Forgotten Favorite

Some late evening some time ago, I received a text message from Mindy (whose excellent blogs can be found here and here) challenging me out of the blue to write a story about making a mix tape/cd for person one had never met. We have had a few discussions prior regarding the sometimes agonizing process of making mixes for people we already know all too well. The idea of making one for a person one would know very little about would be torturous. I thought this was a great idea, so her idea sat in the back of my thoughts for several days with no solid story line popping into my head. Then one day soon after, I received an email with her very raw and emotional story using this theme (please read it here!) and I knew I had to get my act together. Here are the so-so results:

Chuck had been at his new job for a week, but had already found himself hopelessly infatuated with a co-worker. As far as he could tell, she worked in the accounting department, but this was a big place and he hadn’t quite figured out where everything was. He was not used to the size of everything. He came from a small town and had grown up working at a mom and pop shop through high school and during his summers of his college years. Now, he found himself alone in a new city in the shipping and receiving department of a company that occupied the entirety of a business park in the suburbs.

Chuck was quiet and insular, so he didn’t make friends easily. The friends he had earned were close and lifelong, but he had been looking to branch out and get away from the environment he had grown up in. Going to college was a huge step, but he still relied on his parents and his old friends too much. He needed to find his own way. This way began here with this job and his first studio apartment. He liked the group of guys he found himself working with at this place so far, but he hadn’t reached a level of trust with any of them yet to feel comfortable about inquiring about the hot girl on the second floor.

What enticed him most about this woman he was lucky enough to see around two or three times a day, as he made his rounds through the offices to grab packages to be shipped out, was that she reminded him of the women who sang on some of his favorite indie records.

Chuck was a music enthusiast. At that time, “alternative” music was setting the world on fire, which was something he had often hoped for during his formative teenage years. He would wonder why his punk and post-punk bands didn’t get the exposure they deserved. To his ears, there wasn’t anything not to like about this music. Instead, in school, he had been labeled as the guy who listened to “fag” music, while most everyone else had love affairs with bands like Bon Jovi, Poison, and Def Leppard. Yet, now that music inspired by his genres of rock had climbed into the mainstream, all he could feel was mild disdain. This stuff wasn’t as good as his icons, nor was this music forward thinking. Instead his realm of music had flown further off the charts into the most minute scale, so much so, that he had to buy (and buy he did) nearly all of it via mail order directly from bands and small labels. His collection had become almost entirely stocked with limited edition, colored vinyl 45s that would arrive in his mailbox with handwritten notes from the artists themselves. Still, he would wonder to himself: why aren’t these bands getting more exposure?

Over the years, his efforts to extend exposure for this music he was so passionate about, generally involved making mix tapes for his friends. Almost always, they were thoughtless compilations of all the brand new stuff that had him watering at the mouth. A few times though, he had stressed over a mix that he hoped would open doors for him with some particular girl who he was attracted to. Those were painful exercises, as he would fret over what songs would convey his interest for the girl without going too far and becoming creepy. This always proved more difficult then it would seem on the surface, because in these instances, he would realize that his taste in music seemed to always coincide with lyrics of severe longing, loneliness and depression. Not exactly the “hey, here are some fun songs, I kinda like you” vibe he strove for, then again, small town, Bon Jovi, etc. Those girls probably didn’t listen to lyrics anyway, since they seemed to enjoy their music with a heaping dosage of spandex, teased hair and keyboard enhanced power riffs. In other words, these tapes were fruitless and would become a part of his long lonely drives through town late at night, as he hoped to run into someone else who might be out and about in the dead town with nothing to do and nowhere to go.

Now Chuck was in the city – a place where there were good bands to see nearly every night and multitudes of people who shared his interests, and though he didn’t know the woman from accounting, he believed that she was a kindred spirit. In his short time at this company, she’d always shown up to work with a different hairstyle. Her hair was short and a little butch, but she was very feminine. One day she arrived at work in a black leather jacket, a short black dress and tattered fishnets. Another day, she wore an oversized white T-shirt with a big black question mark adorning the front. She always wore lots of brightly colored bracelets and skull earrings. She didn’t dress like anyone else there and she clearly didn’t care that she wasn’t following the ‘business casual’ dress code regulation he remembered reading in the employee handbook.
That particular morning, the first chilly one of the fall, he saw her arrive to work, while he was standing at the front truck dock stacking a bunch of boxes onto a pallet. She was wearing striking make-up around her eyes and what looked like a vintage bomber jacket with its fur lined hood framing her stunning features. It was at this moment that he’d decided to find a way to get to know her. He would try and say something to her as he passed by her cubicle, while pushing his orange squeaky cart through the office. If she wasn’t around, he’d keep making casual passes until she returned for as long as he could stall without being noticed by anyone else.

