A Poem for the Office Worker

The coffee is an ironically cold comfort, but it’s not as stale as the air, at least.

These colors must have been picked on purpose to stir some bleak into your day.

It’s as if the knowledge that this type of office has long been a cliché hasn’t yet arrived.

Don’t worry, we’ll get it. The same time the Ukraine gets beanie babies. 

 

Christ, Cheryl. Is that a beanie baby on your desk?

Parental Advisory

COMPLICIT IDIOCY WARNING

                My girlfriend is a kind and positive person, not inflicted with the same rage fuelled, world bending psychosis that colors the filter between me and the world. My girlfriend has the distinct ability; in fact I would go as far as to call it a gift, to work in retail. She comes home with work stories much like anyone else, but since she works in a shitty neighborhood in Worcester, Massachusetts, her stories tend to take on a different tone than Jane at the office having a baby or Margie winning a hundred dollar lottery scratcher.

                Usually her stories involve drug addicts passing out in the middle of her store, attempted robberies, the welfare check rush and the fear of walking to her car alone at night. These things, however, are not the kind of stories that get me incensed. Nay, kind reader, as my skewed, screwed world view must dictate, I nod politely and barely listen to these stories ripped straight from the headlines or an episode of The Wire, but hit the pulpit like a bat out of hell when she tells me relatively banal stories like one this one the other day.

                She mentions casually, off the cuff, that she had to remove a large amount of Christmas cards from the shelves due to a joke made in SOMEWHAT poor taste. I won’t go into the content of the card, because that isn’t the point. I don’t see the debate as being if the joke was bad enough to have it removed from the shelves, I would prefer the debate to be whether or not we keep the kind of people on our planet that go out of their way to complain about tiny, tiny things like this. The question I ask is simple, how little do you do in your life, how do you have such a trivial amount of issues in your day that you not only find the time to complain about something that doesn’t matter, but the energy to willfully ignore actual problems?

                Now I speak directly to you. To the letter writing, pettiness bleeding, defender of dogged doucheness that has to get in everyone’s way. You took the time to pick this card up, look at it, get offended ( a word I feel we should have stricken from the language, as it has been overused and championed by those we must rage against) and then take it to a target employee and say, with what you must consider righteous earnestness, “I don’t think you should stock this here, I find it offensive.”

Go home. Read a book. Listen to a record. Expand your horizons, live outside your conscious mind, take in the world around you, and gain that thing that seems to have become such a rare commodity due to mouth breathing idiots like yourself: perspective. Does the card with what most thinking people would consider perhaps only mildly offensive really need you to wage war against it? Perhaps your energy would be better spent reading up on the conflicts in Syria, studying the history of genocide, writing an essay about how we as a human race are not actually doomed to repeat our mistakes. Explain how written language and recorded events are the key to determining how we prevent the endless cycle of domination and murder that has plagued our race since we first began! Maybe, or maybe start with something smaller. Read an article, bring it up over coffee with a friend, and discuss it. Breathe through your nose for a whole day, pick your knuckles up off the floor, or find uses for your thumbs.                

Breathe Dave, Breathe.

 

                I know what you’re thinking. “You’re hardly doing that Siz old buddy, you are, by championing a cause against petty people, becoming rapidly more petty yourself.” And, in some ways, due to a long line of self-defeating concepts and logics that I run through in my life, you would be right. Ignore them, yeah? Maybe I should be concentrating on something larger, my scope is perhaps limited as well. Think on this, though. Offensive cards are never going to be the majority. Song lyrics will never dictate the movement of our race through the rest of time, they will never be in charge of the collective consciousness, but these… these people, might. I say to you, kind reader, that my cause against pettiness and small mindedness may be the most grand and important cause that exists. Perhaps we should all champion it, because if not we may start complaining about how “the website said this was 2.95 but it says 2.99” or that our kids snuck into an “R” rated movie and how that is CLEARLY the movie theaters fault.

