The Arnold Palmer part 7

Read the previous chapter here:

Part 6


---Begin part 7

Steve pulled into his apartment complex, tires screeching as he sped around the curb and into his designated spot. He parked the car and jumped out, leaving his keys in the ignition and the car running. As he slammed the door, he realized his mistake and looked at the closed door in horror. 

"No, no, no, no," he said, but deep down he knew the door would be locked. He began to feel panic creep up the back of his neck. He almost let out a violent scream and was a moment from kicking the car when he reached for the handle and pulled the door open. 

"Oh," he said, looking at the open door in confusion. "Ok." This act, forgetting to turn off his car and keys, somehow seemed like the highlight of his day simply because it didn't turn out to be as bad as it could have. He turned off the car, grabbed his keys, slammed the door, hit the alarm, and sprinted to his apartment.

He nearly ran over his neighbor carrying a garbage bag to the dumpster in the parking lot. 

"Whoa!" the older man said as he jumped out of the way. "Watch it!" 

"Sorry!" Steve sputtered. "So sorry, man. Been a long day." 

"No problem," the man said. "I know exactly what you mean. This morning I..." he stopped mid-sentence as Steve sprinted away. 

"In a rush, have a good one!" Steve yelled behind him. 

"You, too," the man said, then, under his breath he added, "jerk."

Steve turned the key in the lock and shoved open the door to the apartment complex. He ran past the mailboxes, then stopped for a moment, thinking maybe he should get his mail. Then he thought about all the bills waiting for him and continued on his way. 

"They're not going anywhere," he muttered. His day had been long enough. He didn't want to think about how much money he owed. He didn't want to think about anything except the delicious refreshing drink he was about to finally pour himself. A smile came across his face as he envisioned the sound of the ice cubes hitting the bottom of his glass. When he thought of the sweet mixture of iced tea, lemonade, and the finest vodka the local grocery store provided, a tear slowly rolled down his cheek. 

"No time to get emotional," he said as he wiped the tear with his sleeve. "Stay focused."

He ran past the elevator directly to the stairs. The elevator was one of those old ones with the iron gate. It always felt like he was traveling back in time when he pushed the gate aside and stepped in the small box. To be honest, looking out of that little porthole window to the inner machinations of the elevator as it descended and ascended freaked him out a little. His nerves couldn't handle it tonight.

His shoes barely touched the steps as he ran up to the 3rd floor. Any pain from his toe was hardly registering. He opened the door to his apartment, unbuttoned his pants and threw his button down shirt on the ground. His roommate was asleep on the couch, also with his shirt off. Empty pizza boxes, plus a few empty cans, bottles, and glasses were spread out on the coffee table. Apparently he had missed some kind of gathering, because the apartment was not like this when he left in the morning. Not to say it was clean when he left it, per se, but there were only 2 empty glasses on the table at most. Maybe one empty pizza box, too.

Steve walked to the small kitchen and looked for a clean glass in the cupboard, coming up empty handed. The dishwasher had been full of dirty dishes for a couple days and neither roommate had the determination to put detergent in and run it. Instead, they'd grab a dirty glass, rinse it out, use it, and put it back in the machine, just as Steve was planning to do now.

He grabbed the cleanest looking glass, placed it under hot water for a few seconds, then dried it off with a paper towel. 

"Perfect."

Now for the moment he had been literally fantasizing about all day. He opened the fridge and took out the bottles of lemonade and iced tea. There was just enough lemonade for a tall Arnold Palmer. He'd have to go back out to the store if he wanted more; after the day he had, he'd either fall asleep after one drink or need 8. He wasn't thrilled about the idea of going back out, but if he needed to, there was a corner store 5 minutes away. 

He opened the freezer and dropped 4 pieces of ice into his glass. Maybe he could make the lemonade stretch into two drinks after all. He reached for the most important ingredient, the bottle of Smirnoff...only to realize it wasn't where it was supposed to be. He moved the ice trays and the boxes of frozen pizza and chicken nuggets around in the freezer. Still nothing. Frantically he opened the fridge and moved the milk and eggs around, pushed the cans of soda to the side, pulled the box of baking soda out, knocked over the cartons of leftover Chinese food, only to find....nothing.

"No."

It was 10:45pm and he lived in Connecticut. Because of the Puritanical values that still pervaded this New England colony, the liquor stores all closed at 9pm. When he was in college less than 10 years ago, all liquor stores closed at 8pm and didn't open at all on Sunday. People would have to plan their drinking ahead of time like some kind of scientist, it was outrageous. Unfortunately, the extra hour wasn't doing him any good tonight, and he hadn't talked to the bootlegger he went to as a teen since...he was a teen. Maybe he could find his number somewhere? Even if he found it, dealing with that guy usually took hours. Who knows if he still even bootlegged. It would be pretty sad if he was still doing it 15 years later. Steve expected more ambition from his bootleggers. So that wasn't a realistic option. No, if he didn't find the bottle, he'd have to go to a bar. The closest bar was 25 minutes away, and it always smelled like used kitty litter. 

"No."

He looked back in the freezer, hopelessly moving everything from one side to the other in hopes that it would somehow appear.

"No."