His heart raced as he approached her domain, which she shared with two other older women. He could tell that she was at her desk, because he had already become attuned to the magical scent that would linger whenever she passed nearby. His routine up to that point had always been to approach everyone’s cubicle, check each person’s outbox and transfer whatever was ready to his cart and move on wordlessly. The only evidence of his presence was the shrieking wheels of his cart that would howl obnoxiously in the hushed environs of the office. This time, he was announcing his arrival and talking to everyone, in order to build up some courage to talk to the hot accountant.

“Good morning,” Chuck declared to the three women, all sitting with their backs to each other, working silently on their PCs. “Do you have your packages ready?” he continued.

“No, Chuck, but you’ll be back by later for a final run, right?” asked this new woman of his dreams, as she leaned her chin against her upraised hand and smiled at him.

“Oh, sure, of course,” he agreed, not sure how to respond, “I was just checking. Thanks!” he shouted a little too loudly. She knew his name! “I’ll see you later!” he added with enthusiasm as he shoved his whining cart away with a huge grin on his face. It was then that he knew he had to make her a mix tape.

That evening Chuck eschewed trying to make himself a meal, in favor of focusing on creating the perfect mix tape for this new woman in his life. This was a big one; the tape he had been practicing for all along. He didn’t know much about this person, other than where she worked and a small sampling of her fashion sense. He hadn’t learned her name. He began to doubt his earlier resolve that doing this was a good idea. He played some scenarios through his mind about how his encounter might go the next day. He could ask her if she liked music. And she could respond sarcastically and make him feel small. He decided to scratch his pessimistic mindset and simply make the mix. He had already pulled about 100 selections of amazing songs for the 90 minute limit. The records and CDs were strewn all over his small studio apartment in small groups. The songs were matched to each other based on how they would sound together and on a macro scale were organized in a way to make the tape flow from light upbeat and catchy pop songs to more meaningful and powerful songs. He imagined her listening to the tape over and over again, always thinking of him.

He was up all night testing songs against each other and debating internally over which songs would make the cut in order to make the subtle message he was attempting to express. He was excited by how easily it all came together. Still he found himself tossing and turning for the few hours he had left before having to get ready for work in a state of worry about some of the lyrics. Plus those scenarios about how to give this tape to her out of the blue plagued his thoughts. Who makes mix tapes for people they don’t know? He kept thinking to himself. He could’ve simply asked her out, but this step had always proved too difficult for him. He had been down that road a few times and it always led to instant rejection. If only the music that he loved so much could do his talking for him. It would do so much more elegantly.

He was startled awake by his beeping alarm clock with a sound so terrible that he had always awoken before its repeated screeches in order to avoid its harsh reminder. He pounded the off switch with the back of his fist, took a deep breath with his face smashed into his pillow, and then pushed himself out of bed. He showered, put on some cologne that he had never touched, chose his lucky shirt – the only shirt that anyone had ever complimented – and snagged the new tape on his way to the bus stop. He flipped the tape case over and over in his hand nervously. He had titled it: “Forgotten Favorite” after the Velocity Girl song. He went through the list of songs he had so carefully written down on the J-card in alternating black and blue ink. He played bits of the songs through his mind as he examined the song titles. It sounded really solid to him, which built his always sagging confidence.

It was all he could do to wait till his first go round through the office at 10 am. He hadn’t seen her arrive that morning, so he feared that she would not be there and his resolve would fade. At the same time, he could feel a small part of him hoping that she would not be there, so he could take a breath. It was a Friday morning, and if she hadn’t been there, he’d have been stuck with this heavy anticipation and self-doubt the entire weekend. At least if he had made his odd move and if it all went down in flames, he’d have the satisfaction of having made the effort. It was little consolation in the face of another failure that he would no doubt stew on.

As his cart squawked his arrival through the office, he finally approached the big cubicle. He could hear her voice over the grinding wheels of his reject cart and his heart stopped beating. He felt light-headed, like he might pass out. He grabbed a couple of envelopes from the basket, peered slowly into the doorway of the cubicle and warbled an unsteady ‘good morning.’ It was at the moment that he realized that he hadn’t said a word to anyone since he’d left work the prior evening, so his throat was not ready for use.

