Mr. Jones

It was one of those days where you were late to work, and it seemed like every red light in the city was out to get you, waiting until you thought you could drive through and then -- bam! Red light. Whoever invented the red light deserves a smack to the jaw.

And of course, after a brilliant start to the day, what else could I expect but Mr. Crowberry waiting in my cubicle? By the way, I felt sorry his name was horrible, but not sorry enough to stop hating him.

“Mr. Jones.” (Normal people call me Dave. David is stretching it.) “On the latest productivity reports, I have come to the dawning realization that you are way behind on your quota. Furthermore…”

Shows you how much he knows. I didn’t realize there was a quota involved in selling magazine subscriptions.

“You are quite obviously unconsciously disengaged with your work. Do you realize that, Mr. Jones?”

I didn’t feel like arguing with a bastard like Crowberry. So I just nodded, and pretended like I cared.

“I need you to increase productivity, as soon as possible. Asap, if you will. Also, don’t be this late ever again or you’re fired. Any questions?”

“Yes,” I said. “What the hell are you even talking about?”

I hailed a taxi to get home. I told the taxi cab driver my address (57 Gem Street). We talked about how nice the weather was. The weather was horrible.

My magazine subscription targets were particularly rude today. (Hello, would you like to buy a magazine? Shut up before I call the police, you ruddy expletive expletive! End of call.) I looked forward to coming home to my mates, drinking until we were nearly dead, and forgetting the day in a drunken stupor.

John was already at my house, sleeping on my couch no less.

“John, wake the hell up.”

“What?” he belted as he slipped of the couch. Typical John.

“Why are you here?”

John struggled to his feet, and tried to but on a businesslike tone of voice.

“Well, you see, best buddy in the world…” (He was sucking up. I liked it.) “Me and some guys were out playing hockey on the pond. And some slimy little butt whacks the puck into my face. I would’ve faced him off, but he ran off. Little girly. Probably sells cookies in his free time. ‘Hey lady, if you buy ten boxes of cookies I’ll be able to afford veterinary school!’ ‘Sure, honey.’ ‘Thanks, misses.’

“John?”

“Oh. And it hurt like heck, so I came over here, to lay down.”

“How the heck did you get inside the house?”

He pointed towards the window.

Typical John.

Crowberry is a bloody bastard.

Not that I didn’t already know this, from yesterday and all.

But today just made me realize it more.

I was late again.

I got fired.

By Crowberry.

“Someone ought to shoot him.” I said.

“Well, he did warn you. You were late again.”

“Shut up. You’re my cab driver, you’re supposed to agree with my problems.”

John was still over my house. Typical John. Well, at least I had someone to be depressed with. So many years of yelling at old ladies over the phone, forcing them to get scam magazines. I was valuable to the economy. How the heck could they fire me?

Me and John played Monopoly. Such a confusing game.

Not very helpful when you’re already pretty much dealing with anger issues. I go to jail every single time we play.

Then mom calls.

“How’s it going, honey?”

I avoided the question. My mom and me had a strained enough relationship.

“Fine.”

“I just have some bad news honey…”

How bad was her haircut this time?

“Your father…”

My names David Jones.

I have no job.

I’m completely and utterly worthless.

I never went to college.

My friends are all worthless or drunks (typical John).

I couldn’t get a girl if it was life or death.

I’m nineteen.

I’m writing this.

I’m crying.

My fathers dead.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life.