                Adolf Hitler wouldn’t have liked certain song lyrics. He would have made sure plenty of things got taken off the shelves that offended him. Just think about it next time you see “rated M for mature” being argued over, or you see something censored on television, it all started with a letter or a phone call from someone who was offended.

You Know I'm Yours Just For The Taking

 

By David Clarke

 

                All the clichés applied, and you’d hear them like you heard them a million times before when the rabble saw her. Head turner, light up a room, legs for days, and all the other bullshit idioms suckers throw around just before they get suckered. She’d sit, half smiling, glancing around the bar looking vulnerable, looking like an easy mark, playing newly divorced or lonely shut in, braving this big bad world needing a big bad man to take care of her. All of it filled your head and sent it swimming without her even having to say a word. She’d say it with how she carried herself; she was the Audrey Hepburn of murderous harpies.

                In my world, there are two different groupings of scum. Flimflam men, thieves, card sharks and the like toured my circuit, and we didn’t overlap too often with murderers and psychopaths if we could help it. I could spot a ringer on both teams though, I knew she had a game, and I made up my mind to stay away from her, especially when I saw the baboons start to line up, mouths agape, targets lined up square on their backs. I wouldn’t be ogling her, or even looking with anything but the eyes in the back of my head, and that would be that.

                Las Vegas was shared territory for crooks, that was the way, but I found comfort in the fact that I knew most of them by sight. I didn’t share any friendships with these low lives; I was too experienced at being one myself to do anything silly like that. I had one I preferred to spend my downtime with, but only because he was almost as good as me, mutually assured destruction is the thing keeping conversation civil in my life at this point. It was Nicky I was with when she floated in, seemed like she was barely touching the ground. Me and Nick sipped brandy and shot the shit when he stopped short of a story about some Korean business type, too liquored up and too good at cards not to be robbed blind.

 

“Hello, gorgeous.”

 

The words spilled out from underneath his dark moustache with a typical southern drawl. He was the only man I had ever met that made those kinds of cheesy lines sound like something you’d want to sprinkle on your pancakes. Nick wasn’t a good guy by any stretch but I found comfort in his company. I met him when we were both much younger. I wouldn’t say he taught me the ropes, but he showed me they were there for swinging. What little direction my life had, he gave me, and I owed him for that. Bonds don’t come easy in this town, so the ones you get you tend to cherish, privately. His eye had wandered too far for me to do anything about it now; his mind was made up before he finished his sentence.

 I’ll admit, my blood is as red as the next guys, and it ran a little less cold when I saw her for the first time. Her hair, a color of black only God could make, and he doesn’t bottle his stuff, fell down her back and popped against a blood red dress you’d lose your left eye to trade places with the thing hugged her so tight. She was gorgeous, but like I said, too gorgeous. In my experience if something seems too good to be true you’re already cancelling your credit cards and begging your wife to take you back before you find out why.

“Well, my good man, I think I’ve just about finished planning the rest of my night.” Nick said, his eyes nearly bulging.

“Nicks, come on. You don’t see she’s working an angle? You think a woman like that is alone in the middle of a Vegas casino by anything other than choice? Don’t be an idiot.”

He didn’t even hear me, he was already eight steps toward my ‘I told you so’ and I chalked it up to him deserving whatever he was going to get. She was no working girl, but she was working, I could tell that much. Time for me to do the same, I thought, plus maybe I was wrong, but it had been a while since that happened.

My racket was sleight of hand, and I was the best. I was the best in a town that it was bad to be anything else. My father, a washed up headliner whose work dried up when magicians became less popular than comics, moved us here when I was twelve. My mom died a couple of years later, and he never cared where I was or what I was doing after that, so I learned a trade like the responsible young man that I was. The man was so self-obsessed he even killed himself with a narcissistic flourish, jumped out one of the top floor windows of the MGM. His suicide note apparently said something about it being “his last great trick”. Seemed to me there wasn’t a lot of magic in jumping out a window. I could never decide what was more pathetic, how he lived or how he died. He gave me one thing though, his hands, fastest hands in the desert.

