The Opposite Effect (1)

The Opposite Effect

 

 

We all of us fantasize, I think. I believe that it’s a
natural and normal thing to wish for things to be better, even impossibly
better. Some girl you want to lay, you imagine what it would be like, what she
looks like unburdened by clothing, maybe even fantasizing the exact situation: roses,
wine, romance, love... whatever you’re into. Your imagination is the only
limit.

 

It’s not just sex. Maybe you fantasize about superpowers,
the ability to become invisible, to observe others without their knowledge, or
to steal things you covet, or for any perverse reason you might imagine, no
limit but your mind. You want to fly? Imagine it. You can do whatever you want
in a fantasy.

 

I’m sure some of us have come up with a fantasy about being
able to read the thoughts of others, I know I have. I think that would be
beneficial for multiple reasons. A pretty girl. Is she into me, is she not into
me? What can I possibly say to make her interested in me? Not just sex, again.
How can I get this job? What can I possibly do to make up my wrongdoing? What does
this person in this situation believe I should say to get exactly what I want?
Then I just fucking say it. It would make life simpler.

 

Fantasizing is fun. That would be the superpower I would
love to have. Reading thoughts. Shit, poker would be a breeze. Life would be a
breeze, financially, sexually, for everything. You would certainly know who
your true friends are.

 

I even took it a step further, of course. Imagining the
unwanted consequences. People will always think negatively of you eventually, just
as you might occasionally think negatively of your mother or your best friend.
Also, what if people think in a different language? You couldn’t understand
that. What if their thought processes were so different than your own? I don’t
always think in correct sentences, or even English words. Maybe I think up an
image of breasts, or pizza, or... anything. Sometimes things pop into my head
in images and I don’t even want them to. How can you interpret that? Maybe you
think someone wants a kitten, but they really want to kill all cats.

 

There was one thing I never thought of until it happened. I
don’t know why anyone would think of it. Fantasy is essentially thinking about
what you want. Maybe you imagine a worse-case-scenario in certain situations,
but I bet you never could have imagined, before reading this, the opposite of a
fantasy.

 

Looking back now, I suppose that the first real incident
occurred yesterday morning. I was heading out the door, to work. I often see Ms.
Superbitch in the morning getting her paper. I don’t know anyone else who still
gets a paper delivered to her door, but she does. I never even noticed what
newspaper it was, as I have a habit of not caring very much what other people
do, especially old people. Of course, I do think it slightly odd that someone
still gets a physical paper made with real paper, but it’s just not odd enough
to bother looking at the paper. Ms. Superbitch, normally pleasant and
disarming, almost snarled at me.

 

Well... allow me to digress. Ms. Superbitch is actually Ms.
(She’ll correct you too, if you opt for Miss or Mrs.) Sukovitch. I am not
really sure the origin of her surname, and I really don’t care. There isn’t
much she can do to further any interest I have, allowing me to not care about
her, and she is actually quite a bitch. She was the one who complained to the
homeowner’s association when I got the automatic garage door because the color
didn’t match the monotone grey boredom of everyone else’s garage doors. She
called the police one night before 10:00 pm because she thought my TV was too
loud. Ms. Superbitch is also quite fond of telling anyone she can briefly
capture with words how they can be a better person. The advice usually reflects
qualities that she possesses, or believes that she possesses.

 

Honestly, she’s just a bitch, hence my name for her,
Superbitch.

 

I remember thinking, Superbitch, as I smiled and
nodded.

 

She glared at me, then actually snarled. Who the hell
snarls?

 

I didn’t think too much about it at the time. She can be
moody and other neighbors have called her eccentric at times. Bitchy is a
better word in my opinion, more accurate and descriptive.

 

Looking back now, that was the very beginning of what was to
be the worst day of my life so far.

 

Another minor thing happened on the way to work, so minor
that I didn’t consider it too terribly relevant at the time. I drive on the
freeway for approximately twenty minutes of my thirty-minute commute. I like to
drive fast. Another car, some rust colored piece of shit, cut me off. By that I
mean that the asshole wasn’t paying attention to what other drivers were doing.
I was going about seventy-five when he pulled in front of me, causing me to
apply the brakes and slow down to about fifty-five miles per hour. I always
consider that sort of behavior to be quite rude. There didn’t seem to be any
reason for him to do that. He wasn’t passing anyone, didn’t seem to be
interested in getting off of the freeway, just driving like an idiot. I’m sure
most people who have driven for any length of time realize that the road is
full of dipshits who should not have licenses. If you are not aware of this,
you are probably part of the fucking problem.

 

Fucking asshole, I thought.

 

Seconds later his driver’s side window was down, and his arm
was out of the window. Slowly, he extended his middle finger.

 

The first time it clicked that something was wrong,
seriously fucking wrong, was when I arrived at work. I began to realize what
exactly was happening, or what seemed to be happening, as technically it should
really be impossible.

 

Janet, our receptionist, really isn’t much to look at when
all you can see is her face. Her eyes seem a little close together, her nose is
a little too long, and her skin is really pallid, and slightly off-putting.
However, that is only just a description of her when all you can see is her
face. Her body is something else entirely.

 

When I arrived at work, she was just returning to her desk.
She smiled her typical smile and I smiled mine. My eyes happened to drift down
as she turned to return to her desk. Her pantyhose were black and her almost
crimson colored skirt was a bit tighter than usual My eyes happened to rest
upon her butt where I could clearly discern the exact shape of what was
lurking, maybe just waiting, beneath her clothing.

 

Nice ass, I thought.

