? Maybe it's a nail bomb? He wants to make sure he kills just me and nobody else. Jesus. Now I'm not sure what to do. Maybe I should go get Phil? The Santas look like the Coca-Cola Santa, a Norman Rockwell Santa. In Santa I trust. I go to the handicapped washroom and lock the door behind me. I sit down and open the letter.

Dear Colin:

First let me apologize for having deceived you. I always enjoyed our conversations and considered you a good worker and a dear friend. I took advantage of your good nature and used you to further my own gain. For this I'm terribly sorry; however, I will not apologize for the theft. Over the years, I saw so much rampant abuse of government dollars that I figured it was time for my share. Rest assured the money is going to a noble cause.

For all the inconvenience and suffering that the RCMP and/or police have put you through, please consider this gift as a small restitution for my actions. Try not to let that good conscience of yours get the better of you.

Warmest regards, Peter Cann

PS: Congratulations on the publication of
The Cube People
.
It's a wonderful book.

I tear into the Christmas wrapping and discover three hardback copies of Stephen King's
Nightmares and Dreamscapes
. Peter and I have discussed King's work in the past; however, I was hoping he would have sent me some money. I open the cover of the first book and sure enough, Peter has removed the guts of the book, leaving only the tiniest edge of paper. The paper's been replaced with three stacks of one hundred dollar bills. Same for the other books. I do a quick count and there is approximately $300,000. “Holy shit,” I whisper. I rewrap the books, bring them to my desk and put them in my backpack. I pretend to do work, but my mind is in fantasy land, sipping tropical drinks with little umbrellas underneath palm trees on the beach. Should I give the money to the RCMP? Maybe I should just give them the note and copies of another book, and keep the money? This may be my only chance to get out of this place. My phone rings. “Hello,” I say.

“Colin?”

“Yes.”

“It's Sarah.”

“Yes, hi, how are you?”

“Are you okay, you sound strange?”

“No, just busy here at work.”

“Can you pick up milk on the way home?”

“Sure thing.” After I get off the phone, I'm hot and my face feels flushed. I can hear Dan cutting his toenails. I pick up my knapsack and toss in my Shaggy and Scooby Doo action figures, my picture of Sarah and the kids, and a Pollockesque drawing that Sammy has done for me. As I pass by the handicapped washroom, I stop. I go in and lock the door. I turn off the water to the tank and flush the toilet, emptying the tank dry. I remove the tank's lid. While balancing with one foot on the toilet seat, I use my other to kick the plastic innards of the tank into smithereens. As I replace the lid, I'm struck by a sense of levity. All my flesh is coursing with life and when I breathe, I have new lungs. In a state of euphoria, I leave the washroom and make my way down the corridor.

There's Barry, sitting at his desk, warming himself by the glow of his monitor. Today he's wearing a tie with yellow rubber ducks on it. “Barry,” I say, leaning into his office, hanging on the doorframe.

He looks up smiling, “Yes, Colin, what can I do for you?”

“I quit.”

“Oh,” he says, looking confused, like a waiter has brought him the wrong food.

“I've got to go now, but I'll be in touch in the next few days.” I walk away and half-expect him to chase me down the hall, begging me to stay, but he doesn't. As I step on the elevator, a man and woman are already on, engaged in a conversation about applying for a competition. The woman seems annoyed by his banal banter and I wouldn't be surprised if she suddenly punched him in the nose. Within the thirty seconds it takes me to walk to the elevator, I've become an outsider. These are not my people anymore. I never have to make small talk again;
I never need to be annoyed. My days in the cube are officially over.

BING. The elevator doors open. I'm free.

Ryan screamed as he fell. The air rushed aroun
d him. His body was tense, bracing itself for the impact that he assumed would come at any second. No impact came. He kept twirling and twisting in the darkness. He could no longer see the light coming from his basement's naked bulbs. There was just darkness and the whistling of wind in his ears. He expected the tentacle to grab him, but it didn't. Just falling, darkness. After a while, his body relaxed. He began to play in the air, twisting this way and that, rolling, flipping. The sound of the rushing air seemed to dissipate. Ryan was floating in space.

A flash of light whizzed by. Then another. Then another. They kept coming, but this succession of comet streaks eventually began to slow. They were windows. He tried to see what was inside, but he couldn't make it out. They continued to slow. He saw faces. People. Office workers. The windows slowed like an elevator. Ryan stood in a glass elevator. It came to a stop. The doors opened.

“Ryan, this is your floor,” said the blonde woman to his left. He didn't understand what was happening. He recognized her. This was his old office building. He stepped out into the hallway. People rushed about him. He walked down the hall and through his company's glass door. As he walked, people kept tapping him on the shoulder, saying things like “Good luck,” and “We're going to miss you around here.” He continued to walk to his cubicle and sat down on his chair. Had he been dreaming? He touched the desk. He tapped on it. Solid. Real. What had he been thinking about? He couldn't remember. The phone rang. He picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Hi honey, how was your goodbye lunch?”