Back to the fridge. Then back to the freezer. Then he turned around and scoped out the kitchen counter. Nothing. The kitchen table....nothing. He almost jumped into the living room where his roommate remained snoring loudly on the couch. He scoured the coffee table, the floor, the entertainment center, he lifted his roommates feet and looked under his legs. Still nothing. 

"No!"

He hopped back into the kitchen. He opened the stove just in case. He checked the sink. He checked every cabinet. He ran to his room and looked under his covers, in the closet, in his dresser, then in his bathroom. There was no vodka to be found.

As he ran back to the kitchen, he spotted a white garbage bag near the front door. It was stuffed to the brim, and right at the top, near the red drawstrings, the red top of a glass bottle poked out. He ran to the bag and pulled out the bottle. 

Smirnoff. Empty.

"No!" The vein on his forehead looked like a railroad track crossing from temple to temple. He opened the bottle and tipped it back, hoping for any little bit to drop on his tongue. He didn't realize how much he resembled a cartoon caricature of a drunkard, and he didn't care. He was furious. He had come so close to his cherished Arnold Palmer and it had been taken away from him. 

Before he could think he screamed and kicked the front door with all of his might, then immediately passed out from the pain that shot up from his toe.

"Steve?" his roommate murmured from the couch. He pulled the couch pillow off his head and looked towards the heap of flesh on the ground. "Dude, we're gonna get complaints from the neighbors if you keep yelling. Chill out man." He placed the couch pillow back on his head and resumed his alcohol fueled snoring. 

---End Part 7

I Love You All...Class Dismissed. 

The Arnold Palmer Part 6

Read the previous chapters here: 

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5


-Begin Part 6

The crumpled hood stared at him as he sped down the block. It seemed to be asking him, "Was that really a better idea than calling a cab?"

"Shut up," Steve said, and stepped harder on the gas. 

Within a few minutes, he saw the on-ramp for the highway. 

"Finally." 

Once he got on the highway, it would be smooth sailing for about half an hour. Then he could finally get that Arnold Palmer. And a painkiller. His toe was pounding. Any time he moved his foot, it got worse, so he was doing his best to avoid braking. He'd really have to see a doctor tomorrow. He had a serious headache from the whiplash, too.

As he flipped his blinker to turn on to the highway, he saw a glimmer of red and blue lights in his rear-view. Usually he would get a slight feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach whenever he saw those lights, even if he hadn't done anything wrong. This time, he assured himself that the lights weren't for him. His luck couldn't possibly be that bad.

Unfortunately, no matter how bad things are, they can always get worse. 

The lights rapidly got closer and he soon heard the "whoop" of the police cruiser as it pulled up behind him.

He almost cried as he slowly pulled his car to the side of the road, mere yards away from the on-ramp.

"I just want to get home," he groaned as he put the car in park. "Why can't I get home?"

After a few grueling minutes waiting for the police officer, a young, clean-shaven man in a crisp blue uniform came to his window and asked for the usual paperwork.

For an instant, Steve knew deep in his heart that he didn't have his registration or insurance or license on him. He was absolutely sure that something would be missing and the cop would give him a huge fine or even take him in to the station. That's clearly where this day was headed.

But his fears were allayed when he found the documents he needed. He even double checked everything to make sure it wasn't expired. He breathed a deep sigh of relief, and with a beaming smile on his face, handed the paperwork to the officer.

"What's so funny?" the cop asked.

"Sorry?"

"You got a big shit-eating grin on your face. Wanna tell me what's so funny?"

"No...it's just...I had a really long day."

"I can tell," the officer said as he pointed to the crumpled hood. "What happened there?"

"Long story."

"You sure you should be driving this thing?"

"Oh yeah. It drives fine, it's just cosmetic damage."

"Well it looks like it could use some serious cosmetic surgery."

In the silence that followed, Steve could tell the cop wanted some recognition of his joke, but he just didn't have it in him to respond with even the slightest indication that he recognized the cop's "wit." In fact, the only energy he had left was currently being used to prevent himself from slapping the look of self-satisfaction off the cop's perfectly shaven face.

After a seemingly endless awkward silence, the officer said, "I'll be right back." He then slowly walked to his vehicle and got in. 

"Well it looks like it could use cosmetic surgery," Steve mumbled to himself in a high-pitched tone. "Hilarious. Jackass."

After more agonizing moments of waiting, Steve's mind began to wander. What was the officer looking up on his computer anyway? He had no arrests, no outstanding tickets or warrants. Maybe he was going a little fast? Maybe he didn't use his blinker? Or maybe he heard about a car destroying a gate at the Lassiter building, saw the hood of Steve's Toyota, and was currently putting 2 and 2 together?

After about five minutes, another cop car arrived. The driver, an older man with a luxurious mustache got out and walked to the first car. The young officer got out and they began talking.

Steve was sure he was going to be arrested. There was no other reason for them to take this long. This was the last thing he needed right now. Thrown in a cell, most assuredly fired, car a wreck, toe broken, whiplash, and still no Arnold Palmer.

Goddammit!

This was it. This was the moment that was going to break him. All he wanted was a cool refreshing drink to take some of the stress of the week off, and it seemed like ever since 4:48pm, the moment he started thinking about that drink, his entire day went haywire.