“Hey! Good morning Chuck,” she responded with a bright smile. He loved how friendly and genuine she presented herself.

“Do you like music?” he asked with zero transition.

“Sure! Love it! Who doesn’t? Why do you ask?”

This would’ve been an opportune time for Chuck to invite her to a show, but his mind went blank as to what was coming up, despite having looked at the city’s culture weekly paper not ten minutes before in search of weekend shows to attend. Plus, this new strategy was way off script.

“I-I was listening to this old mix tape I made on the way to work this morning, and I thought that maybe you’d – maybe – want to check it out.” He held it out toward her and she reignited her smile, more likely from his rambling suggestion, as opposed to the gift he was offering.

She took the case and examined it for a moment, turned it over and looked at the song listing and told him that she really liked his handwriting.

This was not what Chuck had been hoping to hear, but it wasn’t as bad as what he thought would happen. He nodded a thank you as she offered the tape back to him.

“Thank you, that’s really sweet of you, but I don’t have a cassette player,” she apologized, as their hands met for a second during the exchange. A shock went through his body.

“Oh, okay. That’s cool,” he barely managed, before abruptly turning his cart away from her desk towards his next destination. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, and there didn’t seem to be any songs in his collection that would help him at that point.

Lose Your Illusion

“Would you ever hurt me?” she asked me.

Her eyes burned into mine. They were serious and vulnerable like I had never seen them before. Moments before, she was laughing hysterically and uncontrollably, so much so that she blurted out her adorable snort; I froze from the sudden seriousness of her intent.

I did not know what to say. Obviously, I would never hurt her. I worshipped her. She was the highlight of my day. When I asked her out nearly a year prior, I did so hoping that it would be the moment that would lead to the pathway to my fulfilled future. That may be overstating it, but what did it matter? She turned me down.

Her question, though straightforward, felt like a complicated puzzle that most likely did not have a solution.

“No, I would never hurt you. Of course not; not intentionally. I really like you,” I stammered quietly, while staring into the beer glass on the table in front of me.

She was blocking her question to me from the couple sitting across the table from us in the booth by turning her shoulders toward me and speaking very quietly. We were sitting next to each other when that couple approached and asked if they could join us at the table. It was a busy Friday night on a nice summer evening at a bar downtown and we were there with a big group of people from work saying goodbye to a long time co-worker.

“Yes! Please!” she’d excitedly told the strangers. It turns out the couple were out celebrating a first wedding anniversary that upcoming weekend and wanted to get an early start. Our work group had taken over the group of tables in front of the bar and was getting louder and louder as the evening wore on. Inexplicably, she and I wound up sitting next to each other in a booth adjacent to our gang, but not directly involved. Originally I sat there, because I am good at sidelining myself and was not in a great mood. Somehow, this pretty young woman, who I had a massive crush on for nearly two years, joined me. There were so many times when I would try and place myself in her midst in an effort to worm my way into her heart. This time, I had purposely stepped aside, and now here she was. Occasionally, we would be visited by a carouser from our scene, but mostly we talked about what was happening around us and simply watched the activity from off to the side. When the couple asked if they could share our table, they made it clear from their words that they assumed that we were a couple. I got up and ordered another round of drinks for us and our guests from the barkeep and watched the two of them chat with her. I desperately wanted to know what they were talking about, but at the same time I really didn’t. I decided that she was probably informing them about my past overture toward her and maybe how she enjoyed toying with me by alternately giving me signs of hope and then stomping on that hope ever since I asked her out. That would explain the laughter they were all engaging in during my absence. When I returned to the table, she quickly stood up and allowed me back into my corner on the inside of the booth. Then she handed the man across the table her camera and asked him if he would take a picture. Lost in my thoughts, I did not realize that she wanted him to take a picture of the two of us. This event took awhile as he goofed around with the ‘cheese’-type photography gimmick like we were little children. This extended our posing time for what seemed like an eternity. She leaned in closer as the seconds drifted away. I could feel her velvety hair dangling against my arm and shoulder. My senses were overwhelmed by her enticing aroma. The smooth skin of her arm was placed on top of mine, so that our hands were touching. Chills were racing up and down my spine. Eventually the picture was snapped, but our pose lingered few a few moments more. It could’ve lasted forever as far as I was concerned. Then she jolted back upright and retrieved her camera. The woman across the table asked us for the same favor. She handed me the camera and I snapped a quick picture wordlessly and set it back onto the table. This is when she asked me her question. After my response, she sat quietly and mulled over my words, then, suddenly this beautiful girl stood up and excused herself.

