Cubicles - Chapter Two

Chapter Two

My jaw feels limp, hanging low, my eyes bulging. I look like an idiot, well, at least I think I do. The fat man, balding and covered in wrinkles like a prune, exhales so deeply you would have thought he’s been holding his breath for hours – if that was possible.

“What?” I choke, the word caught in my throat. “What are you talking about?”

He stares at me between the two slits you could barely call eyes. Every time I look at my boss I’m reminded of how strikingly similar he is to Jabba the Hut. Just a fat lump in a chair drinking coffee, screaming, and waving one of his meaty fingers in the face of a working father of four.

He’d destroyed so many lives. Now he is just moving onto my life, working on tearing my life apart piece by piece.

“I said, you’re fired.” His voice is a deep rumble, it reminds me of the croaking of the frogs that my brother used to step on during camping trips. If only he was just another one of those frogs, I’d love to watch my brother’s giant foot squash him, making him explode from the pressure of my brother’s larger-than-life shoe.

“Why?” My voice has become slightly stronger, but only slightly.

I allow my eyes to stray, moving to my boss and his chubby fingers which are tapping the desk slowly. ‘Each tap is adding another second to my despair,’ I think, ‘he’s keeping track of how long it takes to fire me’.

“The economy’s been bad, and we have to let people go.”

I wonder if being fat makes it hard to talk, because he sure does take a while to respond to my questions. But I only wonder this, I don’t say it. Never once in my life have I hurt the feelings of another human being, not verbally at least.

“I’m sorry.”

But I know my boss feels no sympathy. Despite the fact he can say ‘I’m sorry’ twenty times, I know he doesn’t care. Why should he? Nobody cares about Nathanial Reed, twenty nine years old and soon to be unemployed.

“Nathanial, get out of my sight.” My boss says, his New York accent makes that ‘all people in New York are rude’ easy to believe. And already, he’s unwrapping a burger.
‘Fatty.’ I think to myself in disgust, watching him.
He takes a bite from the burger and that alone disgusts me, it makes my stomach churn and my head ache. He chews with his mouth open, saliva running down his chin and dripping on the only thing keeping me from running to him and trying to see if I could wrap my hands around his thick neck – the desk.

“No.”

Had I really said that? Had I really opposed the worshipped fatty, our Americanized Buddha with wrinkles, an overbite, and small beady eyes.

“I’m staying here until you give me back my job.”

He’s about as fast as a turtle, his reaction time is five seconds per word. And he chews on his burger slowly, thoughtfully. “I know you are angry.” He finally speaks, setting the burger down, I try to avoid looking at it. “But I have to do this. Now leave, before I call security.”

So, I finally nod, giving up my short struggle to withhold my job at the company that had been creating special lamps which could cause an ordinary light bulb to last for years. I scoot back from my chair, head hanging low, standing up and making my way to the door I hear my boss murmur something under his breath. Blinking, I return to leaving, not bothering to try and discover if there is any truth in the words that had escaped his two fat, wet, lips. I don’t want to spend another minute in this place.

Now I walk out of the room, into the hallway, and to the elevator. The man staying next to me has shaggy red hair, he’s a few years younger than me, but the two of us have been friends since before I got this job. Before I began to live to work rather than work to live. His name is Robert, and we’re best friends. But, he hasn’t talked to me very much recently, it’s as if we’re two strangers. Like we’ve never met one another. So, I stand at the opposite corner of the elevator – trying to keep my distance from him. He doesn’t even glance in my direction, nod his head, or show any sign of a greeting.

The elevator stops. “Bye.” I mutter, he doesn’t ask me if I’ll see him again. He can tell from the look on my face that I’m not going to show up tomorrow. So, he nods his head, watching me leave. I approach the exit, and behind me the elevator doors close.