Maybe it was a sign. Or maybe it was a coincidence. Or maybe he was just having the worst day of his life since the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cancelled minutes before his 7th birthday party started.

As he pictured himself on that dreadful day, an orange bandana around his head and a broken pair of plastic nunchuks on the ground next to him, tears began to take form. He tried to stop them, but he felt all the shame and disappointment and helplessness that he felt that day rushing back, and the tears came rushing out.

He let out a wailing sob and slammed his head on the steering wheel, accidentally honking the horn.

"Ow! Shit!" While rubbing the fresh bump on his head, he looked for a tissue. As he opened the glove box, the officer appeared at his window.

"Did you honk at me?" the cop asked sternly.

"N-n-no, sir," he managed through sobs. "It was an accident."

"Are you all right?" the cop was now shining his flashlight onto Steve's wet, red face.

 "Yes, I...well, no," he stuttered.

"Is there something you'd like to tell me?" the officer asked, keeping the light firmly on Steve's face and moving his free hand towards his holster. Steve didn't notice that, or the other cop on the passenger side creeping closer.

"It's...it's just that..."

"Go on son. You'll feel better when you tell me," the cop stated, now in a concerned fatherly tone.

"I-I-I just wanted to see Michaelangelo and Donatello! I didn't even care if all four of them came! I told everyone they'd be there and then Tommy Beringer made fun of me the rest of the year!"

"Sir, you're going to have to be more--"

"How could they do that to me?" Steve screamed through an ever increasing amount of tears.

"Sir, I don't think--"

"I couldn't even enjoy the cartoons or my toys anymore after that! They ruined my childhood! And not just in the internet ironic way, they really did! And I loved them so much! Why did they do that to me?"

"Sir, I'm not...I don't." The cop looked at the grown man sobbing with a bright red bump on his forehead and a crumpled hood on his car yelling about Renaissance artists and cartoons and decided he didn't want to deal with this paperwork.

"Sir, you failed to make a complete stop at the sign back there. And you need to get that hood fixed. Gather yourself and get home safely." He handed the license and insurance card back through the window.

"I couldn't even eat any cake," Steve sobbed as he took his cards back.

"Well, you can buy some cake and have it now, ok?"

"You think so?" Steve looked at him, the flashlight still lighting up his red face.

"Oh definitely. Just, just stop crying ok?"

"O-ok."

"Drive safely."

"Thank you, sir." Steve watched as the officer quickly walked back to his cruiser, joined by the older cop.

That was...strange. He didn't mean to lose it like that, but...it worked. He'd always heard that women got out of tickets by crying but he never thought guys could do it too. Cheers to equality!

Ignoring what the cop's unwillingness to engage with a clearly unhinged person behind the wheel said about mental health treatment and officer protocol in this country, or what the encounter could have been like if his skin was a little darker, Steve wiped his face with his shirt sleeve and started up his car. For a second, he was worried it wouldn't start, but the ignition switched right over and the engine began to purr. Things were starting to look up.

He turned on his blinker and continued on the exit ramp. The Arnold Palmer was now minutes away. His mouth started to water and a line of drool slowly dripped from the corner of his mouth.

"Jesus, get it together, Steve," he said as he wiped the drool with his already wet sleeve.

-end Pt. 6

I love You All...Class Dismissed.

The Arnold Palmer 5

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

He thanked the custodian again and limped to the front door, for some reason still trying to hide the fact that his toe was broken. Despite all evidence against it, he maintained the idea that this was the best way to handle his situation.

He opened the door and stepped into the dark night.

-begin part 5

Rain. Of course it was raining.

The cold water on his face actually felt good. He could almost hear steam hissing off the top of his head like in an old Looney Toons cartoon. In fact, this entire day had him feeling like Wile E. Coyote.

He continued to limp down the sidewalk, maintaining his balance by keeping his hand against the building. He saw the blue mailbox a few paces away and muttered under his breath:

"Stupid goddamm letter."

He hopped the remaining steps and opened the lid. It screeched open. He lifted the letter to the bin, then hesitated. He had an eerie feeling that something would happen to prevent him from sending this letter.

He looked around. The street was empty. There were no rogue, giant vacuum cleaners or custodians or beautiful brunettes out to sabotage him.

Yet, he could not send the letter.

Maybe he should go to the post office first thing in the morning and get it sent certified. He never really trusted the mail-people he saw around this street anyway. And "mail-people" sounded suspiciously like "mole-people," which was kind of creepy.

Maybe he was being ridiculous. Did Mr. S. say anything about sending it certified? He said it was important, but he didn't say it needed to be sent overnight or express or anything special. And if it was that important, why wouldn't he just use email?

He was being ridiculous. He opened the lid to the mailbox and slid the letter in.

He started to hop away when a thought occurred to him.

Was there postage on the letter?

Shit!

He leaped to the bin and opened the lid. He looked inside then thrust his arm in up to his elbow. There was no use.

"Ok. It's ok. I'm sure there was a stamp. Definitely."

He took a deep breath and hopped away, trying to forget the entire incident. Trying to forget the entire day.