As she walked deliberately towards the restroom, we all watched her. My heart sank as she disappeared, because I assumed that she would return to the big group and leave me alone with these two. I turned my attention to my beer and drank a big swig, wondering how I messed this one up.

“You two make a cute couple,” the woman said to me. “How long have you been together?”

“I’ve known her now for almost two years, I think,” I replied, trying to keep beer from spraying out of my mouth from surprise. This was the first time in my life that I was associated as being a part of something ‘cute.’ I scratched the back of my neck uncomfortably, knowing that somehow this misleading answer would come back to kick me in the ass.

The bartender stopped by with a tray holding our four beverages and left with my empty pint. I immediately drank from the fresh beverage, ignoring the couple’s intent of sharing a toast. The beer was terrible. They should offer something other than their own brew at this place. The couple began talking amongst themselves, sensing my silence and intent on the beer in my hand.

The girl came back and stood at the end of the table. She picked up her new full drink and raised the glass to toast the anniversary of the pair with us. I held up my half empty drink and leaned my face into my other hand. I was drifting off; losing steam. I couldn’t stop thinking about her question. What was her motivation? Why would she think I would hurt her? What did she mean? It was mysterious. Did it mean she was finally showing some signs of maybe giving me a shot after all this time? Did it mean that she was wary of me, like I could be some sort of threat to her? I didn’t get it and wanted to explore it further, but I did not know how. This was a party and she was rejoining the group. I could feel energy tumble out of my body which slumped like a deflating balloon. My mind started to gather together pictures of moments that she and I had shared over our time together up to that point. The couple was carrying on a conversation, which may or may not have included me, because I was oblivious to them, though I may have been responding. I could not be sure. I was lost, thinking about all of those times that she and I had shared laughter by slinging verbal jabs back and forth about each other and our workmates; or the times when she was flustered and came to me in confidence; or those early mornings when she and I were the first ones in the office and the only two who would show up hung over. Though I was older than her, we were still the two youngest in the office. In some ways we had the most commonality amongst everyone we worked with. But she did turn me down. I took that to heart. She said she didn’t date co-workers; understandable. And that was the end of my one overture. After that event, she became distant; again, understandable. I treaded lightly for a long time and tried my best to be upbeat and leave the whole thing behind – at least that’s what I wanted her to believe. I didn’t want her to hate me or leave. I liked her too much and I liked having her around. This was the problem. The more she relaxed around me, the more I continued to fall for her. It was a trap that I could not get out of. Over time, the shared laughter and outrage at our surroundings gained a new momentum. Things were comfortable again between us - until this particular evening. What was happening?

Instead of lingering, I had told Jeff and Steph I would meet them after this thing, so I decided to bail. I said a goodbye and good luck to the couple, went to the restroom, paid my tab at the bar, sought out T and gave her a farewell hug and ran the gamut of fellow employees who shouted various things out as I made clear my intention of an early exit. The evening’s sunset was just beginning to paint the sky with a pink splash. I hurriedly stepped outside, still with scrambled thoughts and more questions with no answers. Normally, I would stay to the bitter end to find out if any of these signs meant anything for us, but nothing felt right.

I waited for the Max right outside the bar and enjoyed the warmth of the air on my air-condition-chilled arms.

“Wait up!” There she was. She was leaving with me. “I need to catch the Max too.”

“Where are you headed?” I asked her, genuinely curious if her answer would involve me in any way.

“Meeting up with some friends,” she said with a smile.

“Yeah, me too,” I mumbled as the train approached and I tossed a piece of gum into my sour mouth. The doors of the train flapped open and revealed a roar of recycled air and a loud intercom voice espousing the wonders of this downtown corner. People shuffled by us either leaving or boarding the train. I looked over at the trash cylinder on the sidewalk to toss the gum wrapper into as I stepped aboard the train behind her. The lid’s opening, which deflected my shot and knocked it to the ground, had squiggly handwriting on it that stated: Life is a hole. “I couldn’t agree more trash can,” I sighed under my breath.

“What?” she asked, looking at me from across the aisle.

“Nothing. I hope you have a good weekend.”

