The Opposite Effect (2)

I felt that I really needed a drink, and I knew where to get a drink. I knew that in Nutsfart’s office, he had a bottle and that was what I felt I needed. Harry is management, he actually has the job that I was supposed to have.

 

I am supposed to be management. I’m also supposed to have an office, but Nutsfart came along. Our last manager, Alicia Rodriguez, knew she was leaving, moving on to greener pastures, and all but promised me the job. I was the best salesman, I had the best numbers, for sure. Their excuse, the owner who is Alicia’s father, and Alicia herself, told me I was the best... on paper. The best on paper is the best, as far as I am concerned. Numbers don’t lie. Some customers had complained, it seemed. I was too abrasive, too forward, too pushy. Yeah, the stick works, but it has its drawbacks.

 

They decided not to promote from within. Alicia found someone outside the company: Harry Nuttsfert. Nutsfart. One of the first things he did was completely shut down the second floor. All us normal salesmen, including team leaders such as myself, lost our offices and were shoved into cubicles on the first floor. I guess He wanted to save the company some money on rent and I guess he succeeded. A few guys left, and I almost did, but no one would hire me when I interviewed for other jobs, and it was difficult to get a recommendation because I couldn’t get one from work, as I didn’t tell them I was leaving.

 

So, I was stuck in a cubicle when I used to have an office, and I was passed over for promotion when I was a shoe-in for it.

 

Anyhow, Harry had a bottle of Jack Daniel’s that he kept in the bottom right drawer of his desk. Alcohol at work is forbidden, and even at sales meetings, our boss frowns upon its use. Of course, he can do whatever he wants, and does, because he is management. However, I have to say, I have never seen him take a drink in his life, only offer to others; others meaning VIP clients, not peasants such as myself.

 

His office is decked out quite elaborately, and even includes a massive mahogany desk, a far cry from the pressboard shit us peons have in our cubicles. He even had an oak bookcase built into the wall where he could display his expensive antiques. I’m pretty sure that he didn’t personally pay for the furniture in the room.

 

Nutsfart’s office was unlocked and I was able to just open the door and walk right in. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for his desk. All the other drawers on his desk were unlocked. They didn’t even have locks. The one on the bottom right, the only drawer I wanted into, did have a lock.

 

I pulled hard, and it wouldn’t budge. I kicked it with the same result. I rummaged through his desk, found a steel ruler, a nice one with cork on the bottom to prevent it from sliding. It was thick, but not thick enough, I bent it and ripped off some of the cork. Useless. I tossed it aside and pulled out everything in his top desk drawer, a stapler, papers, pens, useless shit. While doing that I managed to spill most of the contents of his desk onto the floor. Who the hell needs half this shit in the 21^st century? A ruler? Are you a fucking math teacher?

 

My eyes happened to rest on something that would work, on his desk. He had an antique letter opener. It was thick, almost like a dagger, and it had an odd brass duck handle. The son of a bitch was heavy too. I shoved the tip into the fraction of an inch opening at the top of the drawer. Once there was leverage, I slammed up. The wood began splintering and cracking and I felt it giving. I used more force, and there was suddenly a loud snap as the letter opener broke right as the drawer flew open.

 

“Jackpot,” I said aloud, as I eyed the bottle.

 

“Jackpot, indeed.” I immediately recognized that condescending voice.

 

I looked up, and there was Nutsfart, standing in the doorway, just glaring at me. He is almost skeletal in appearance, creepy looking. He is far creepier when he is upset with you. Shit.

 

“Shit? ‘Shit’ is all you have to say?” He said the words calmly. He did everything calmly. I have never seen the slightest amount of anger expressed by him. That’s not exactly a positive. He never shows any emotion at all, and seems to even disdain friendliness. He is pompous and pretentious, and even sometimes seems to almost speak in what I am sure he thinks is a more upper-class accent, as I guess he considers that group of people to be superior.

 

I didn’t say anything of course, but it all came back to me, the reason I wanted a drink. I can’t talk my way out of this.

 

“Go ahead and try,” He said evenly, directly.

 

I wasn’t looking at or making eye contact with Janet or Nerdboy, when they seemed to have read my thoughts, but Nutsfart was only eight feet away and I knew he could see my mouth. I also knew that my mouth wasn’t moving when I thought, Douchebag.

 

He didn’t seem to have noticed that my mouth wasn’t moving. “It amazes me that you are our top salesperson...on paper. Is this how you close deals, douchebag?”

 

“Fuck you,” was all that came out of my mouth, but of course not all that came out of my mind. This should be my office, my desk, my fucking job. This should be my lame, broken, brass, duck letter opener. I still had it in my hand, the heavy brass handle of it, weighing at least three or four pounds.