Caught my mind wandering when I hit the floor, man in my business can’t afford that, not even for a second. In the 21^st century eyes in the sky are never blind, always gotta stay sharper than sharp.

I lifted a couple of chips from a crowded roulette table, the guys roll was going to end soon, it always did in this town, that’s why I don’t gamble with my own money, my hands are a sure thing. I threw down the lifted chips at an empty blackjack table, looking like I was addicted to the cards and the dice kept suspicions away, plain sight was the only place to hide out here.

 

“Chuck.” I nodded in the direction of the table and he began to pull cards.

“How’s your luck tonight chief?”

“Just starting, that’s gonna be up to you.”

“I don’t tell the lady how to dance, pal. We’re all hers just for the taking.”

“Yeah, you’re telling me.”

 

I slumped my shoulders and scratched my stubble, scanning the room, making a checklist. Regulars were off limits, so were employees. Anyone down on their luck was pointless to mark, and anyone too lucky had more eyes on them than Red Dress back there. Good, not great, blackjack players and one jackpot slot housewives are the smart odds. Beginners luck and veterans skill were going in my pocket tonight, like they always did.

The difference between me and a cheap pickpocket was I gave you the respect of being charming and looking you in the eye while I took your things. You liked me, you wanted to give me some of your winnings, you were paying for my company. Plain sight, like I said.

                I spotted a fat Texan, small business owner type; the rich oil tycoons aren’t actually ‘yeehawing’ around Vegas casinos, offering to sleep with your wives for money or whatever it is you think happens here. It’s a couple who just got their kids out of the house and took a trip. He’s played some cards in his day and she’s happy to watch or play the slots, maybe get a daiquiri because “it’s been years since I’ve had one of these. It’ll go straight to my head!”

 

Here’s hoping. They’ll do nicely.

 

I waited until they moved to the bar to take a break and went along shortly after them.

“Lucky tonight?” I asked casually.

“You know it, hos” Jesus, did they actually talk like that? Next he was going to ask me to bust up a chifforobe.

 

Charming them was the easiest part, it was the patience to wait, to make your move at the exact right time and not take too much, they have to think they spent it themselves or lost it. Greed is why the house wins. I walked them up to their room, the big Texan laughing to the point where his face turned so red it looked like he ate something out of Wonka’s factory. Fitting, as I led them up the stairs like the pied piper, and lifted one of the bundles of cash he had recently converted from chips out of his members only jacket as we stumbled around a corner.

“You two have a nice night, keep that luck alive in there brother!” I said with a wink.

The door closed and I made my way back down the hall, almost bumping straight into red dress and Nick. “My man!” he drunkenly exclaimed, “This, my dear, this is the best friend I have in the world, I want you to meet him.”

“My pleasure, miss.” I said with a smile.

“Likewise.”

Her voice was like velvet. I rarely knew Nicky to get this drunk, in fact, never. The guy always kept his wits, something was wrong here, but if he got taken it would be a good lesson for him. I made my way past them and back down into the lobby, I’d bet a little, just to be seen around the place, and then go home. The thrill of taking the Texans cash was dulled, the feeling of excitement not what it used to be. Maybe it was getting older, or boredom.

I drove down the strip; it took forever to get it out of the rearview mirror because the land was so flat. My house was a few miles away in the desert, felt like I was on an Indian spirit quest every time I needed to take a shower. Same house I grew up in, she hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint since Truman. The neighborhood, if you could call it that, looked like its most important function was bomb testing. It always took a little time for your eyes to adjust from the cold neon of the strip to the brown desolation of this attempted desert suburb. Everything got dusty the second you got out of the car, and it felt like the safer bet was to not know your neighbors. It wasn’t always like this. When my dad was a headliner this place was bustling, felt in my head like he was the industry that kept the place alive, but that was ridiculous. Vegas residency ebbed then flowed, we were in a long ebb.

