Gotta keep it going.
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As is commonly accepted among figures of little importance, really weird things that end with you waking up on the floor, are probably dreams. Now, just because this is accepted by most useless people like myself, doesn't mean it is accepted by all. In other words, to hell with what they say. I just got fucked by an alien. No, it might not have been an alien. And I wasn't literally fucked. But something crazy happened and I intend to believe it was all real.
Conveniently for all involved, I awoke on the floor in my kitchen, no alcohol within a yard of me. This was a good sign--or a bad sign?--that it had all happened. Or, more precisely, I had been punched in the face and then kidnapped by a kid with orange eyes who was supposed to chase me through alleyways. Seriously guys, it's that crazy.
"I love Tuesday's where my excuse for being late to work is unbelievably amazing," I moaned to no one, using the counter to drag myself to my feet. The smeared mirror that hung next to my pots and pans told me that I had a split lip. (I had to have my mirror in the kitchen because the bathroom was too dirty to shave in. I could die of malaria.)
As I checked to make certain I was presentable for work, I found that my grey polo shirt was intact. All I could find wrong with it was that it seemed a little bigger. I hoped I wasn’t smaller. The jacket, that had been causing the slow murder of my arms, was sitting placidly next to the oven--I smiled at it. The hem of my pants was ragged, like it always was, but what bothered me the most was that my shoes were very much gone. This was horrible. Unspeakable. Not only had the aliens stolen my morning, they had also stolen my damn shoes.
At least my apartment still had its shoes. I was grateful for that. But as I searched the tiny confines of my living room and bedroom, I found no trace of anything I could wear on my feet. Socks included. There was just nothing. Not even a hat shaped like a sock that I could possibly--nevermind. I would have to go barefoot.
It was no longer raining when I climbed down the fire escape to the pavement below. (I had lost my key and my landlady had locked me in.) The air was crisp and frustrating. I ignored it to the best of my ability and began to sprint in the direction of an unnecessary-looking office building that seemed to know how unnecessary it was and so slouched under the slate-gray sky with a despondent air of ingratitude to the world.
A few people cursed me as I stepped in front of their shiny cars, but I wasn't disturbed because their cars looked so friendly and welcoming. So welcoming that I decided to steal one later that day.
When I arrived, three hours late, to my exciting job, I paid for all my sins. Including the one where I grew heroin in my backyard until I realized that it wasn’t possible to grow heroin and that I had probably killed half my friends.
“Hell, what happened to you?” asked my most trusted advisor in life. “Did you crash into--”
“My name’s not hell, Colquite,” I said irritably, pulling out my chair and permanently damaging the nerves in my right foot with its kind leg. “Fuck!”
“That’s what I thought…” he muttered, laughing to himself. But before I could graciously correct him, I discovered that someone of a much higher importance than myself, was about to scream obscenities in my face to cure me of the disease of being born in an alleyway. Which I was not.
“So, Stapleton, why the hell are you here?” asked my overseer, his whip hand twitching.
Now, everything was mostly gray around me. The carpet was gray, the ceiling was gray, and my desk looked like someone had drank cement and then vomited it up again. All of that grayness just made me bored and stupid--I had nothing to say to Mr. Glorworth.
“There are a few reasons,” I said, spinning my chair to look at him and stretching my bare feet in front of me. He just stared, his badly dyed blonde hair beginning to melt down his face as he sweat. Why did he dye his hair blonde, anyway? Did he have naturally pink hair or something? I wanted to know. Badly. “I work here, would be the first reason. But the second reason would have to be that I got attacked and kidnapped by a kid with orange eyes. And then I woke up on the floor in my kitchen and my shirt was bigger--smaller?--I can‘t remember. And then I had no shoes and I had to run to work and so it makes sense that I‘m late.”
There was a prolonged silence that was finally broken by the hysterical laughing and subsequent collapse of my dear Colquite.
Glorworth’s face was making quick, jerky transformations from furious to more furious to supremely contented. I couldn’t decide why the hell he was screwing up his face so badly, so I just waited. Finally, after a few more faces that made me wince in pain, he spoke. “I’m not angry. I’m not even upset. I’m just firing you.”
Well, I knew he wasn’t. He told me he was firing me at least once a week and nothing came of it. I still got paid for doing nothing, just like everyone else. But what did I get paid? Nothing of any value. So it was all fair.
When Glorworth had returned to his office to call his therapist and ask why he kept firing people who kept coming back, un-fired, I sighed and found someone’s eyes who I didn’t want to find. There she was. That horrible girl. Her glittery eye-lashes came crashing into her eyes like the slow death of the Titanic. Her skinny legs looked like tooth-picks with some kind of weird disease. Her mouth was gripped in a melting smile and I imagined a victim of Little Boy trying to put their face back on.
“Staples, did you really get beat up by a little kid?” It wasn’t the distraction I was looking for.
“No,” I said irritably, sure I could hear the terror getting up from her desk to talk to me, “I didn’t.” Yes, it was she. And she was getting closer. “I met a plasma-terrorist who is trying to protect the earth and chases people who drop their cigarettes on the pavement without apologizing to the god of toilets, or something. And I know it’s some kind of conspiracy because, before I passed out, I heard another voice.” I was growing agitated, so I stopped stabbing my keyboard with my pencil and looked directly into Colquite’s awfully bright blue eyes. “Distract her,” I whispered. “She’ll kill--Hello, Dasdrana,” I said cheerfully, turning to find her leaning on my desk.
“Dana,” she replied, looking a little pissed.
“You don’t have to say your name every time I talk to you, you know,” I said loudly, hoping the whole office would hear and interrupt my conversation.
“I was only--nevermind.” She looked sullen for a moment and I took the opportunity to spit into the air. Unluckily for a few people, I was unable to catch my saliva and it landed on Disgusting-Girl’s hand, that was resting on my desk. “Oh - my - god,” she said slowly, raising her hand off the vomited concrete.
“Yeah,” I sighed, “I just spit on you.”
Without much thought as to what her actions might ensue in my mind, she slapped me across the face and stalked back to her desk. My face hurt, but I felt freed. But my face hurt.
“Good, Staples, good. Spit on the girl--”
“--who stalks me in my nightmares and real life,” I finished, twisting my chair to face Colquite again. “If this doesn’t end, I’ll have no choice--” But then the slam of an important door caused me to forget the nasty bitch and I was suddenly sure plasma-terrorist had come to kill me. “Who is it? Can you see them?” I whispered, searching his face for some sign of terror. But his eyes looked disgustingly glassy and I jabbed him with my pencil.
“It’s God,” he mumbled, rubbing his forehead.
“What the--”
“The female version.”
I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. And I wasn’t sure if I wanted to find out.
