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.

Best Most Awesome Round-Up of Things that Occurred in the Year 2013

Hey! Here are a few things that happened in 2013:

I published another book!

I wrote a few stories, like this one about Black Santa, this one about a crow-killing cat, this one about selecting a new pope, this take on the legend of Sisyphus, and this one about a guy and his desire to get home to his beverage. I also wrote this poem about Spring and death and this musing about death and dying (it was a positive year, I swear).  I wrote this piece theorizing about the origin of the Itsy Bitsy Spider, this one about the meaning of "A Christmas Story", and this startling in-depth hypothesis about Maggie Simpson's vital role on The Simpsons.

Stoned Willy Poonhound made his triumphant return to the public's consciousness with this guide to building a snow mansion, this advice on navigating your way through Valentine's Day, and these columns showing you how to become the best poonhound you can be.

I sprained my ankle on the second day of the year.

I hit a deer and wrecked my car.

Vine!

Rapper Vince Staples became a favorite, with his show-stealing verse on Earl Sweatshirt's "Hive"...

...and his own album Stolen Youth.

Probably my favorite album of the year was Run the Jewels (rap tag team duo El-P and Killer Mike), and their video for "A Christmas Fucking Miracle" is nothing short of amazing:

Those two guys really held it down as a group in 2013, after having 2 of the best albums of 2012 individually. And their concert in NY at Webster Hall was one of my favorite experiences of the year.

Matter of fact, I went to a few great concerts this year. Action Bronson at The Met in Rhode Island:

Souls of Mischief at the same place:

Nas at CitiField, after a Mets loss, on the hottest day of the summer:

Curren$y at BB King's in NYC:

I saw Danny Brown in Mass.; Ghostface Killah and Adrian Younge (they put out one of my favorite releases this year, Twelve Reasons to Die) with his entire band at Toad's Place in New Haven; and The Beast Coastal Tour (The Underachievers, Flatbush Zombies, and Joey Badass with Pro.Era) at Toad's Place. I didn't have Vine yet for these :-(

And probably the best shows of all: Bonobo at Paradise Rock Club in Boston (the weekend of the Boston Marathon bombing) and more recently at Terminal 5 in NYC...

Detroit rapper/producer Black Milk's album, No Poison No Paradise, was an unexpected favorite of mine. I always liked his work, but he really outdid himself with this.

Detroit rapper Danny Brown's Old was another favorite. Danny remains one of the most entertaining people in the world.

Another one of the most entertaining people in the world had a good year. Well, good in the sense of providing me with entertainment. The gay fish genius put out an almost unlistenable, but still fascinating, piece of "modern art" in music form; he had a kid with the tabloid Goddess and named the kid "North"; he got eviscerated by South Park again; and lastly, most importantly, he had a string of rants that ranked with the best celebrity freak outs in history. All in all, it was a good year to laugh at (or with) Kanye West.

Anchorman 2 came out and actually didn't suck. That was nice.

Treme ended. Didn't even realize it was ending (with a five part 4th season? What is that?). It was a great series, especially if you like food, music, and New Orleans. It ended on a sad note, with the Chief (I always refer to him as Freamon) succumbing to cancer, but it handled the death respectfully, gracefully, and overall in an entertaining way, unlike some other series. And sorry, Family Guy, bringing Brian back doesn't change anything. The fact that resurrecting him was your plan all along makes it an even more deliberate and obvious cash grab.

Breaking Bad ended. Unbelievably good series, with an awesome, over the top, crowd pleasing final season.

Eastbound and Down ended. It had its ups and downs over the course of its run, but they ended on a definite high note with this season. Baleedat.

I discovered a very weird artist, Spark Master Tape, who I became somewhat addicted to...

He has many awesome videos and two free mixtapes. (We're still using the term "mixtape" in 2013, by the way, even though they are almost exclusively online.) To be honest, I didn't discover the bizarre Spark Master on my own, I found him through Blockhead, one of my favorite music producers/bloggers. Blockhead also put me on to Danny Brown a couple years ago, and this year, he showed me something else I will be forever grateful for: the unrated version of "Blurred Lines."

I also saw Blockhead in concert and got some rare cds/vinyl from him. Thanks Block!

12 Years a Slave was a great movie from this year. The scene where he is hanging from the tree, surviving by extending his toes, was one of the most powerful, uncomfortable scenes in movie history.

I didn't go to Africa this year. That sucked.

Nelson Mandela died. That really sucked. He was a folk hero, except he was real, and living at the same time as me.

A guy did fake sign language at Mandela's funeral. What the hell?

A few actors died, including Dennis Farina. He was great in Snatch and Get Shorty.

We bombed Syria and Libya and remained in Afghanistan. And now that we are out of Iraq, it will probably return to Civil War.

Even more sad and depressing than all that, Drake made a song that I like. It took me a while to admit it. It's still hard to do. If someone else made the song I would have enjoyed it much more, much earlier; in fact, I consider it a Majid Jordan song so I can fully enjoy it. It's very much a "pop" song and not a rap song, which is why I like it. Drake rapping is just impossible to take seriously. Over the course of the past year or so I have had more exposure to pop music than I normally do, thanks to driving a group of teenagers home every other day at work, and there's one thing I've learned: most pop music is hot garbage. Well, I knew that already, but now I realize that when you listen enough, a few golden pieces of corn shine through the fecal matter. Normally I would just lump all pop music together and ignore it, but being forced to listen to it has made me yearn desperately for anything pleasing to the ears, and I've come to enjoy many songs I never would have years ago. Plus, as I've gotten older, I'm a lot less uptight about music and can enjoy mindless tunes every once in a while.

This video, on the other hand, represents everything wrong with Drake: he's the type of guy to make a 

Miami Vice themed "gangster" video for a tender love song.

So that was my guilty pleasure for the year. Pop songs like Daft Punk's "Get Lucky" (which spawned the amazing dance-off with Stephen Colbert and Walter White), "Blurred Lines", and Bruno Mars' "Treasure" aren't really guilty pleasures, they are just catchy songs. It's not their fault they get played to death. Another not-guilty pleasure is the Queen herself:

Beyonce dropped a surprise album and the internet simultaneously shit itself, so much so that I was tempted to buy a Beyonce album. I didn't, but the thought crossed my mind for a moment. The song above is one of the few I've heard from her "visual album" (nobody can just put out a regular ole "album" album any more). It's pretty much a perfect pop song for the year 2013. Good beat with some change-ups, simple lyrics, catchy hook, female rap-singing using current rap slang, a guest feature from Jay-Z with one of his strongest verses in ages, and a powerful singing voice on the chorus. My favorite musical moment of the year is when she says "in looooove" and hits the high note, followed by when she says, "can't keep your eyes off my fatty, daddy", "oh bwaby", and "surfboard...surfboard *giggles*".

Ok, to balance out the softness of that last paragraph, here is another one of my favorite songs this year:

That's "Eastside Moonwalker" by Freddie Gibbs, representing Gary, Indiana. He put out a great album, ESGN, that when downloaded actually carjacks you then beats any Drake songs off of your ipod. There isn't much subject variety on a Gibbs' album, but he knows his lane and has perfected it. He also did this:

..so I'll always be a fan of Gangsta Gibbs.

More than anything, things remained largely the same for me this year, with some slight improvements: same awesome job(s), with a raise and more competent bosses in a better building...same great family, and same two beautiful nieces...

...now with one more beautiful niece, Zoe, who arrived on 12-30-13!

And at the end of it all, there were the same great friends, hanging out at the same places...

...and in no way is that depressing.

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

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.