WORK

a rough draft

I stared at the colored square in my hand. It was some sort of tiny folded pair of bright pink shorts folded into a clear plastic bag. I absentmindedly tossed the square into an empty box sitting atop my orange cart decorated by graffiti and slander, while listening intently to the conversation taking place an aisle full of bins jammed with other colored squares over.

“You know ya dun it, buddy!” echoed Tim’s voice throughout the dusty spaciousness of the warehouse. Tim was the warehouse manager and he was urging Gary to answer his inquiry honestly. My problem was that I didn’t know what my good friend Gary was supposed to have “dun.” I quietly wheeled my cart closer, while remaining out of sight of this discussion. An unnatural day-glow green shimmered onto my haphazard neck beard from a bin of tank top squares below that somehow illuminated themselves, despite sitting in the shadows far from the fluorescents 30 feet up. The shorts, tanks, tees, and other paraphernalia which we had been commissioned to pack and to ship from this warehouse had been manufactured by my current employer TriLete, the unfortunately named, yet apparently renowned supplier of highly technical tri-athletic apparel. All of the fabrics were synthetic and smelled like the garden department at a home center. I often fantasized what would happen if I started a fire in the cement confines of the warehouse. I wondered if the inventory would smolder slowly like a huge pile of burning tires, or explode like a nuclear blast due to the possible instability of the toxic synthetics involved with the apparel. Would the massive smoke cloud be a colorful one as it rose above the city of Portland before being carried off by prevailing winds to pollute the stunning vistas of the Columbia River Gorge due east of town?

“No, Tim, I have never done that.” Gary’s voice answered with a determined certainty that I had not heard in his voice for a long time. He was trying to end this questioning as efficiently as possible. Working under the tutelage of Tim was an interesting prospect. He was about ten years older than either of us and his size was somewhat imposing, yet he was as dim as anyone either of us had ever encountered. Tim’s daily uniform was generally composed of a tight yellow or pink T-shirt with the short sleeves rolled up, plastic black pants (that thankfully provided a swishing sound in order to alert any of us of his impending presence), a key chain dangling from his waist and a fanny pack in order to keep his lip balm and giant bottle of nasty smelling cheap cologne handy at all times. He drove a white Trans Am and his hair style might be considered a mullet in some circles, but I always likened it more to the depictions I had seen of the ancient Roman heroes and their curly locks. This wasn’t quite accurate either, because the hair seemed more inspired by the shape of a Roman warrior’s helmet. Maybe that was the reasoning behind the affectionate nickname we had for him: The Roman Meal Man. Sometimes it was awful to work for such a buffoon. It was humiliating knowing that he was our leader. Most times however, it was an extremely entertaining prospect. After all, we could do pretty much anything we wanted.

“Aw, buddy, even after you’ve had a whole mess to drink?! Ya know that sometimes ya just can’t hold it! Ya know ya dun it. Everybody’s dun it,” boomed Tim proudly. For Gary this was not one of those fun times. I had to fight back a sudden surge of mixed emotions that flooded into my face, but I did not want to alert Tim of my proximity and be drawn into his line of interrogation. I could hear Gary clear his throat.

“No, Tim, I am honestly telling you that I do not wet my bed,” Gary’s response came, along with the squeak of the wheels of his cart turning away from Tim in the aisle next to where I was leaning transfixed. “I need to finish picking this order, so, uh…” he drifted off.

“Whatever, buddy, I bet some of the other buddies’ll own up!”

I jumped up immediately and turned my cart and sped to another aisle further away from the front of the warehouse, where Tim’s office was. I didn’t want to find myself involved in a potential census survey regarding bedwetting.

A few moments later I approached Gary in the back of the warehouse, mimicking Tim’s groaning style of breathing. Gary leaned against his cart, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Did you hear that?” he inquired, exasperated.

Gary and I had known each other for most of our lives. We first met as little kids at a mutual friend’s birthday party. The events of that now legendary night had become obscured by our revisionist memories. We had both become convinced that the birthday party had been a crazy assortment of dangerous hard drinking eight year olds, hell bent on trouble. The events of the sleepover over the years had gone from an outdoor pizza party with games and a variety of flavored sodas to knife fights, drugs, a brutal beating, mass property destruction and graffiti around the neighborhood. No matter how my mind fights against believing it, I cannot shake the invented vivid memory I have of Gary shot-gunning a can of beer while standing on the hood of a convertible pissing onto its empty seats at three in the morning. Whatever the case was, we had become friends and remained friends for the next fifteen or so years. I had witnessed Gary go through a lot of bad times over those years, but I had never seen him struck with such a confused fear as he was after this encounter with our boss.

