Apathy and Other Small Victories (18 page)

“Oh yeah. Martha’s dead,” I said.

“I know,” and she hugged me again. “I was so sorry I couldn’t go to the funeral. I had a PowerPoint presentation. There were clients coming in. It couldn’t be rescheduled.”

“Yeah I didn’t go either.”

“What?” she said, pushing me out of the hug and looking in my face.

“I didn’t go either.”

“To the funeral?”

“Yeah.”

“Why not?”

It seemed an absurd question, and it was only nine o’clock in the morning and I was already pretty drunk, so I didn’t understand it at first.

“Uh, what?”

“Shane,” she put both of her hands on my shoulders and squared me to her, “Why didn’t you go to the funeral? Wasn’t the entire team given special permission to attend?” She was talking to me slowly and enunciating her words like I was a small, retarded child. Which technically, at that point, I may have been.

“Yeah. But I went home instead.”

“You what?” She was getting loud. “I can’t believe you’d—why did you go home?”

“I didn’t even know her.”

“Yes you did!”

“No I didn’t,” I said calmly.

“That’s not the point!” She was furious. Irrationally so, I thought. “The
entire team
was going. Do you have any idea what that means?”

I wasn’t sure, and I think my vacant stare conveyed this.

“My god Shane! My god!” She shook her head and looked around for someone to second her indignation, but nobody in the bar cared. “You need to be more sensitive to these things!”

“What, like I should wear a velvet cowboy hat and start blowing guys? Maybe sing some Depeche Mode in a bus station bathroom? “Personal Jesus”? Is that what you want to hear?” I shouted, because I wanted to be irrationally angry too.

“What are you talking about?” she said.

I also was not sure.

She steadied her voice.

“All I’m saying is you need to be more sensitive to the dynamics of certain situations and relationships, professional and otherwise.”

“Huh?”

She exhaled, controlling herself.

“There are certain obligations that a person has, certain responsibilities, and it’s important to keep your long term goals in mind when you make decisions.”

“So you’re saying it was a poor business decision not to go to big fat Martha’s funeral?”

“Frankly Shane? It was! And I don’t care what you say about—”

“That’s terrific. Very humanitarian,” I said.

“—the team dynamic or me or anything else, there’s no reason to insult Martha. She’s dead.”

“I know she’s dead. I was just being honest and descriptive.”

“No, you were being an asshole.”

“It’s not my fault they have to always be the same thing.”

“Oh, you’re
so
wise,” she said.

“All right, what’s the first thing you think of when I say Martha?”

“I think of what a good person she was, what an amazing typist—”

“Amazingly fat typist.”

“All right, that’s it. We’re not having this conversation. You’re drunk.”

“So what. That doesn’t mean I’m not right. Martha had a heart attack because she was overweight. That’s a fact. I’m just trying to help here. There are lessons for all of us to learn. We can’t let her die in vain. And I’m not drunk for your information.”

“Fine. Then you have no excuse. So don’t call me when you sober up.”

“Okay BYE!” I shouted after her as she stormed out.

The old man never even stirred. He slept through all the shouting like the little withered angel that he was. The bar was suddenly quiet and eerie and still. The mildewed Miller High Life poster wasn’t used to this kind of commotion. Neither was Sooj. He was standing with his arms folded, regarding me and the situation.

I gave him a sheepish grin and put both my hands up, hoping that he’d had a similar experience at some point and knew what I meant. Then we’d swap stories and make generalizations about women and maybe he’d give me some free beer.

Sooj put both hands on the bar and leaned forward, his dark eyes not far away from mine. “Do you own a gun?” he said.

I was fumbling with my keys at the door when Bryce stepped out of the shadows and scared the shit out of me. I didn’t even know my front door had shadows. You never notice these things until after you’re already fucked.

“Bryce, jesus,” I said, struggling not to collapse.

“Hello Shane.” He wasn’t as jumpy as usual. His arms were at his sides and out a little, like he was making a conscious effort to have better posture. I didn’t see a shiv in his hand but it could have been in his back pocket, or tucked in his belt behind his back like a pirate. “I need to talk to you,” he said.