I had a night’s sleep that felt more like being unconscious than resting peacefully, probably all the brandy I drank with the Texan. I always drank enough to look like I was keeping up but not too much, too much slowed the hands down. My mouth was as dry as the mud and mortar my house was made from when I woke up, felt like I was a part of the walls. I took a few gulps of water and a shower before trying to eat some breakfast, however unsuccessfully. After choking down a few bites of cereal and switching to coffee I flipped open my phone, one of those old flip burners, I had no interest in my phone being smart, gave me the heebies.

Seven missed calls. Number I didn’t recognize. I don’t know what it was about the twenty first century, every time people get calls from numbers not already stored in their phone they get a smack of anxiety, like someone they don’t know calling them is always to deliver bad news. I was no different, but what did people do before caller ID? I don’t remember the phone being a heart stopper when it sang its song from a fixed point in the house, not in my childhood anyway. Well, this time the anxiety was well placed at least, Nick was dead. Even sadder, I was his emergency contact, hospital left a chronological series of voicemails:

 

Nick was in the hospital at 12:33am, unresponsive, call back.

They stabilized him at 12:46am, no reason for alarm, something with his heart, call back or come in.

1:28am Cardiac arrest.

Time of death, 1:59am.

 

                Nick was young, Nick was healthy. Vegas don’t do anybody’s insides any favors but a man’s heart doesn’t give out for no reason. This had something to do with Red Dress, damn thing was a warning bell not a come hither, and I’d bet my biggest stack that she had something to do with Nicky dying.

What could I do? I was going to find out, and I was going to hold her accountable. My instincts screamed for me to do the opposite, there was no honor among thieves, I didn’t owe Nick anything. This was something else, though. She rubbed me wrong at the casino the night before, seemed she thought she could do whatever she wanted, but this was my city, thieves and cons I could share it with, but murderers aren’t something I want sauntering around my bars, they were more arrogant than careful.

                When I got back to the casino, I went back to the bar where I first saw her. Nothing there, as if I expected there would be. She could be in the next city by now, which I guess would have suited me, but I was hit with disappointment at the thought of it. I would have preferred to look her in the eye and let her know I was coming for her. Revenge had never been my game, but this one got under my skin.  Maybe I did owe Nick something, too. I left the bar and scanned the lobby, mostly dead save regulars at this time of the day.

The crimson was the first thing I saw, the blouse billowing loosely above khaki and moving almost in time with the click and clack of her long, grey stilettos. She stood out from the pastels and beiges of the crowd like the first shock of paint on white canvas. The blacker than black hair was spun up in a bun now, black rimmed glasses so straight they did nothing if not add to the perfect symmetry of her face. She moved too easy. Actually, she didn’t move at all, the world moved around her, she barely walked, she glided.

 

God damn Witch.

 

“Nick’s friend, right?” I snapped back to reality, what the hell was wrong with me? I was sharper than this. I had to be better, I had to get close to her and find out what she did to Nick, if not even for him, for me. Maybe I wanted to prove I wasn’t going soft lifting wallets and chips off fat Texans and spinsters.

 

“Yeah, that’s me. You’re the girl from last night, right?”

 

“Not as often as you might think, but your friend is quite charming”

“Was, you mean.”

“I suppose I do, he skipped out on me in the middle of the night, does he make a habit of that or was it something I said?”

If I knew anything, I knew a liar, and she was a damn good one. She anticipated. She was subtle; she was a damn fine actress.

“Skipped out on all of us, he’s dead. You didn’t know?”

The look of shock that flashed across her face seemed almost genuine, I had to hand it to her, she was even able to make the color drain from her face. Seemed to me like she missed her calling.

“Dead? There’s no way. What happened? Oh my. I must be cursed.”

“His heart gave out. Must have been genetic.”  I looked her up and down to pinpoint the holes, waiting for her to look back at me to gauge how much I believed her. Nobody was this good, she seemed… genuinely upset. Lying I can spot, but genuine emotion is something that nobody in my world can miss, it sticks out, and it’s uncomfortable. She started to cry.

“Just my luck, I meet a nice fella and I kill him.” She turned away from me and lit a cigarette.

