Crazytimes Read online

  There’s a couple with two kids, a boy and a girl, in front of me. Tourists, obviously. Tourists who act as if they’ve never experienced the magic and the wonder of ordering food and drink at a coffee shop before. It takes them forever to decide what they want.

  Thankfully, one of the guys behind the counter gives me a nod and a wink, acknowledging my presence and the fact that he knows my order, which he prepares while the tourists figure out what kind of milk the man wants his latte made with and the woman tries to determine the caloric differential between a cherry danish and a cinnamon raisin bagel. I pray she opts for the danish so the process doesn’t get extended even further by having to make a cream cheese decision.

  The barista’s wink, on top of the nod? That’s probably a little bonus. I’ve suspected this guy has a crush on me for a while now—something I don’t dispel because it often means he’ll give me a size up or forget to charge me for a piece of coffee cake—although it could just as easily be to elicit a little extra tip money from my pocket. Either way, I recognize the fact that he’s going to have my order ready to go by the time I get to the front of the line, which I appreciate even more than usual today.

  There’s an old clock on the lobby wall with ornately-shaped black metal hands, and by the time I get to the counter, those hands let me know in a very elegant, decorative, and borderline elitist way that I’m running even later than I thought. Fuck.

  I’ve been saying “fuck” a lot this morning. I say it again as I grab my to-go cup and my finger slips past the edge of the brown paper sleeve and the cup wobbles in my hand and a little bit of hot liquid spills out of the lid and splashes over my thumb. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  My friend gives me a look, as if to say “be careful, honey,” but doesn’t apologize for overfilling the cup. I don’t have time to make a big deal of things, though. I need to go.

  “Hold up, muffin,” he calls after me, and I spin back with what I’m sure is an unfriendly look on my face. I’m not in the mood for flirting, and I’m already trying to think up a good excuse to present to my boss. “You forgot your muffin,” he says, smiling, handing over a white paper bag delicately folded along the top.

  Okay, so maybe he’s apologizing. I didn’t order a muffin, but I’ll happily take it. I’m starving. I smile back as I grab the gift. “Gotta run,” I say. “See you tomorrow.” And out the door I go, trying to make sure no more coffee burbles out of the lid as I walk as quickly as I can the rest of the way to work.

  3

  THERE’S ANOTHER CRASH in the distance as I approach the front of the shop. As usual, I don’t go in that way. Instead I go down one alley, which connects to another alley, which leads to our back door. My desk is in the back anyway, plus this way I don’t have to enter through the storefront and talk to any early-bird customers. I quietly crack the back door open for a peek inside before entering, hoping my boss is in his office and not standing by my desk wondering where I am. If I can get inside, sit down, and boot up my computer before we’re face to face, maybe he’ll just assume I’ve been there longer than I have. My coworkers won’t say shit, after all the times they’ve each come in late and/or hungover, and I’ve covered for them.

  Through the opening in the door, the coast looks clear. I slink in, and pad my way over to my desk, which faces a wall in the corner of the room. I raise my eyebrows and mouth the word “hi” to Jenny, wiggling a couple fingers from my coffee cup hand in her direction. She’s got her headphones on and I cringe, thinking she’s about to respond louder than I want, but she doesn’t say a word, and I’m more thankful than she’ll ever know.

  I slip the strap of my bag off my shoulder and set it down on the floor, against the side of my desk, and slide into my chair as I fire up the computer. I sip some coffee as I tuck my feet under the desk and kick something soft.

  It’s my boss.

  “What the fuck?” I say instinctively, and shoot myself backward on the wheeled chair. More coffee spills out of the lid and rolls down my fingers. “Fuck!” I hold the cup away from me so it doesn’t drip onto my pants. Then I set it down on the corner of Jenny’s desk and wipe my hand on my pants anyway because apparently I have short-term memory issues. Without saying a word, Jenny retrieves a paper napkin from her desk drawer and slides it over to me.