“Sure. Do you want to come in?” I had my key in the lock finally. I was fully prepared to open the door, leap in and then slam it on his arm as he plunged the knife after me. I would scream like that bug-eyed woman from
The Shining
and anyone watching would be humiliated for me and annoyed, but I would live.

“No. I’d rather talk here,” he said.

He didn’t want to get blood on the carpet. Sure. It was probably better this way. There were saltshakers everywhere, all over my bed and on the floor. I didn’t want that to be the last thing I tried to explain before I died. He took a step closer to me.

“I know about you and my wife,” he said.

I wish I could have seen the look on my face. It’s so rare that your mouth actually drops open from being genuinely bewildered. I must have looked like a fucking cartoon.

“I… know, you… know?” I said.

“I want it to stop,” he said, pushing his arms out a little further and leaning slightly forward.

“It might be too late for that,” I said, shocking myself.

For about four seconds it could have gone either way. We stared at each other and I was cringing inside. A guy with that many tattoos had to know how to fight, or at least have a high threshold for pain. I would bite and scratch and pinch. I would use my nails. I would start crying and pretend to throw up and then kick him in the nuts. I was frightened and feeling faint but for those four seconds I didn’t blink.

And then Bryce fell apart. He completely deflated and dropped his head and scratched the back of his neck with both hands.

“I know, I know it is,” he whimpered, and I took my clenched fingers off my keys and left them hanging in the door. I would not get stabbed, not tonight. Not by Bryce at least. “Can I just tell you though?” he was pleading. “I didn’t used to be like this.” He locked his hands over his thinning pompadour. “I used to be in a band you know. A long time ago.”

“Rockabilly?” I said.

“No, funk. We were called the Funktastics.”

“I see.”

“We used to play all over town.” His eyes were getting glassy and I was getting impatient. “We were good too. I played bass and sang sometimes. Never enough, but sometimes. Those were great days. It was really a lot of fun. But she never came to see us play. Not once. She’s the reason I quit making music. She never believed in me.”

No Bryce, you never believed in yourself, is what I wanted to say, but I would’ve been openly laughing at him. I owed the guy over $1,000 in back rent and I was having sex with his wife. There was no need to uselessly antagonize the poor fuck. I just needed to let him get it all out, maybe give him a hug, then dead bolt my door.

“Yeah,” I said.

“And I know I’ve got problems now, but I’m doing the best I can, you know? Everyone’s got problems. It’s not like I’m begging for change or robbing people or anything. I’m trying to work through it all, getting myself back. Like the guy in that movie, you know?”

“Sure,” I said. I think he was talking about Sloth from
The Goonies
. If I’d had a Baby Ruth I would have given it to him.

“I see what she’s doing too. I don’t like it, but there’s nothing I can do anymore. We don’t talk much. But I wanted you to know that I don’t want this. I don’t know if that counts for anything.”

“Yeah,” I said, because it really didn’t.

“You should be careful,” he said, looking me in the eye, and I wasn’t sure if it was a threat or a warning or if he was just trying to teach me something about life. I hoped not. Bryce was in no position to be giving anybody advice about anything. And I think he realized this because he put his hands in his pockets and shrugged and started to walk away. He stopped after a few steps and turned around.

“I really don’t think she cares,” he said.

“About you?” There was no need to be that cruel but he was pissing me off. And I wanted to hear him say it.

“About anything,” he said.

There comes a time in every man’s life when he wakes up drunk on the toilet and begins to doubt the choices he has made. And when that time comes at least twice a day, every day, something needs to be done.

But what? And how? These are hard, entirely unspecific questions. And apathy has its own slow momentum. It doesn’t like to be disturbed.

It had reached the point where I could hardly sleep anymore. So I sat on the toilet and read whatever crumpled newspaper pages people left lying around. It was usually the business section. Things were not looking good. I was concerned about the Fed’s position on interest rates for reasons I could not fully explain. Sometimes I sifted through the scraps of paper in my wallet, a few old receipts and this clipping my mother had given me in high school from
Reader’s Digest
. Points to Ponder. One of them was by Erma Bombeck. They were all needlessly depressing.