“Yeah man,” I replied laughing, “that was awesome!”

“Chuck, you are a sick freak,” he said as he removed his glasses and attempted to wipe away the idea of a smug smile appearing upon Tim’s sleeping face just as he leaks a wet and warm present for his startled young girlfriend in their bed. My laughter died as I inexplicably began to join in on the visualization. We both stood in silence for a while trying to comprehend where we had gone wrong. I was blaming Gary for getting this job for me. Gary continued to try and pry his recent memory out through his eyes.

“Ya know ya dun it, buddy,” I quietly mumbled an impersonation, exaggerating the heavy breathing, before bursting out with more laughter. Gary continued rubbing his face, then replaced his glasses and made direct eye contact. I returned his gaze expectantly, trying to encourage my intention of humor with my eyes. After a couple of beats, he jumped towards me reaching out to grab my t-shirt with one hand while swinging wildly with the other. I dove to one side, barely avoiding his grasp before spinning around and running away. Gary pursued me for about thirty seconds until I ran behind Slack for protection.

Slack was the assistant warehouse manager. Slack was known as Slack for a reason. The prior day, he and I had spent the entirety of our eight hour workday standing around talking about our histories. He almost never worked and he had moved beyond the point of trying to trick people into believing that he worked. In this environment, however, this only brought him the useless title of assistant warehouse manager. The reality was that none of us worked much at all. We were over-staffed and not paid enough to be motivated. Most importantly, our boss could be out-witted by a first grader. The conditions were not conducive for a long-term productive career opportunity, but they were very helpful for a lifestyle filled with alcohol fueled late nights.

The idea for doing this job was not due to lack of motivation, I liked to believe, but to not have to take the job home with me. I had big dreams of someday owning a record label and a companion fanzine that would become a legendary starting point for many incredible bands. In other words, this job was just something to tide me over until the success starting rolling in. Gary’s dream was not so dissimilar. He was a co-conspirator for the fanzine, which we had begun photocopying every so often for the prior couple of years. He also was focused on starting a band. Neither of us had any musical talent, but that never stopped most of our musical heroes of the late 70’s punk and post-punk era. Most of our actual work towards achieving these goals was spent sitting around drinking beer and discussing the awesomeness of our ideas rather than producing results.

At that particular moment, I was crouching behind Slack’s squared, Fred Flintstone shaped frame, in order to avoid Gary. Slack was humming “Brick House” to himself, unfazed by this sudden interruption. His non-response immediately diffused the situation and Gary and I began recreating the drunken Tim-bed-wetting story for him, both over playing the groaning speech patterns of our leader. Slack’s eyes widened in wonder as his mind tried to grasp this bizarre reenactment. We could see the wheels of his mind turning from disbelief to the realization that this actually did occur. He began to sing “She’s the one, the only one, built like an Amazon” rapidly to drown out the nightmarish environment we had thrust upon him. He bounced into a jerky dance causing his erratic sprawling hair to bounce back and forth on top of his head in the opposite direction as his body as he moved away from us, using the Commodores’ lyrics as his response to our attack. Gary and I looked on with bemusement as Slack disappeared from view.

At that same moment, Jovin slipped by the aisle on the opposite end, tip-toeing like Elmer Fudd hunting “wabbits,” trying to sneak in to work a few hours late. Jovin was late nearly every day, but generally managed to go unnoticed by Tim and our more uptight co-workers, the ones who take the job seriously and one day hoped to take Tim’s place at the top of the pecking order. This time, Jovin was too late. Talk of his absence had already made the rounds. Slack had tried to cover for him fruitlessly by inventing a Jovin sighting, when Tim had confronted him.

Gary and I had remained standing dumbfounded a moment after we saw Jovin move by, before jetting off after him. He was a tall and skinny guy who had an unreasonably deep voice and jet black hair. He had just turned nineteen and had the odd habit, when he finally showed up to work, of disappearing again immediately without leaving. Gary theorized that Jovin had built a shelter out of empty boxes that he could hide under unnoticed by the rest of us. It seemed probable to me, but wondered how none of us had ever discovered it.

Convening again in the back of the warehouse, as far from Tim’s office as possible, the three of us huddled secretively like junior high students who were cutting classes for the first time.

“Where have you been?” I asked in a tone, letting Jovin know that I was expecting something funny.