 

When Janet turned back to look at me, after sitting down,
she was no longer smiling, she seemed a little shocked or unsettled about
something.

 

Unfortunately, my thoughts lingered. I pictured myself
grabbing her ass. I imagined the flesh, the color of it, what it felt like.
I’d like to pound the shit out of that ass.

 

“Mr. Suttman! That is completely inappropriate, especially
in this day and age.” Anger had replaced the confusion on her face.

 

“Um...uh... excuse me?” The image of her nude rear dissipated
in my mind. The ever so slight arousal that was coming on was suddenly
extinguished as well.

 

“No, I don’t think I will excuse you. I am happily married,
and even if I weren’t, that is no way to talk to a woman, especially a
colleague.”

 

“Uh...what do you mean?” I stammered out. Did I say that
shit out loud?

 

“I’m very sure that you are aware of what you did.” She was
clearly angry and it seemed she was getting angrier.

 

Normally, as part of my job, I can talk myself out of any
situation. But it felt like I was just struck a hard blow. And an extremely
rare thing occurred. I was lost for words, or at least appropriate words to
save my ass and get me out of the situation. “I’m terribly sorry, Janet. I
haven’t been feeling well lately.” Lame, Jack. Fucking stupid thing to say.

 

As I quickly left the small reception area with Janet
glowering at me ( I was to realize later that there was something beneath the
anger), she said something that made me break out in a cold sweat: “Yes, that
was a very stupid thing to say.”

 

When I got to my cubicle—shit, my cubicle, I’ll have to get
back to that later—I was extremely uncomfortable. Am I going crazy? What the
fuck was that? A number of thoughts soared through my head. When I calmed
down a bit they altered.

 

I’m a salesman, and I’m a damn good one. I have a knack for
saying the right thing at the right time. I close over ninety percent of the
time. Now, this is a two-fold closing method. First, I use the carrot, then I
use the stick. If they don’t want to bite on the carrot, then they get the
fucking stick. As a mental exercise I often work on both these methods. The
first one, manipulation, is subtle. You alter your words based on what you know
of the person. You make them think they can get whatever they want if they buy
over-priced automotive parts from you. It goes beyond that and I use it in my
daily life to get virtually anything, but I sell auto parts by trade.

 

I began on reflecting on what I said to Janet. That was
not a good sales comment, and I’m better than that; I was flustered, and I’m
rarely flustered. Instead of some stupid shit like, I’m not feeling well, I should have said I’m sorry, I know it was inappropriate, I really didn’t mean
to offend you, but you look so beautiful today, shit... give her an
award-winning smile, and a little charm, I can still fix this. Or: you misheard
me Janet, I have nothing but respect for you. I certainly don’t view women that
way at all. As a matter of fact—

 

“What are you mumbling about?” came a voice breaking me out
of my mental exercises. It was Nerdboy, or Sam, or whatever the fuck his name
is. Sean?

 

Nerdboy, Nerdboy, Nerdboy. I used to be his superior, and he
seemed to have respected me enough not to piss me off. After an overhaul of the
way management was run, I was no longer a team leader. Essentially, I was the
same rank as the other drones in the office. Most of them still deferred to my
better sales experience and the fact that I used to be above them, but I had a
sense that Nerdboy’s respect was diminishing.

 

Now, I know I wasn’t saying anything. “Not mumbling
anything, get to work.”

 

“Sir, yes sir,” he said sarcastically.

 

What if he is reading my thoughts? Silly, a ludicrous
idea. That’s not even poss—

 

“Yeah, okay, I’m reading your thoughts, Suit.”

 

I didn’t think anything for a few moments. I didn’t know
what to think. Now I look back and realize he had as much disdain for me as I
did for him, and he also had a nickname for me. He is a nerd, in the traditional
sense, quoting Star Trek bullshit, playing games with his friends when
he is off work and even bragging about it at work instead of appropriately
hiding the fact that he had nothing better to do with his time, going to
fucking Comicon, the list is endless. He calls me Suit?

 

The primary thing bothering me was that I was pretty sure he
was reading my thoughts. I put my hand to my mouth, and pinched my lips
together between my thumb and index finger, and then squeezed relatively
tightly. I wanted to test this.

 

What would offend a nerd? I pushed a thought to the
top of my head, enunciating each word clearly, so that I could hear my own
voice uttering the phrase in my mind: Game of Thrones is boring.

 

There was nothing from him, only a slight rustling from his
cubicle.

 

Okay, maybe I’m not losing my mind, or maybe he doesn’t
like Game of Thrones? Maybe I wasn’t being offensive enough? Yeah,
that’s it. Shit, Jack, you are being too much of a salesman. Be a dick. So
I was, Star Wars sucks giant hairy monkey balls! I screamed the
statement into my mind.

 

“What is your problem, Suttman? Go home and watch your
football games or whatever you like, and you don’t need to suddenly try to be a
dick, you are usually one.”

 

My fingers were still tightly pressing my lips together. It
was actually starting to hurt. This is impossible. He is reading my mind!
Fucking douchie Nerdboy!

 

“Hey, Suttman Suit, why don’t you just fuck off? I don’t
need your shit today.” He stood up. Nerdboy is a big guy, standing three inches
taller than me, and he is certainly much wider than me. However, his girth is
not muscle, but all flab, probably from eating Cheetos on his couch all day
while masturbating to Lord of the Rings.

 

I considered the stick, normally my go-to in a situation
like this, but I was scared. The shock was wearing off and I was frightened,
not of physical harm, but when something impossible happens to you, it can mess
you up. It can confuse you, as it did me, and it can scare you.

 

I did as he requested. I fucked off.