“Gillian?”

“Yeah silly, it's me. How was your goodbye lunch?”

“Goodbye lunch?”

“Listen, I'm picking you up right after work at four and we're going straight over to look at the house with the real-estate agent, okay?”

“Okay,” Ryan said.

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

* * *

When Ryan climbed into the car, he looked at Gillian as if she were a ghost. He reached over and touched her face.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Just making sure you're real.”

“Did you smoke dope at lunch?”

“No.”

She looked at him. Ryan smiled back. “You sure?” she asked.

“Positive. Let's go.”

* * *

The house seemed so familiar to Ryan, like a childhood home.

“So, Gillian here tells me that you quit your office job to become a writer. Quite a big move. That's a gutsy thing to do. What kind of stuff do you write?” asked the agent.

“I write horror books,” said Ryan.

“Really, just like Stephen King?”

“Just like Stephen King,” said Ryan, wandering down the hall. He came to a door. He opened it. There were steps leading down.

“It's a little creepy, but I'm sure a writer like yourself will love it,” said the agent from behind him.

Ryan flicked on the light and managed to hit his head on a cross beam on the way down. “You okay?” asked the agent.

“I'm okay,” assured Ryan, rubbing his forehead.

Two bare light bulbs illuminated old wooden shelves atop flaking white walls. Behind the paint, sporadically exposed, was the rust-coloured underbelly of the foundation. It looked like the skin of a scab-ridden burn victim. Gillian came down the stairs. “Jesus, an
Amityville-Horror-
serial-killer-pit-of-hell down here,” she said.

“Great for cold storage,” said the agent.

“You could put your pickles and wine down here,” said Ryan. As he said that, something flashed in front of his eyes.

“You okay honey?” Gillian asked.

“No, I mean yes, I think I'm just having a déjà vu,” said Ryan.

Gillian turned to the agent. “Ryan suffers from epilepsy. Sometimes this is how it starts before a seizure hits.”

“No, Gillian, I'm fine,” said Ryan, as his body suddenly tightened and contorted and he fell to the ground and began to convulse.

* * *

“Just give me a minute,” said Ryan, sitting on the bottom step of the basement stairs.

“Is he going to be okay?” asked the agent.

“He'll be fine,” said Gillian.

“I think we should take it,” said Ryan.

“What?” asked Gillian.

“The house, I think we should take it.”

“Maybe you want to think about it?” suggested the agent.

“No, I feel the book in me coming out, this is the place.”

“The book coming out?” questioned Gillian.

“I feel that I could write in this house. The seizure, it was a sign I think. What do you think of the house?”

“Well, except for this basement, it's great.”

“Then we should put in an offer,” said Ryan, smiling.

* * *

Ryan managed to hit the goddamn beam,
again
, on his way down to the cellar.

“Fuck,” said Ryan.

“You okay honey?” asked a snickering voice that came from the top of the stairs.

“Remind me to…” he said but stopped. He turned and ran back up the stairs. Dean and Marsha were sitting on the floor. Ryan took the joint from Marsha's offering hand.

“I have an idea for a book,” said Ryan, then he took a drag.

He exhaled and they all listened as he told it.

I'm in the garage staring at the stacks of money on my workbench. Should I give it back? Three hundred thousand could buy me three, four, maybe even five years of writing. Surely in that time I could write the
bestseller. I would need one to stay away from my day job permanently. It would buy me a shot. How many people are handed a chance like this? Is this fate? Could this have happened any other way? The door to the house opens and Sarah walks in yelling my name. I turn to her and say, “Hi honey.”

“I've been looking all over for you, and…” She sees the money.

“What's that?”

“Three hundred thousand dollars,” I answer.

“Where did you get it?”

“Peter Cann sent it to me.”

“Have you called the police yet?”

“No.”

“Why not? You can't keep it.”

“Whoa there, Miss Conscientious, let's just take a second to think about this, shall we?”

“What's there to think about? If you get caught you'll go to jail. You have to give it back, Colin.”

“Can you hear me out for one second?”

“No.”

“Give me one chance at a sales pitch.”

“Fine, pitch away,” she says.

“This is my dream. I can have the time to write, I mean
really
write. No cubicles, no lines of code to change, no interruptions. I'll have peace and quiet. I can't listen to Dan drone on for the next twenty years about his failing body. I can't stand the smell of hand sanitizer in the morning. I can't deal with filling in my goddamn timesheet. Do you understand what I'm saying here? I'll be able to spend more time with the kids, with you. This is my chance. I don't want to end up a miserable failure. I don't want to be my father.”

“Listen, Colin, I don't know what makes you think you're so special, but everybody goes to work. Everybody fills in their timesheet. Most people don't like it, but they do it just the same. That's just part of life. If you want to be a writer, then write. Real writers find the time. Taking this money, it's cheating. Besides, softness never made good art. You're the one who told me that. If you only have thirty minutes a day to write, then you'll write like it means something when you do write. It might not be any good, but the passion will be behind it. People will feel that. You need to give the money back. And don't worry, you're not your father.”