“Slept in,” he responded flatly, while staring at something that apparently was behind Gary and me. Jovin often did this. He would stare intently at something other than who he was addressing. Not only did his stares have the ability to create confusion in whoever he was speaking to, he created an unsettling feeling as well. I’m pretty sure he was from the hills outside the suburbs.

“They’re onto to you today dude,” Gary told him conspiratorially. “Maybe you should get out before anyone else sees you and then call in sick.”

The three of us contemplated this idea and glanced around for a quick escape route.

“Buddies, I need you all to come up to my office for a meetin’,” Tim’s serious voice boomed from the speakers overhead.

“I wish he never discovered how to use the interco-,” I began to say before being cut off by Tim’s heavy breathing.

“Let’s go guys.”

Gary led the way, as the three of us entered Tim’s small dark office. Tim was sitting at his desk with his arms crossed on top of the desk calendar in front of him. Christ, Helmet and Sandy took up all of the chairs available on the opposite side of Tim’s desk, all glaring at Jovin as though he was about to be executed. Slack stood behind Tim looking intently at the floor, being careful not to make eye contact with any of us.

“Come in buddies,” Tim invited with his most authoritative tone, trying to emulate the “Major League”-era tough guy Tom Berenger - most-likely his idol. “Something has been brought to my attention. We’re all buddies here, buddies, but when I hear that some of us are showing up late, I get concerned. I won’t name names, buddies,” Tim continued, while pursing his lips, “but we don’t want to start any Semitism around here.”

I stared at Slack’s down turned head, which slowly began to vibrate. The long cables of hair that spiked accidentally from his head waved about in reaction to what he’d heard. His right hand was completely white as he held it firmly to his mouth, trying to press the burgeoning laughter forcing its way out. I looked away from Slack to keep myself from laughing along. Jovin stared empty-eyed ahead, knowing that this discipline meeting was for his sake, but clearly not caring. Gary’s head was slumped over as far as his neck would allow, focused on the floor at his feet. His neck and forehead were bright red and he looked as if he was about to cry.

“When buddies start showing up late, it can create some anti-Semitism and we don’t want that here,” Tim added for emphasis, making sure that none of us had misheard him.

Helmet held his head high, proud that his complaints had led to this scene. My eyes continued to scan the room for somewhere to focus.

“When we start getting Semitism around here, buddies, then we can’t get things dun. So we need to all show up on time, so we don’t have these Semitism issues. Okay, buddies?”

Everyone but Gary and Slack looked at Jovin, who nodded slightly with his eyes focused on the window behind Slack. Sweat had formed on Gary’s forehead. Slack’s legs were twitching as his oxygen was running out. I clenched my eyes and grabbed the bridge of my nose in disgust.

“Okay, buddies,” Tim concluded with certainty, “Let’s go take a break.”

With that conclusion for the completely pointless meeting, all of us burst from the confines of the office into the open space of the warehouse. Immediately, Slack and Gary began to gasp for air as they both howled uncontrollably. Slack put his arm around Gary and began to cry into his shoulder. I looked on in disbelief at what was just spoken with deep sincerity. Helmet approached me, asking what all the laughter was about.
Though Helmet and I didn’t like each other, we managed to get along. His tiny red moustache twitched with irritation as he looked on at the hysterical twins that had now dropped to the floor. Helmet had begun working long before Gary and I had started our employment at TriLete, so we weren’t certain what his name really was. We had begun calling him Helmet upon our first sighting of his tightly bunched red-headed afro, which floated just above his scalp and hovered in a frozen waterfall down the back of his neck. Slack referred to him as The Sheik, which was the superior name, but too good to spoil with every day usage.

“What’s wrong with them?” he asked in a very serious tone.

“Um, I suppose they uh…I don’t know,” I gave up, wanting to avoid continuance of this garbage.

“You guys make me sick,” Helmet blurted before turning around abruptly and storming off to his desk pressed against the outside of Tim’s office. Helmet, Christ, and Sandy were all long time friends, brothers, or cousins, or in-laws - no one knew for sure – who had belonged to an unusual religious cult, which was loosely related to Christianity. From what we could gather, the cult was an offshoot similar to Mormonism, except this nonsense was preached by some farmer from the rolling fields just off of I-5 south of Salem during the mid 70’s. I think his name was Ed: founder of the Church of Ed. We didn’t know much else, except that they didn’t celebrate things like birthdays or national holidays; instead they had their own list of Holy Days, which meant they were not allowed to come in to work at all.