 

“Maybe it should be. Maybe it shouldn’t be. However, it’s my pleasure to inform you that you no longer have a job. Not my job, not your job. You have no job. Consider yourself terminated from our employment.”

 

Stick time. With barely a thought to what I was doing, I lobbed the handle at his head. Now, normally, when I refer to the stick, it is threatening, but I certainly don’t get violent. The stick, for me, is also manipulation and maybe a little bit of bullying, but usually not violence, that is until I threw the brass duck.

 

He was able deflect a direct hit to his skull, barely. He brought his arm up in time. It struck his wrist, then glanced off of his temple, the jagged remnant of the blade scratching and drawing blood. He stood in shock for a moment before composing himself.

 

“You couldn’t content yourself with a loss of a job, you had to push it further. I suppose you want to go to prison? Well, I’m happy to oblige.”

 

I had myself under a bit more control, when I stood up and left his office, I walked within one foot of him, despising him, furious. Still, I was able to prevent myself from doing any further physical harm. That’s only physical harm, of course: Cunt, douchebag, assface!

 

“Have a pleasant morning, Mr. Suttman.” To his credit, he didn’t flinch away from me, nor did he seem to get angry.

 

Eat a bag of dicks.

 

After my experience with the pretentious douchebag, Nutsfart, I soon realized that I still wanted a drink. Probably more than one. I didn’t bother cleaning out my desk or retaining anything decorative from my cubicle. I didn’t have much personal stuff there, and what I did have, I didn’t really care so much about, including the photos of my children.

 

I could have stopped at a 7-11 or a grocery store, but there is a liquor store near my condominium complex that I decided to go to. I don’t have many friends, maybe I don’t have any friends, but I did like the guy who ran the place. Was he a friend? Perhaps not, but I liked him and I don’t like most people.

 

Unfortunately, when I arrived, Ahmed wasn’t there. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that possibility before. He was usually there, but sometimes his nephew was running the place. I suppose Ahmed needs some time off on occasion, but why that time? I do not like Ahmed’s nephew.

 

Don’t think, don’t think. Don’t think. What do I want to drink? Ooh, that rhymes. Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think. What do I want to drink? Why is there blue Pepsi? Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think, what will I drink? No, that’s not how it goes, not enough syllables. I’ll just get a sixer of Heineken and a bottle of Jack. Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think, Ahmed’s nephew is a fucktard. Stop! Don’t think!

 

I glanced at the counter, but he seemed to be lost in his phone, a look of concentration on his face. Maybe also because his first language was Arabic, maybe he was tuning me out. Or...just hopefully, he can’t read my thoughts.

 

Now, the primary reason that I don’t like Ahmed’s nephew is due to the fact that he insists on declaring his Christianity in almost any conversation. I have heard him tell complete strangers, customers who just stopped in for a purchase and didn’t speak a word to him, that he was Christian. Maybe he wanted to be liked in a nation that was predominantly Christian, primarily after 9-11, I don’t know. But it’s just weird. Not carrot or stick, so unnecessary, so unusual, so damn weird.

 

The bottle of Jack that I wanted was behind the counter; most of the pricey stuff is. The shop was a typically-sized convenience store and mostly carried over-priced snack items like a 7-11, and it was a liquor store, but with the exception of beer, wine, and several promotional bottles, all the hard stuff was behind the counter and required a request from the customer. I’d have to talk to him.

 

I never called him by name because I couldn’t remember his name. Ahmed introduced me once, but I rarely remember names unless I think it will help with a sale. “Hey...man, I’ll take a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.”

 

“A fifth?” He had a slight accent, but not as strong as Ahmed’s, different generation.

 

“Nah, a big one.” I forced myself to think random, harmless thoughts: The sky is blue. Grass is green. Roses are red. Look at you. Stop thinking in fucking poems, asshole!

 

Ahmed’s nephew just looked at me for a moment. He always did that shit, as if every word that came out of his mouth was ancient wisdom, and the listener needed a dramatic moment to prepare. “One moment.” He had set his phone down and was fondling the silver monstrosity around his neck, a crucifix that was at least four inches long, thick as hell, and probably weighed at least two pounds.

 

Shit, why can’t Ahmed be here today. I miss that thicker, richer accent of his. Why the fuck of am I thinking this?

 

The nephew stopped, his hand on the neck of the bottle, looking at me. That probably was a weird thing to say, probably not even normal to think. “Ahmed has a doctor’s appointment today. Even if no, he can take time off, yes?”