  My boss is curled up, lying on his side beneath my desk. He dusts off the front of his white collared shirt, where it’s stretched across his belly. That must be where my toes made contact.

  “I hope that comes out in the wash,” he says. “Where have you been, Trey? It’s twenty after.” He’s not happy.

  “I was . . . Wait, what are you doing?” I say. I’m pissed too. What the fuck is going on this morning?

  “Well I’m certainly not getting any work done, that’s for damn sure,” he says. He seems perfectly comfortable where he is and makes no effort to crawl out from beneath my desk. Instead he repositions himself slightly, propping his head up with one hand. “After all, only so much can get done when our highly revered Production Manager hasn’t yet shown up for the business day.” He emphasizes the words “highly revered” in a way that’s sarcastic and belittling.

  “I’m sorry, Rick. The bus was late, and then it nearly got into an accident, and—”

  “Nearly? Nearly got into an accident? So you’re saying there ultimately was no accident, correct?”

  “Like I said, I’m sorry. But I’m here now. If you wouldn’t mind coming out from under there, I can get to work immediately.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” he says. What the fuck is he talking about?

  “Umm. Okay.” I turn toward Jenny, but she’s doing everything she can to ignore the entire scene around her and stay focused on the music in her ears and whatever’s on her screen. I’m a little pissed she didn’t warn me about Rick hiding under my desk. She’s got my number. She could’ve texted me a heads-up.

  “No, I think I’m just going to stay under here today and make sure you do your job. Apparently someone has to keep an eye on you.”

  I’m speechless. I’m starting to wonder if I really did wake up this morning. Maybe I’m still in bed, dreaming. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and tell myself to wake up. But when I open them, I’m still sitting on the rolling chair under the fluorescent lights with a hand that smells like fresh coffee.

  4

  OVER THE NEXT couple hours, I bury myself in my work, and several times I even forget that my boss is curled up by my feet.

  From time to time, I take my eyes off the screen and focus on something three-dimensional. I keep my desk in much better shape than my home. It’s very neat. No miscellaneous trash, no scraps of paper. Just the essentials for work and a couple little toys to keep me sane. I’ve never decorated my desk beyond a few knickknacks, never put up any photos or anything. I’m very friendly with my coworkers, but I’m happy to have my boss know as little as possible about my personal life, and my personality outside of work. We’re just different types of people, and we don’t mesh well.

  We don’t even mesh well when it comes to business, but I suppose that’s true of a lot of people and their shitty bosses.

  I take a minute to stare at one of the pieces of plastic on my desk, a three-and-three-quarter-inch action figure depicting Henry Bemis from that Twilight Zone episode where the world ends and he finally has time to read all the books but then his glasses break. It’s painted black, white, and gray, like the show, and it kind of blends in against the gray wall behind it.

  What a drab environment, I think. Gray walls, gray metal desks, black faux-leather chairs. Lots of paper, all either brilliant white or bright white or off-white or “natural,” which is print-shop-speak for cream. I went to school for art and design. I always wanted to work somewhere bright and colorful and fun, but I ended up here. Such is life, I guess.

  Maybe I should look for another job. I could use a change. I’ve been here for over a decade now and if it’s not the same old bullshit every day, it’s just new and dif
ferent bullshit, like a boss hanging out under your desk.

  I’ve spent the bulk of the last two hours troubleshooting the files for a booklet that a local furniture company has asked us to print. It’s potentially a big account, and this is our first job for them, so we’ve got to do it right. Unfortunately it looks like the guy they got to design the thing has little-to-no experience working for print. It’s the sort of thing I’m seeing more and more of these days. There are all sorts of transparency and layer issues in the file, not to mention this guy didn’t pull out his bleeds, account for any creep, or any of the things a booklet designer should automatically know to do. His fonts aren’t even embedded. My guess is this guy went to school for web design and never took a print production class, or more likely just taught himself Photoshop at home and decided to call himself a designer. Whatever. This is my life, and it makes the hours pass, I suppose.