When he finally reached the company's gated parking lot, he took out his keys and unlocked his car. The chirp of the alarm let him know where the car was, as the events of the day had caused him to forget where he parked. The fact that he still didn't have his own parking spot, even after three years of working for the company, and even though Dana got her own spot despite just starting last year and basically doing the same job he did (he wasn't bitter), didn't help matters.

He opened the door to the grey Corolla and fell in to the front seat. He was exhausted. The long nap in his office just made him more tired. He put the key in the ignition and started the car. His foot was throbbing as he stepped on the brake to shift out of park.

He came to a stop in front of the gate. The attendant/security guard was long gone, and at these hours, you just pressed a button to get a ticket. A fee was then added to your monthly parking bill. The company really knew how to treat its employees.

Steve rolled down his window and pressed the button. He grabbed the ticket and put it in his pocket, then waited for the yellow bar to rise, allowing him to finally go home and get that deliciously sweet, yet perfectly sour Arnold Palmer.

He waited. And waited. The bar did not move. He looked at the machine that gave him the ticket, expecting some noise or lights to go off.

Nothing. He waited. He rolled down his window and pressed the button again.

Nothing happened.

He waited some more.

Still nothing.

"Goddamit."

He sat for a moment, then slammed both hands on the horn, sending a loud, long honk into the night.

"Goddamit!"

He put the car in park and opened his door. He stepped out onto his undamaged foot. Holding on to his car for balance, he hopped over to the gate.

The yellow bar looked normal; it didn't seem broken and there was no chain holding it down.

He tried to lift it with one hand while holding onto the fence-post with his other hand. It didn't budge. He positioned himself so he could lift with both hands. It required him to put more weight on his bad foot, and the pain caused a wave of nausea to pass over him.

He took a deep breath and lifted. No movement.

He smacked the button again, to no avail.

Maybe this was an elaborate prank. He looked around for hidden cameras, then remembered the single camera overlooking the parking lot. Could it be...

The pain must have been messing with his head. Tammy from HR told him she asked to see video from that camera last year after her car window was smashed, and the security guy told her the camera didn't actually work. It was just there for show. At the time, Steve didn't know what bothered him more: the fact that it didn't work, or the fact that the guard was so quick to point it out.

Steve took out his cell phone to call a cab. He needed to get out of here and down a few drinks.

As he dialed, he thought about what the next few hours would entail if he got a cab. It was a 45 minute drive home, so it wasn't going to be cheap. Then he would have to take another cab tomorrow to get back here for his car. And he figured he should probably go to the hospital at some point to have his toe checked out. And his head.

This was not one of his favorite days.

He stopped dialing and thought about any of his friends who might be able to help. He knew somebody would, but he hated putting his friends out like that. Plus, the closest person lived 30 minutes away (if he was home) and that was 30 minutes of waiting Steve just couldn't handle.

He hopped back towards his car. He slammed the button on the machine again, hoping he could solve the problem by banging on it. The bar didn't move, so he slid back into his car and shifted into drive.

If you asked him later, he wouldn't be able to give you a satisfying answer as to why he did what he did. It's not that he was hiding something; he truly couldn't explain what made him do it. He knew the bar wasn't easily moved because he just tried with his own hands, so what made him think his Toyota would do much better is anybody's guess.

Steve's first attempt to get through the gate involved driving slowly to the bar, inching forward until it touched the hood about halfway up. He thought he would lift the bar as he slowly wedged the car underneath it. He gently pushed on the gas pedal, causing a piercing, shrieking sound of metal on metal.

The bar crawled up the car's hood, leaving a line of yellow scratches.

This wasn't going to work.

He backed up. He stopped, then quickly backed up as far as he could, about 40 feet. He had seen enough movies to know what he had to do.

Soon after he built up the courage to put the car in drive, he lost his courage and only got the car up to 20 miles an hour before slamming on his brakes just as he hit the bar.

It barely moved. And now there was a dent in the hood. The bar was at least taking some damage. The underside was now completely gray, so that was something.

He backed up again. He needed to plow through the thing. Pedal to the medal. All or nothing. Need for speed. Days of Thunder. Dukes of Hazzard. The show not the movie.

He put the car in drive, cranked up the radio (playing Daft Punk "Get Lucky" because it's on literally any radio station in the summer of 2013) and sped towards the gate.

One good thing about the whiplash was that it took his mind off his toe for a little while. Plus, he could get it looked at tomorrow since he was already going to the hospital, so it was a two for one deal!

The car crashed through the bar, bending it and snapping it off the post it was connected to. It shot forward, sparks flying as it skidded completely across to the other side of the street, stopping when it hit the curb.

Steve lurched forward as the car hit the bar, but somehow the airbags were not set off and the car kept going forward. That was probably a good sign for Steve's car, but not a good thing for his neck. The hood was crumpled and pushed back towards the windshield, less of a good sign for his car.

He rolled forward, nearly running over an old couple and their dog.

Steve slammed on the brakes as the old man jumped back, pulling the dog with him. He seemed more concerned about the dog than his wife, but she was able to avoid the car as well.

They stared at him. The small pekingese yapped. Steve looked at the couple, then the dog. They looked at his car, then back at the gate. Then they looked at the yellow bar lying in the street.

Steve stomped on the gas pedal before they turned their gaze back to him. The car screeched off.

Steve headed home.