Helmet wanted to be in Slack’s managerial position and took everything very seriously. Christ was sitting on Helmet’s desk reading from his Bible. His book was stuffed with markers and sheets of paper, which were presumably notes from intense studying, but I happened to know otherwise. Those random pieces of paper were scribbled with NFL stats and the lines of the upcoming weekend’s games. He was on the verge of a complete breakdown. He had just turned 22, had been married for four years and had two kids with another on the way. We called him Christ, because he was the only one of his clan to advertise his beliefs sanctimoniously and he had a severe persecution complex. Sandy, on the other hand, was completely comfortable with his life in the Cult of Ed, which made him the most tolerable. He was a giant man with a friendly disposition, who rarely spoke except to inject the occasional quip. Gary was always wary of Sandy, feeling that he was the dangerous one.

Jovin was nowhere to be seen.

Slack and Gary had managed to untangle themselves from the floor and wipe the tears from their eyes.

“Let’s go smoke,” Gary commanded after a long exhale. He and I walked to the back door of the warehouse and stepped outside. Slack headed off to the snack machine to buy his daily dose of Plantation Brownies.

The weather outside was cool and eerily hushed by a heavy white haze, isolating us from the views of the city that we normally enjoyed. Jovin was already out back holding a cigarette.

“What will you guys give me if I smoke an entire pack at once?” he queried under his breath.

“Huh? Are you serious?” Gary returned exasperated.

“I’ve always thought about trying it,” he replied, smoke spurting out of his nose with each word.

Gary lit his cigarette and then mine. He generally lit my cigarettes, because I was incapable of doing so. Matches, lighters: the conditions didn’t matter.

“I’m not giving you anything,” I uttered blankly, while still trying to comprehend Tim’s speech.

“I’ll give you a heapin’ pile of Semitism buddy,” Gary groaned using our boss’s voice. “Besides, that cigarette you’re smoking is one of mine,” he added, as himself, while pointing a finger at Jovin. “Where are you gonna get a full pack?”

Jovin looked back directly at Gary for several seconds as he sucked down the last few drags of his cigarette. Gary laughed, but I turned my head away and stared at the parking lot surrounding the building. Jovin’s staring made me extremely uncomfortable. He was like a crossbreed of Dangerous Redneck and Deadly Ninja dusted with a pinch of instability.

“Hey, so I was thinking that we should hang out tomorrow night,” Gary’s voice interrupted my fear.

“Huh?” I looked back at Gary; Jovin was gone. “Why? What’s up?”

“Rose is having a girl’s night, so I’m supposed to stay away from the apartment.”

“When did she find friends?” I smirked.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Gary began, taking my joke as straight. “She got a job last week. Some sort of holiday temp thing.”

“Where at?”

“Some crime shit at the Mall,” he paused for effect. “Um, yeah, anyway, she brought back one of her little co-workers the other night. She’s a cutie. You should tap that.”

“What are you talking about?” I exclaimed, irritated in advance at his oncoming sales pitch.

“Dude, I’m telling you, she’s totally your type! Rose agrees! She’s got that short dark hair you like so much and she’s a dwarf.” Gary was always using the “dwarf” line, because I once mentioned, a long time ago, a non aversion to a particular shorter than average woman.

“Where do you get that?! One stupid comment, ‘cuz of one hot short chick I pointed out! One time!”

“I’m serious man!” he shouted me down. “You’d like her.”

“Like Nancy from high school? She was a short brunette,” I added sarcastically.

“Yeah, and she could chew tobaccy and spit like a real man,” Gary finished for me. “I know that you were all about her. Whatever happened to her anyway?”

“How the hell would I know?”

“No, I’m dead serious. She’s a cutie. You’ll dig her,” I nodded, showing him that I was listening. “So, I’m thinking this: she’s supposed to come hang with Rose at seven, so we can go grab some Dino and wander, or hit the Commodore Bar. Then, at some point, we’ll slip back to the pad and we’ll introduce you to…uh…to the chick.”

“You don’t remember her name?” I asked quietly, finishing the smoke.

“Suki, Sandra, Cindy, Susan, Sassafras something like that,” he paused, “you know I don’t remember names! What do you think? Rose is down with you meeting her too. She’s on your side.”

“Yeah, well, that’s one person then. I figured we’d hang out anyway. It’s Friday, isn’t it?” I asked as I held the back door open for Gary. “Sassafras? What is that?”