  The furniture company is called Sybbling Brothers, which makes me chuckle. But the smile fades from my face as I’m reminded of my own siblings. My brothers. I was born one-third of a set of triplets. My brothers died when we were young, but I survived.

  I deal with guilt—survivor’s guilt, they call it—something that rears its ugly head from time to time, and without warning. I was seeing a therapist for a while—something Isa had encouraged—but I haven’t made an appointment since she left. I manage, for the most part, but every now and then it hits me like a wave of depression, even though logically I realize there’s nothing I could have done all those years ago as a child.

  “Hey,” Jenny says, thankfully jolting me out of the thought that could easily get me spiraling. I turn around and she’s standing up at her desk, wearing a wrinkled orange, black, and gray plaid shirt, unbuttoned, with a band tee underneath. Something demonic, but I don’t recognize the logo and there’s no chance I’ll be able to figure it out without her thinking I’m staring at her breasts, so I don’t bother. She’s also got a black knit winter hat on, which is typical for her, though I don’t understand why some people wear winter hats year-round. She’s wearing her glasses with the white frames too, with the arms tucked under her ears, which are tucked under her hat. The white frames remind me that it’s only Monday. She has five pairs of glasses that she wears to work—white on Mondays, three gradually darkening shades of gray for Tuesdays through Thursdays, and then, surprisingly, red on Fridays. I wonder what she wears on weekends.

  “Contacts,” she says.

  “Huh?” Wait, what? Did I say something out loud?

  “Con-Tex,” she repeats. “That big brochure job? They just approved their proof.” She hands me the job jacket, a plastic sleeve with paperwork and our copy of the proof inside, so I can put it into Production. “Anyway, I’m going to lunch.” She organizes a few things on her desk, grabs her purse, and steps toward the back door. “You need anything?”

  “No, I’m good,” I tell her. “Probably just gonna work through lunch today. Gotta make up some time, ya know.” I roll my eyes at her, hoping my boss can’t see the look. Jenny smiles, then she’s out the door.

  Rick, under my desk, clears his throat.

  I decide to get up and go toward the front of the shop to make sure things are under control. Jenny and I work in the back, handling all the technical stuff—job intake, file prep, and scheduling, mostly—back there, while the others—Kia, Andre, and Joseph—do the actual printing and finishing work, cutting down sheets of flyers and postcards, folding brochures, saddle-stitching booklets, and all that. I used to do that work myself, years ago, but thankfully I worked my way up to a sort of management position. I’m grateful for that at least. If I was still standing over a booklet-making machine feeding short stacks of paper into it, one book at a time for half the day, and cutting down stacks of 250 or 500 business cards every ten minutes for the other half of the day at this point in my life, I’d probably kill myself.

  Thankfully Kia and Andre are young and eager to get some experience under their belts, and don’t mind doing those sorts of things. I bet they will in a couple years, though, and at that point it’ll be up to me to find their replacements. Unless, like I said, I find some other job. But that will probably have to wait until after I sell the house.

  Joseph handles the front counter, and all the customer service stuff I’m happy to take absolutely no part in. We’re located right on the ground level of a slightly less traveled street, so it’s convenient for a lot of people to just stop in and pick up their jobs. Joseph takes their payment, hands them their boxes, and sends them on their way.

  In the middle of our space is a large Production floor. We’ve got three digital printing presses and a variety of very industrial-looking finishing machines—a pair of bulk cutters, or guillotines, a couple pedal-activated saddle-stitchers, a scoring and folding machine, another that folds without scoring, an offline booklet-maker, a perfect-binding setup, and more. It’s a decent little setup. We’re a small business, but lately we’ve been growing—although I haven’t seen any growth in my paycheck. That’s something I’ll be talking to Rick about at some point, although today is clearly not the day for it.