-end pt. 5


I Love You All... Class Dismissed.

The Arnold Palmer 4

Click the link to read:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Where the hell was the letter? He remembered placing it right on top of his desk. He quickly checked his pockets. A sudden sensation of dread washed over him as he imagined finding the letter in his pants pocket. If he had it this whole time, he'd never forgive himself for his idiocy.

The letter wasn't in his pockets. He scoured his desk, picking up every paper, looking under every folder and even his desk calendar. He looked in the drawers of his desk, despite the impossibility of finding it there. The one time he found his misplaced keys in the fridge in college left him searching in even the most ridiculous of places whenever he lost something.

Where the hell was the letter?

He collapsed into his chair. He really needed a drink. Wait, needed? Maybe he did have a problem.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something white on the floor under the cabinet next to his desk.

"Please, God..."

He gently stood up and limped the few feet to the cabinet. There, with one corner sticking slightly out from under the cabinet, lay the envelope. He bent down, picked it up, and kissed it.

He didn't waste time wondering how it had gotten there, he simply walked out of his office with the envelope in hand and headed towards the elevator.

"Time for that Arnold Palmer."

He pushed the button and the elevator opened immediately. Finally, things were going his way. He stepped in and pressed the button for the ground floor.

As he descended, he began humming to himself. He could almost feel the cool liquid easing down his throat. The pain in his foot even subsided a little as he envisioned the refreshing future that lay ahead.

As he began humming the second verse of "You are My Sunshine" (he wasn't really sure if there was a second verse, but the song is really short otherwise) the elevator slowed to a halt. The door made that annoying "ping" that informed Steve he would be having company on the rest of his elevator ride. He looked at the numbers above the door. He was on the 2nd floor again.

Maybe the young woman was leaving. This could be his shot at redemption. He stood up straight, sucked in his gut that had slightly begun hang over his belt, and looked up at the reflection in the ceiling to fix any hair that might have fallen out of place. Satisfied, he quickly prepared an explanation for his previous lack of courtesy. Just as he came up with the perfect quip, the perfect combination of words that would express his remorse and show her just how witty and helpful he really was...the door opened.

It was the custodian.

Goddammit.

He moved to the side of the elevator to make room for the custodian and his enormous vacuum.

The young man, without looking up or acknowledging Steve in any way, pushed the vacuum inside and maneuvered it around so it was facing the door and he was standing behind it, somehow managing to miss Steve's foot this time. As he settled into his position, the doors closed and Steve let out a sigh of relief as the elevator descended again.

After a silent ride, the doors opened to the ground floor.

Neither man moved. It was the world renown elevator conundrum: who exits first? Now, there are many schools of thought on this. When the elevator is full, there is no problem: the people closest to the doors leave first and people simply spill out as they can. The problem arises when there are only a few people. Generally, people stand at the back of the elevator when given enough space, so oftentimes nobody is closer to the doors than anybody else. When there is a man and a woman, the code of chivalry says to let the woman go first; on the other hand, two men, alone in an elevator, exiting on the same floor, is the world's biggest riddle.

No movement.

Steve snuck a look at the custodian, who was slightly raising his head to do the same. They met eyes. Steve nodded, indicating to the custodian that he could go first. The custodian nodded back, but didn't move. Was his nod indicating that he understood Steve, or that Steve should go first? Should Steve go?

He was going. It was ridiculous just standing there. He was going.

He stepped forward, just as the custodian started to move.

He stopped. The custodian stopped.

They looked at each other.

Goddammit.

The elevator doors began to close.

Steve stepped forward with his arm out to stop the door as the custodian did the same thing; while doing so, his vacuum jerked forward.

Directly into Steve's toe.

He felt the anger rise along with the pain. His eyes narrowed, his face reddened, his fists clenched and he let out a primal scream from the pit of his stomach. Using all the force in his body, he slammed the vacuum back into the custodian, jamming the handle into his stomach. The custodian slumped over and Steve unloaded with a vicious uppercut to the young man's forehead. His head snapped back with a loud "crack" and hit the elevator wall. He started to fall towards the floor but Steve's hands were around his neck before he got too far. Steve saw the fear and confusion in the young man's eyes and it only enraged him further. He squeezed his hands tighter and tighter, until the custodian's face turned bright red. As it began turning to a light shade of blue, Steve tossed the man out of the elevator door. The custodian was of average build but Steve's fury allowed him to toss the man like a trash bag, which is how Steve currently viewed him. He hit the ground and coughed loudly as he curled into a fetal position. Steve grabbed the vacuum, and once again using the strength of his fury and momentarily forgetting the pain in his foot, he lifted the vacuum over his head. He could already picture the man's head bursting open and blood and brain matter splattering the floor and walls of the lobby.

He brought the vacuum down as hard as he could.

"You all right man?"

Darkness surrounded Steve as a distant voice called to him.

"Dude?"

Blurred images began to take shape. He could see a face leaning over his. The voice was coming from the face.

"You went down pretty hard. You all right?"

"Huh?" Steve managed to blurt out. He now recognized the face as the custodian. Why was it still in one piece?

And why was Steve on the floor?

He saw the custodian's hand reaching down. Reluctantly, Steve grabbed it and attempted to get to his feet as the man pulled him upward. As he moved, he was reminded painfully of his broken toe.