“You killed him?”

“Worked his heart well enough honey. Ugh, poor Nick.” Her hands shook while she smoked.

Her voice was different than it was the night before. It was more gentle, softer, but still like nothing I had ever heard. It was like something out of a Greek myth; it went straight to my head. I think she was telling the truth, too. God, all my paranoia about her and she was more Creusa than Medea.

This town had poisoned me. I was Vegas, personified, all surface and bile, no truth to who I was at all anymore. Some poor girl came to town and found comfort in a guy she met, and I judged her because she was too pretty not to be up to something. Right when I saw her, too, like I was some sort of detective and had a hunch. I was no detective, I was a cheap pickpocket whose only redeeming quality was that he saved himself from being cruel to someone who didn’t deserve it.

She was crying.

“Hey, you wanna go get some breakfast? My treat.” I said

“No, I should go, I’m really sorry about your friend.”

“Up to you, seems two people upset about the same thing would be better off not splitting up. I’m not trying to pick you up or anything.” That was true, as well.  I was desperate to make it all up to her now, thinking that about her, and she was so beautiful, so vulnerable.

“You know what? You’re right. Why not? Lead on.” She smiled through her tears, and that was when I was sure, sure that nobody who smiled like that could be evil.

 

Breakfast lead to lunch, lunch to dinner, and I said goodnight, dutifully. We had spent the entire day together and I was walking on air. She was the first good thing that had happened to me in a long time, and I really enjoyed spending time with her.

Spend time we did, for the next four days we walked the strip together, sharing our whole life stories. I was trying to be a friend to her, but I kept most of my life hidden, changing the subject when she asked about my family, my job. She told me about her late husband, how he was a bastard, how she felt trapped and the only good thing he ever did for her in twelve years was leave her enough money to go on a trip and forget about him. She told me Nick was the first man she’d been with in as long, and how wonderful it felt to be free of her marriage. On the fourth night she kissed me.

“I’m sorry.” She said.

“Don’t be.” I replied.

“Do you want to come in?” She gestured to the door of her room. I hesitated. I wanted to, over the past four days I had fallen in love with this woman, this girl I thought was a monster. I didn’t have to protect her, she was a grown up and she knew what she was asking.

 

 

Yes.

 

 

I first noticed it when we were together, a little glint in her eye, a smile I hadn’t seen these past few days.

I then noticed it after, when I stood and smoked one of her cigarettes by the balcony door. I made a comment about how I rarely smoked, she laughed a laugh I hadn’t heard before. It wasn’t her laugh.

“What’s going on with you?” I asked, like I had known her all my life.

“Nothing, darling.” She said in a voice I recognized, but it wasn’t hers, it was the woman who took Nick into her room the last time I saw him. The last time anyone saw him alive. She moved to the desk and pressed a button on her mp3 player. Ella Fitzgerald crooned over the small speakers she had plugged in.

Why haven't you seen it? I'm all for you, Body and Soul…

“It’s good that you don’t.”

I snapped back to focus, “Don’t what?”

“Smoke often. Bad for you.”

She stretched her hands above her head, fingers interlocked, and bent herself backwards, I heard her back cracking, her muscles stretching. Her shadow looked like a half moon.

Her whole face had changed, bathed in the neon light of the Vegas strip but still white as a ghost. It wasn’t soft and open, it was sharp and cruel. She started to dance and sing along to the music, spinning slowly in the red light.

I spend my days in longing, And wondering why it's me you're wronging.

My chest tightened, that familiar diving bell of shock and anxiety plunged into my gut, and I stared at her, not able to speak. I looked down at my hand.

 

The cigarette, different from the ones she usually smoked.

 

I can't believe it; It’s hard to conceive it

 

I fell against the wall and then sideways, crashing into the bedside table. I heard her singing, I couldn’t see, I couldn’t tell if it was her or Ella, but I always liked this song.

I always liked it…

 

 

My life a wreck you're making!

You know I'm yours

For just the taking

I'd gladly surrender

Myself to you, Body and Soul…