I sat at my desk and made sculptures out of paperclips. I bent them at strange angles and made them stand up. I linked them into chains that were conceptual and open to interpretation. I did other things that were avant-garde and very interesting. Sometimes I went for walks around the floor with a stack of papers in my hand, pretending to be going somewhere. But I was not. Sometimes I would stand very still and listen to the hum of the air vents, and when someone saw me I would nod and smile and walk away.

These were the longest days of my life, and I was wasting them. That is always a sad thing to know. Everyone else was wasting them too, but that only made it a little easier to take.

Sometimes I thought about things, what to do about Bryce and his wife or if I should do anything, or sometimes about Marlene and her black eye and how I wouldn’t be going back to Doug’s office anymore. I tried not to think about any of it too much. I was hoping it would all just work itself out. One day I thought of a bumper sticker: “The world is your oyster, but you are allergic to shellfish.” That was too good to be a bumper sticker, and too long probably. Maybe it could be in a fortune cookie.

I sat there as the fabric walls of my cubicle, and all the cubicles, and all the walls of the building closed around me like one big malevolent cocoon. Maybe soon I would emerge a beautiful butterfly. Or maybe some guy out cutting his grass would mistake me for a nest of gypsy moths and set me on fire to save his trees. I wouldn’t blame him. It’s so hard to tell the difference these days. You have to really be paying attention.

“Shane, can I see you for a moment?” Andrew said, standing in the open side of my cubicle. He was gravely polite.

Finally.

I staggered after him and fell into a springback chair as he shut the door to one of the private conference rooms. My eyes were so bloodshot I looked rabid. I could have been a POW.

Andrew sighed softly.

“Shane, let me just start by saying that your work for us here has always been impeccable. There have never been any questions about your abilities as an alphabetizer.”

I began to weep.

“You’ve displayed a lot of the qualities we look for in prospective hires, but in the end we decided that you’d probably be a better fit at another company. We’re going to have to let you go,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said, and started to get up.

“I really shouldn’t comment on this any further, but I feel as if I have to,” Andrew said, lowering his voice even though I could already hardly fucking hear him. I sat back down again. “This company, and the entire insurance industry as a whole, isn’t just about numbers and quotas and how many forms you can alphabetize in a day. It’s about people. It’s about integrity and compassion. It’s about what makes us human beings. I’ve heard about your ‘imitations’ of Carl as you make your way back from the bathroom, mocking his walk, his disability. I don’t know who you thought you were entertaining, but it’s no one on this floor. No one in this entire company. Carl may not technically be affiliated with Panopticon, but he’s still a valued member of our team. The human team. And he’s a veteran. He sacrificed his body so that we could enjoy the freedoms we have today. He deserves not only your respect, but your undying gratitude.”

Andrew was gallant and flushed and trembling. He would tell people of this speech for years, and he would be proud of himself. And rightfully so. He had done his duty, just like Karal.

A 600-year-old security guard watched me as I packed up my paper clip sculptures and my miniature nooses, his hand quivering over his holstered gun. I touched the door of the men’s room as I passed. It was like leaving home to go to college.

“Hey Shane! TGIF!” Mitch said as he stepped out of the elevator and I stepped in. He didn’t know I’d just been fired. Andrew would send out an email, call a team meeting and explain. They would shake their heads and denounce me. I would be condemned and vilified. Rumors would spread. No one would defend me, not even Mitch and my other teammates, not even for my miraculous alphabetizing.

In the passion play that my life had not nearly become, this was my crucifixion: getting fired from a job I did not want for being unpatriotic. This was my Good Friday. I would descend into a Miller High Life–soaked hell for the rest of the weekend before rising on the third day to an ad in the Sunday classifieds:

Two-month sleep study. Participant must be able to pass out on toilets for up to one hour at a time. Nudity optional. Data will be used to determine the crippling effects of modern life on the physical and psychological health of the individual. Generous compensation package including full health benefits, open bar, 3.4 million dollar stipend, worldwide fame and scientific immortality. Only serious applicants need apply. We are an equal opportunity employer.