"Ahh!" he half screamed and half mumbled, letting go of the helping hand. He got upright on his knees and stopped. He was on the floor next to the elevator door, with the vacuum standing next to him. He instinctively sneered at the uncaring machine, grabbed on to the handle and pulled himself up on his right foot.

"Dude, you need some help?"

"No," Steve replied. "Thanks." After a slight pause, he asked, "What happened?"

"I don't know man. We were leaving the elevator, then all of a sudden you turned like bright red and just fell over, knocked out. Weirdest thing I've ever seen."

Steve tried to remember what happened. All he could remember was his vision of the custodian's dark red blood splattered on the lobby's grey carpet.

"Then you were just layin there while the door kept trying to close on your head. You got a little cut on your forehead. So I kinda dragged you out here."

Steve put his fingers to his forehead. Sure enough, there was a slight trickle of blood and a large bump beginning to form.

"Uhh, thanks."

"Least I could do. So what happened man? You got like a condition or something?"

Steve considered his answer. "Uhh, no..." He was still a little out of it, trying to make sense of everything. The pain in his foot was almost matched by the pain in his head. What happened?

He looked down again at the vacuum he was leaning on. The vacuum.

The damn kid hit him with the vacuum again. That must have caused him to pass out, either from pain or anger, or both.

He felt the anger rising again.

"No, I just...forget it." He swallowed the rage bubbling up in his throat.

"All right. Man, you had me scared for a bit. I thought I did something at first."

Steve almost passed out again, this time most definitely from anger, but he took a deep breath, held tightly to the vacuum handle, and composed himself.

"Nope, all good," he managed through gritted teeth.

"All right, cool. I'm on thin ice here already, I can't have any more bad reports or I'll be back out on my ass."

Steve had a vision of his geriatric boss literally kicking the custodian out of the building on to his ass. A slight smile crept to his lips. Hell, all he had to do was write a quick note and this kid was gone. He didn't even have to resort to violence, or even a verbal confrontation.

He thought of what he would write. Maybe he'd even use his Creative Writing degree for once and put the note in haiku form.

Janitor is bad

So incapable

My toe really hurts

Granted, he was a little rusty.

"Oh, yeah, and you dropped this." The custodian reached toward Steve, holding some kind of paper.

The letter.

God. Damn. It.

"Thanks." Steve took the letter, and all thoughts of revenge disappeared. He couldn't punish the guy now. Steve probably would have forgotten the letter entirely if not for him. And the guy did pull him out of the elevator. Sure, he caused the situation in the first place, but at least he acted appropriately afterwards.

And was it really the guy's fault? The toe was already broken. Hell, if Steve just said something about it in the first place, this probably could have been avoided. Why was he being such an asshole? This was becoming a trend lately.

"Thanks a lot. I really appreciate it."

"No problem. Just be careful man. You look famished. Get something to eat, and stop working so hard dude. Usually I'm the only one here at this time. If nobody else is working this hard, you shouldn't be either, that's my motto."

Now the guy was a life coach and a philosopher. But he was right. Steve needed a good meal and some rest.

And that Arnold Palmer.

He thanked the custodian again and limped to the front door, for some reason still trying to hide the fact that his toe was broken. Despite all evidence against it, he maintained the idea that this was the best way to handle his situation.

He opened the door and stepped into the dark night.

-end pt 4

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

The Arnold Palmer 3

Steve slammed his fist against the railing, and instantly regretted his decision as his pinky finger stung with pain.

"Idiot," he muttered as he put his finger to his mouth and kiss-sucked on it to ease the pain. It was a habit he picked up at 7 years old, the first time he stubbed his finger on a basketball.

The elevator continued upward. Steve's mind berated him with a singular question, over and over: "Why did you come back here?"

"I don't fucking know," he sighed.

The doors opened and he stepped forward. As he put pressure on his foot, the pain was almost unbearable. Was a broken toe supposed to hurt this much? Maybe he broke his entire foot? It sure felt like it.

He decided to risk the embarrassment of any remaining employees seeing him and hopped his way to his office. He got to his door, opened it, and hopped to the couch in his office. He had never used the grey eyesore in the 3 years he worked there. It was a left-over from Paul, the guy who had Steve's job before he decided to take a swim in the Hudson River, after he dove off the George Washington Bridge, of course. He hated the couch, but right now he was glad he never had it removed. He plopped down on it, put his legs up on the armrests, and let out a loud sigh.

He wanted to take off his shoe and sock to look at his toe, but he was hesitant. His foot was throbbing like speakers at a rave, and he was a little scared to see what it looked like. Plus, what if he took off his shoe and couldn't get it back on?

He shut his eyes and tried not to think of the worst. Maybe he could get worker's comp out of this? Of course, that would require him telling people this story, and that wasn't happening. Besides, he wasn't on company grounds, and it was somewhat his fault. Ok, it was entirely his fault, but he shouldn't have to pay for it. Maybe he could say he fell inside the building? If he crafted a decent story and stuck with it, nobody would be the wiser.