  Kia is changing the blade on the guillotine when I get up front. It’s a mammoth machine that serves a single purpose—cutting stacks of paper. There’s a dial on the front that adjusts the gate at the back—a guide that keeps the paper stack in position—and there are two square buttons on the front panel. One on the left, one on the right. They both have to be pressed at the same time in order for the machine to cut. That way you don’t accidentally bring the blade down while you’ve got one hand inside adjusting where you’ve got your paper stack positioned. So, bring down the clamp with the foot pedal, then push both buttons within a second of each other, and voila. Blade comes down, blade goes back up. Paper is cut. Reposition your stack, step on the pedal, push the buttons. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Forever. Forever.

  It’s a good thing that safety feature is built into the machine. The act of cutting is kind of mind-numbing after a few dozen chops, and it’s easy to get lost in one’s thoughts.

  “Blade was dull,” Kia says.

  “I can see that,” I tell her. The blade itself is about three feet wide and maybe six inches tall, with one edge that’s insanely sharp, even when we consider it too dull to do what we need it to do. The process of swapping it out for a sharper one involves a contraption with two cylindrical handles that latch onto the blade perpendicularly. Safety first. “How’s the Flenderson’s job coming along?”

  “Good, actually,” Kia says. “We’re halfway done already. Andre is boxing them up now while the rest of the covers are printing, then I’ll score them and he’ll jump back on the booklet-maker.”

  “Cool.” I glance over at Andre and we nod at each other, then I call up to the front of the shop. “Everything good up there, Joseph?” He nods too, and takes a sip from his coffee mug while holding an upturned thumb high in the air. “Okay, everyone. You know where I’ll be. Go team.”

  I get back to my workspace, which is separated from Production by a wall and an open doorway, and immediately hear a scritch-scritch-scritch. My boss looks like a dog in a bed beneath my desk. I don’t even know what to say to him anymore. I was already questioning his sanity, but now it looks like the results are in.

  “Everything okay down there, Rick?” He doesn’t respond, unless you count the pawing at his neck to relieve his itch. “You need some water or something?”

  Maybe he’s off his meds. I don’t know what his ailments are—we’re not exactly close—but I’ve seen him pop pills at his desk on many occasions. Although I suppose they could just as easily be something he doesn’t have a prescription for. Or they could be Pez for all I know. I really don’t care, actually, as long as my paychecks continue to clear.

  There’s a tiny kitchenette at the opposite end of the room—really just a sink and a couple shelves. I find a shallow plastic bowl and fill it from the faucet, then bring it back and set it down beside him u
nderneath my desk. He immediately swipes at it, spilling water all over the commercial-carpeted floor. I leave it and sit back down. I have shit to do.

  A few minutes later I’m ticking away at my keyboard, responding to various emails, and I feel him poking at my feet. Exhausted by the entire situation, I tap my toes in an effort to get him to stop. He groans. Or is he purring? Then the scratching starts back up, and he must be leaning against part of my desk because I feel it shaking ever so slightly. Henry Bemis falls over, and I grab the figure to stand him back up, then realize he’s probably just going to topple over again.

  Rick touches my foot again and suddenly the urge to kick my boss has never been greater. Yeah, it’s been there for years, but bosses tend to think unfavorably toward acts of physical violence, particularly when they’re aimed in their direction. So I decide to slouch down in my chair and glance down past the near edge of my desk, past my lap, and I find him sucking on the edge of my shoe, moaning like a dog with a bone.

  I kick. And it feels good. The motion detaches him from my foot and I roll back.

  “Seriously, Rick. What the fuck?!”

  His eyes are wide with surprise. Then, in a burst of energy, he scrambles out from under the desk and darts across the floor like a beast.

  “Gimme your foot! Gimme your foot!” He’s screaming at the top of his lungs and bouncing around in circles on two feet and one hand. I’ve never seen him move so quickly. He’s scratching away at his neck with the other hand. His shirt is untucked now, and his collar is disheveled. His neck is raw where he’s been scratching, red and purple, covered with crisscrossed lines. “Gimme! I need your foot! Your foot! Your foot works for me, goddamn it!”