I look at the towers of bills and imagine a world without fluorescent lighting.

Standing adjacent to the stage, I can see Sarah, the kids, and my mother sitting in the studio audience. They've pinned a cordless microphone to my shirt and have done a sound check. I'm nervous. My palms are rivers of sweat. I remember what Sarah told me: “People are here to see you. They want to see you, want to hear what you have to say. You're likeable, remember that.”

She's speaking from her couch about her website and where you can go to find out more information. She says, “And when we return from our break, we'll be speaking with Colin MacDonald, author of
The Cube People
. It's one of my favourite books of the year, and it's soon to be a major motion picture directed by David Cronenberg. So please stay with us.” The crowd applauds. The woman standing next to me with a clipboard and small headset motions for me to go out, to take my place on the stage. She rises off the couch and extends her hand. I feel as though I should drop to one knee and kiss her hand, but I don't. I grab it and she leans in and gives me a peck on the cheek and softly into my ear whispers, “Welcome.” I take a seat on the couch next to her. She picks up my book and places it on her lap. She caresses it softly as if it were a cat. We do another sound check and we're set.

“Welcome back,” she says, smiling at the camera. Her teeth are perfectly white, no traces of tea or coffee, but pure white, like printer paper, as if they're waiting for words to be typed upon them. Her mouth is a series of white pages bound elegantly by upper and lower lip covers, just waiting for that oval kiss, that sticker that says
Buy me
. I know now that I'll never need Peter Cann's money. I'm happy I decided to hand it over to the police, but at the time I felt as if I were a trapeze artist and somebody had just taken away the safety net. I didn't know it was going to turn out this way.

Her smile is the smile of a million smiles and when she asks me how I am, I tell her without any reservation or hesitation: “Fabulous.”

BEEP BEEP BEEP… There's Marcus Jackson in the audience, clapping his hands together. Although I've never met him, I know it's him. Every time he brings his hands together they BEEP.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP…

I hit the alarm clock off. Sarah rolls over, taking most of the duvet with her. Funny how your mind can play tricks on you. Do you really have any control over what you think? Was it always going to happen this way?

When I'd brought Peter Cann's gift of stolen money home, fear had danced in my heart. The image of me in an orange jumpsuit, Sarah bringing the kids to see their inmate father, flashed before my eyes. I went into work the next day and told Barry I'd been kidding. He'd said with a chuckle, “Thought you were.” It's a good thing I did, because the next week, Kurt Jackson called me. He'd finished reading over
Hungry Hole
and told me he couldn't publish it. He said it wasn't strong enough, not nearly as good as
The Cube People
. Sarah had tried to be comforting. “Well, you know what Colin, whatever happens in your life, at least you managed to get published.” I understood what she was trying to say, but her words felt like failure. I got a sinking feeling in my gut, a ball of wet clay. I've had that feeling in my stomach for two weeks now.

Just as I'm heading out the door to go to work, Sarah yells out for me not to forget my lunch. She comes running down the hall with a piece of Tupperware containing spaghetti leftovers, my name and expiry date written in ballpoint across a piece of masking tape on the lid. “Thanks,” I say, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

I walk to the bus stop and wait. The sky is grey. When the bus arrives, I manage to get one of the last seats near the back. I softly drum the plastic lid of my lunch. I could be home, writing, if I'd only kept the money. I remind myself that good art doesn't come from cushiness. I could do with a few toss cushions though.

Glancing to my right I see a young man reading a book. Then I realize it's not just a book. A complete stranger is reading my book.
My book
. I don't make any sudden movements, like I've discovered some rare exotic bird and I don't want to scare it away. I observe him reading for several stops; he's got short-cropped hair, glasses, maybe twenty-five, neatly dressed. Maybe a university student? He seems fixated, intense. I'm filled with wonder and awe. He flips a page. “Excuse me,” I say.

“Yes?” he answers sitting up straighter in his seat, pushing his glasses higher up his nose.

“I just wanted to know what you thought of your book. Are you enjoying it?”

“This?” he says, turning it over in his hands. “Yeah, I love it. One of the best books I've read in a while. Have you heard of it or something? I think the guy who wrote it is local.”

“Yeah, I was thinking of getting a copy.”

“You should, worth it,” he says, and then goes back to reading.

Suddenly I realize I've missed my stop. I DING the bell and get off. As I walk back the ten blocks to work, I can't stop smiling:
one of the best books I've read in a while
.

When I get off the elevator, the air on my floor seems pungently stale. After I manage to cram my lunch into the overcrowded refrigerator, I make my way to my cubicle and log on to my machine. Fastened to the fabric wall of my cube, the photograph of Sarah and our three children stares at me. The knot in my stomach seems to have relaxed, albeit ever so slightly.

I open Word and begin to type a new story:

The monster had him by the throat, but he wasn't afraid. He knew now that it wouldn't kill him.