Except he had a way of getting caught in every lie he ever told. Ever. A life of crime was not for him. His friends and family knew him as one of the most honest people in the world. He appreciated the thought, but the only reason he was so honest was because he knew he'd get caught otherwise. He was practical and realistic more than anything else.

And as a practical realist, he knew he had to get his toe looked at by a professional. These things didn't just "get better".

But he was so tired all of a sudden. The pain was draining him of all energy. A little nap wouldn't hurt. Five minutes was all he needed, then he'd mail that damn letter and drive himself home. He'd go to the hospital first thing in the morning. Right now he needed a nap, and tonight, he needed that Arnold Palmer.

He envisioned ice cubes swirling around in a light brownish liquid, the sugar from the iced tea and lemonade mixing perfectly with the vodka to create the refreshing taste of a summer breeze by the ocean.

That was going to taste good. He drifted off with a smile on his face.



"Ahhhhhhhh! Dammit!" Steve shot up straight on the couch and screamed as his foot hit the ground. In his sleep, he had turned over on his side, causing his legs to fall off the armrests.

"Dammit!" He yelled, reaching down to his foot.

He was still a little out of it from his nap. It took him a few seconds to recall everything that happened, and when it all came back, a wave of depression washed over him. He envisioned the future hospital bill, the constant pain and discomfort for the next few weeks, the awkwardness of walking in a cast on crutches, the inevitable conversations with every single person in his life about what happened.

"Dammit."

He got to his knees and crawled to his desk. He felt moronic, but it was easier than hopping. Besides, hopping around was equally moronic. He reached his desk and pulled himself up so he could rest his elbows on its surface. He looked at the small clock on his desk.

It read 8:30.

"8:30!"

Had he really been asleep for that long? How was that possible?

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. Its screen read 8:29.

"Well, that's much better."

He pulled himself up on one foot. He needed to get the damn letter and get home. CSI was coming on soon, and that Arnold Palmer wasn't drinking itself.

He reached for the envelope.

Which wasn't where he left it.

Of course.


-end part 3

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

The Arnold Palmer 2

Steve's toe was throbbing. He had never broken a bone, but he knew for certain he had just broken his big toe.

Looks like a percocet will be going along with that Arnold Palmer.

He hobbled back to his office building, contemplating whether he should even bother going back for the letter. That goddamn letter was the cause of all this. He should just forget it and slip it in the mail early Monday morning.

But some sense of duty or morality, or fear of his boss (despite the man's senility and high pitched voice, he still had a wiry strength beneath his wrinkled exterior and a menacing stare that haunted Steve at night) caused him to open the door to his building and hop to the elevators.

He waited for what he swore was longer than any stupid frickin elevator had ever taken since the sons of bitchin things were invented and finally stepped in as the doors opened. He pushed the "4" and immediately dropped to the floor in agony.

He took off the shoe and sock on his right foot. His big toe was now an even bigger toe, and it seemed to be pointing a little more to the left than usual. He gently touched the base of the toe and winced as pain shot through his whole foot.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened to his floor. He grabbed his sock and shoe and attempted to stand up. Before he could get to his feet, the doors closed. He reached for the "open door" button but the elevator already started downward.

Dammit.

Somebody downstairs must have pushed the button. Now he'd have to ride back up with another body in the cramped space of the elevator. He gingerly put his sock back on and put his foot into his shoe. He grabbed the railing on the wall and slowly pulled himself up. The pain increased.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened to reveal the building's custodian. He was a young man, nice enough, but very introverted. As usual he was wearing earbuds listening to some kind of music at a level that was completely unnecessary for a club, never mind for headphones.

Steve managed a slight smile that must have looked like he was biting his lip, because he was. The young custodian nodded in his direction and looked back down at the giant industrial sized vacuum cleaner he was pushing.

He shoved the vacuum into the elevator, maneuvering it around Steve's feet, but not quite enough, bumping the broken toe with the edge of the machine.

Steve bit down a little harder on his lip, tasting blood.

"Sorry, dude" the custodian mumbled.

"No problem," Steve replied in an unusually high pitched squeak.

The custodian pressed the "2" button and the elevator lunged upwards.

After a slow, jerky ride with unbearably awkward silence (basically, a typical elevator ride) they finally reached the second floor. The young man pushed the vacuum forward, this time missing Steve's swollen foot, and walked into the hallway.

The doors closed and Steve let out a loud groan. He reached down to grab his foot. It didn't do him any good, but it was an instinctual reaction that somehow soothed him slightly. He massaged his shoe for a moment then realized the elevator was not moving. He hadn't pressed the button for his floor.

He reached for the panel of buttons and felt the elevator start downward.

"Oh come on!"

He pushed the "4" button so he wouldn't forget, and leaned back on the elevator wall as the metal cage eased downward on its cables.

The doors opened on the ground floor to reveal a young brunette woman. Her arms were crossing her body, carrying a stack of papers and folders. A rung of keys hung from her hand.

This must be the new employee on the third floor that all the guys were talking about, Steve thought. He had been so busy in the past few weeks he hadn't even seen her yet. She was not as pretty as most of the guys said (then again most of the guys in the office were married and much older so any young woman in their presence was considered a goddess) but she was prettier than he had imagined. What was she doing here at this hour?

She smiled at him and stepped in the elevator. He attempted his best smile but was sure he looked like he was suppressing gas.

