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TITLE (EDIT)
Rock, Paper, Scissors |
DESCRIPTION
What's better than work?
[970 words] |
AUTHOR
Paul B Kramer |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
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[May 2008] |
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (7)
Crouton Island (Short Stories) Soup's on! [1,666 words]
Dwayne's First Day (Short Stories) How do you do, with the rest of your life? [2,345 words] [Literary Fiction]
Go Jeriko, Go (1) (Short Stories) A lug nut comes loose! [2,030 words]
Jericho Pilsbury (Short Stories) Jericho, RELAX! [1,744 words]
Monica's Pie (Short Stories) Reklon Harponip, a Turkish lad on his own in America, identifies with Monica Lewinsky's plight as he searches out like-minded people. [3,062 words]
Project Code5-Rogers Park Quadrant (Short Stories) THEY'RE HERE! [213 words]
Sleepwalk 9 (Poetry) A traipse through the spongy convoluted street. [126 words]
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Rock, Paper, Scissors
Paul B Kramer
After downloading tomorrow’s sale ad Ryan sits clenched at his desk. He appears to be cutting his left wrist with aisle-five appropriated blue plastic safety scissors. Some fucking co-worker swiped his personal pair of Graf-Apsco Precision, Surgical Steel Scissors – model # D37T. In the mock display of suicide he thinks the guilty party might just laugh up a confession. No one in the cramped, smoke-filled basement office bites. They are deep into their paperwork and cigarettes as if the fate of humanity depends upon their each and every little scrawl and exhalation.
It’s a heavy week for price changes. Two weeks before Christmas. Ryan scrutinizes the ribbon of downloaded register tape. He knows it isn’t a coincidence that his prized scissors are gone. Two hundred and thirty-six batches long is that sale ad message meaning big-time price changes. That’s two hundred and thirty-six lengths that have to be cut and pasted onto batch sheets. He rifles the mini-filer, the in/out tray, behind the clutter. Nothing. Forehead scrunches. Neck tightens. Glazed face. He proceeds to gnaw at his left thumbnail unaware for now that there is nary any nail left.
Anxiety. That’s what it is. Three different school psychologists told him so by way of Father, ("Just relax, Ry. You’ll outgrow it. Just relax, dammit!"), at three new schools. Because of being the new kid and all they’d said. Yet he's never allowed his nails to grow more than a millimeter from the quick. Go figure. He spits out a piece of dead thumb as he unbuttons his vest.
Damp pits. "Hey, c'mon guys. I need my scissors. I'll be here all fucking night working on this shit," he groans. For effect. The three paperwork-choked, down-turned heads respond with a chorus of chuckles. Nothing more. With a grunt, Ryan begins folding the mile long register tape accordion-style. Done.
The cutting starts. His thumb and forefinger are simply too fat for the child-sized scissor holes. They cramp at batch fifteen. "It's like I'm pinching zits," he aptly grumbles, thinking that he might score a hit on Nero, the assistant store manager, whose face always reminds him of a war-ravaged minefield. Underneath: How can I possibly pinch any zits with these nubs?
"Sounds to me like a personal problem," sneers Nero. A quick jet of cigarette smoke escapes from Nero’s dual exhaust nostrils . "It looks like you've got your work cut out for you. Now keep cuttin'."
"BLAAAAAAAT!" farts Hector, the dairy manager. "I cut the cheese. Extra sharp cheddar. Sharp like your scissors."
Lois, the floral manager, drops her pencil. Her face capillaries fill to gushing. She looks like a flag wearing tortoise shell glasses - bleached white hair, red wrinkly mug, blue smock. "Hector, do you mind?" She titters. "There's a lady present." At that the three break into raucous laughter.
"Hector was just clearing his throat is all," Nero says in mid-laugh. "And I'd say he has a really bad case of halitosis, too."
"Breakfast burritos," Hector replies. "Muy buenos!"
Nero expels another gust of smoke and the three others go into a synchronized coughing jag. "All right already. We're having way muy too much fun. Let's cut the crap. Get back to work."
Fuck you, Ryan thinks. In his desk drawer, in the tray that holds his rubber bands, glue sticks, paper clips, pens and pencils and Sharpies, an eraser, a stapler, a staple remover, and extra staples, there it is – Liquid White Out. He glances over his shoulder. Seeing the effect of Nero’s sway – paperwork trumps sociability – Ryan shakes the bottle, unscrews its top. With the stealth of a person stealing french fries from turned backs, he brings the bottle up to his nose and takes three hefty snorts.
The White Out fumes into his lungs. Seconds later– the base of his neck tingles, loosens. His eyes close, involuntarily. Disney-esque fireflies materialize behind his eyelids. He blinks. The smoky office air holds a sheen. He hums. A smile materializes. The room is consecrated. The fireflies are on the loose, flitting and fluttering. The holy vapors gently cradle his brain, sparking current throughout its tendril synapses. He looks at the safety scissors again. They’re attached. Then, the blur and refocus. He’s back in second grade, in Ms Rock’s classroom. Room 2B. Before the time when Father started moving the family from one part of the country to another. Before Mother decided to stay behind. Before the time when "anxiety" dictated fingernail length.
Steam hisses through overhead piping. A refrigerant air compressor pumps away in the outer stockroom. Stairway to Heaven, the Muzak version, loops through the cardboard auxiliary speaker in the corner. No matter. The smell and sight and sound of his second grade classroom fills his head. The scene: Ryan's between Billy and Margaret, cutting giant snowflakes out of purple and red and yellow and white construction paper. Perky Ms. Rock, in a gingham shift, is conducting the class in folding and cutting. "Ryan, that’s wonderful." She coos. If any of the office fuckers had bothered checking on Ryan’s progress they would have seen him cutting away, smiling. Just cutting and smiling.
Stairway to Heaven cuts out. "Grocery? Grocery. Clean-up in aisle three. Bring a mop!" cuts in. Ms. Rock’s second grade dissolves. Wow! He’s finished. He looks at his watch, sees that it’s three o’clock. He has two hours to paste the strips to batch sheets, sort out the new shelf tickets to the right batches, and update the price book. He is thoroughly pleased saying, "Nero, time to go upstairs to check if any new messages have come in from corporate. Need anything?"
"No," Nero grunts.
"Okay, I'll be right back." Ryan returns. There they are – his German-made, Graf-Apsco Precision Surgical Steel Scissors. He looks at Nero, smiles, and says, "Thanks." Underneath: "Jerk."
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2006 Paul B Kramer |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
December 2006 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
2000
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