 

“Certainly,” I replied. Watch it, Jack. Sing a song, recite a poem. Do anything, but think. Often a tune will involuntarily get stuck in my head, but try as I might, I couldn’t think of a single song at that moment, but I was lucky enough to think of a poem from childhood, Shel Silverstein, better than nothing.

 

He walked back toward the register with my bottle in his hand. “Anything else?”

 

I eat my peas with honey, I’ve done it all my life. “The beer too please.” It makes the peas taste funny, but it keeps them on my knife.

 

Ahmed’s relative then looked at me strangely, without having rung anything up on the register. “Are you okay, Jack?” I actually heard concern in his voice. It’s odd, but I always thought he disliked me in the same manner that I dislike him. His hand went to the crucifix wrapped around his neck on a thick chain. He began to caress it.

 

Fucking weirdo.

 

“What?” He didn’t seem angry, but the concern had gone into his eyes, I could see it there, just beneath his dark brown irises.

 

I eat my peas with honey, I’ve done it all my life, it makes the peas taste funny, but it keeps them on my knife. The situation was becoming increasingly stressful.

 

“Are you feeling well, Jack?”

 

I eat my peas with... Yes, I’m fine, honey. Fuck! I’m fine, dude. I’ve done it all my life…Fuck this. “I’m in a hurry man, how much do I owe you?”

 

One hand on his crucifix, he rang up my purchase. “$45.80, please.”

 

I looked through my wallet, but was having trouble counting and deliberately thinking nonsense at the same time. Beer...honey...peas. I have $126...sky...pussy...Pussy? Don’t think that shit now. Blue...knife... six twenties, a five, and a one. Honey...peas...Jack Daniel’s...I want to get drunk as quickly as possible. Give him...honey...peas...two twenties, a five, and a one... dogs. Knife.

 

I practically threw the cash at him. “Keep the...” change.

 

He looked at me somberly not touching the bills on the counter, both hands on his crucifix now, fondling it, almost massaging it. “Be well.”

 

I moved so quickly toward the door, thinking that it wasn’t so bad, at least I didn’t piss off anyone, or get fired, or accused of sexual harassment. Okay, not so bad—

 

As I hit the exit while mostly looking over my shoulder, I slammed directly into someone else. Shit. No...no shit. “Excuse me.”

 

“Whoah, handsome, in a hurry?” The man was smiling. I wish that was all that I noticed, but that’s not the way it happened, of course.  

 

He was a black guy, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. So far, no problem. My father despised racism and I was brought up the same. This man, however, was more than a little bit effeminate. Dressed, all in purple satin-like, almost velvety in places, bizarre clothing that exists for no reason I could fathom, and his mannerisms left little doubt. His left upper arm was parallel to his ribcage, but the forearm extended out, wrist cocked, like he was waiting for something to drop from the sky into his open palm. Then, I noticed the bag, exact same shade of purple as the rest of his clothing and the reason his arm was pressed up against his body, holding the strap. I imagine he wouldn’t have called it a bag, but an accessory. Is that a fucking purse?

 

He didn’t say anything, but his smile dimmed slightly, although he still maintained eye contact.

 

My father might have been appalled by racism, but he had other prejudices, I realize now, and they might have been passed on to me. Only now I look back and realize it. I’m sure my father never came to that level of awareness and he would have probably heavily denied any statement that insinuated so. He actually had a gay friend that would come over for a few drinks with my father on occasion. My father always treated him with the utmost respect, and on one hand seemed to completely accept him. However, on the other hand, he still joked around with his heterosexual friends and even me. Why don’t you have a girlfriend yet? You some sort of fag? Why don’t you play any sports, faggot? Really? You can’t do a little work in the yard? You queer? In turn I went through high school where the biggest insult you could achieve, beyond calling someone’s mother a whore, was to call someone gay. It was a different time and the world was much less PC.

 

If you haven’t guessed what happened next, I’ll tell you. Fag! It just leapt unconsciously to the front of my mind with no warning, and seriously no conscious thought.

 

The man said not a word. The smile faded, and he pursed his lips. His facial expression wasn’t replaced by anger, or even hate, it was pain. A sadness crept into his features and it was like a gut punch to me for some reason. After breaking eye contact and lowering his gaze to the floor, he brushed by me without a word, seemingly almost injured by the brief contact of our clothing. This guy, whom I had never seen before in my life, received a dose of pain...from me...for no reason but existing and encountering me.

 

As I walked to my car, I realized that on both Nerdboy, and Janet, there was that same look. Sure, they both exhibited anger, and maybe tried to mask the other expression, but there was something beneath it, the same look I had just seen on the formerly happy stranger. Hurt.

 

I drove home and proceeded to get drunk.