She turned toward the panel of buttons and pressed the "2". As she did, her keys fell onto the floor.

"Oops" she uttered, clenching her papers tightly to her chest.

They both looked at the keys, then each other, then back at the keys.

Clearly Steve was expected to pick up the keys in this situation, and normally he would not have hesitated. In fact, he would have offered to help with her things as soon as she got in if not for his throbbing appendage. (Usually, a throbbing appendage is the reason guys offer to help an attractive woman, but this was not a typical situation.)

Instead, he stepped towards the keys and cringed as his toe sent shock waves of pain up his leg. He stopped in his place and held on to the railing with both hands.

The silence filled the small space, and for Steve, lasted an eternity.

The young woman took a last exasperated look at Steve and bent down to pick up her keys. As she did, some of her papers fell to the floor.

Steve groaned to himself. He tried to move again, but the pain was too much. He wanted to explain himself to the woman. She'd understand. He just couldn't get the words out. The pain had erased his ability to form a coherent sentence.

By the time words started to form in his mouth, the doors had opened, all of the papers and keys were in her hands, and she was out the door. He couldn't see it, but he knew she had a look of disgust on her face.

"Toe...mm-broke!' He sputtered as the doors closed.

Dammit!

He really needed that Arnold Palmer.

-end pt. 2

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

The Arnold Palmer

It was 4:48 PM. Twelve more minutes. He could handle twelve more minutes. Hell, he hadn't done a thing since he saw his desktop clock read 4:09 PM. To be perfectly honest, he hadn't done a thing since he finished that leftover burrito for lunch. At this particular moment, his mind was fixated on the ice cold Arnold Palmer he was going to make himself when he got home.

It was Friday evening, the start to a three day weekend for Steve Hollands. He had been working 5 day work weeks for 48 weeks straight. This week he had put in 58 hours between his two jobs.  He didn't feel too bad about slacking off for the last few hours.

His boss, a 75 year-old semi-senile millionaire with a penchant for cheap cars and cheap suits was in a meeting all day, the only reason Steve was able to relax. Normally, the old man would be standing, or more likely leaning, over Steve's shoulder, watching him type away on his obsolete desktop. Steve respected financial conservatism, but he also respected technology that worked properly.

He actually didn't mind the slower processing speed on this lazy afternoon. Let the internet take its sweet ole' time loading up prank videos on youtube. What did he care? He was out of here at 5 PM and he could watch videos in the comfort of his own home, sipping an Arnold Palmer.

As he watched two roommates deliver nearly fatal pranks on each other (both pranks involving fireworks and a live raccoon) the door to his office swung open and a high pitched, crackly voice screeched out:

"Hollands! I need you to write up a proposal to Belgium."

Steve shot forward in his chair and clicked on the "x" to close the youtube browser. The porn he had left open appeared in its place. After sneaking one last glance at the heavy-set redhead with nothing on but a pair of high heels, he frantically clicked the page closed and opened a spreadsheet as his boss walked around to his side of the desk.

"Uhh, Belgium, sir?"

"Yeah, we're looking to expand."

"Of course."

Steve's stomach sent a hateful bubble through his digestive tract. His shoulders slumped and he put his fingers to his forehead, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles taking permanent hold beneath his widow's peak. The Arnold Palmer was now another 20 minutes away, at least.


He stopped typing and glanced at the time.

5:18 PM.

"Dammit."

"What's that, Hollands?"

"Nothing. How's this sir?"

As his boss read the proposal out loud, Steve felt a rising resentment at the old man. There was a creeping sensation that he would cause physical harm if he had to hear the whole letter read in that high pitched squeal. Objects on his desk were beginning to look like weapons.

He began humming softly to himself, thinking of the cold digestif waiting for him at home. Good thing, too, because the leftover burrito from lunch wasn't digestif'ing too well.

"Not bad Hollands. Print it on our letterhead, make 2 copies, and send one out to this address." He handed Steve a paper and walked out of the office.

The paper had numbers and letters scribbled on it. Steve never contemplated the connection between someone's voice and their penmanship, but he swore his boss's handwriting was as shrill and piercing as his voice.

Steve wanted to rip the paper into pieces. Instead, he made a few copies (his boss had a way of losing things) and put one in an envelope. He shut down his computer, grabbed his coat and walked out the door. There was a mailbox in front of the building down the street, so he'd drop off the envelope on the way home.


He bounded down the four flights of stairs and out into the bright sun. He sometimes wished he had a job with summers off, but he always savored the moment he left his office and felt the warmth of the summer sunshine envelop his body.

He walked down the street, and as he got close to the blue metal box, he thought about the last minutes at work. Why had he gotten so upset when his boss asked him to do a simple task? It took an extra 30 minutes. He hadn't done any work since lunch, and the work his boss was asking for was a cinch. Why did he let it affect his mood so drastically? Was he that desperate to get to his drink? Did he have a problem?

Maybe he was over thinking it.

He opened the slot on the mailbox and reached for the envelope...which he had left on his desk.

"Dammit!"

He slammed the lid shut and kicked the mailbox, breaking his big toe.

"Son of a shit!"

-end part 1


I Love You All...Class Dismissed.