Hive Five

Coughing and sneezing and hacking and sniffling, it surrounds me in my office. It seems the whole world around me has come down with some various cold or another. I can hear each disgruntled ill noise from the cubicles around me and it makes me think of life in a bee-hive.  I’m sure the constant buzzing would drive my little bee brain insane. Much like the office noise has clearly driven me mad.

It’s the constant sounds of typing and talking and phones ringing and the coughing and breathing and coffee sipping and desk radios playing that makes me so crazy. If a giant came along and tore the roof off the building I bet it would look very much like the insides of a bee-hive to him. I can imagine a giant hand dropping in and scooping up a bunch of the soda machines in search of that elusive nectar we produce. We’d run at that giant hand with our office furniture, trying to sting him to death.

Although, knowing what I know about myself I’m sure I’d go equally as mad if it was completely dead silent. I’m too citified for the peaceful tranquility of nature. If I don’t hear an ambulance at least once every half hour I get nervous. Plus all those movies with those long desolate country roads, sweltering in the summer heat, cicadas buzzing like military trumpeters overhead makes me a little afraid. As if some horrible beast of mythology will erupt from the ground and swallow me up and drag me, screaming, to hell.

Hell is, of course, the office I already work in. So you can see the cyclical horror I’m currently embroiled. And, being hell, there is a requirement that I work, making honey to feed the larval stage bees, so they can grow and continue to work for the collective.

I need a honey and a drink. (To get buzzed) Perhaps things will get more interesting then.

After all

Steven moved in to his new apartment on Wednesday and was completely in love by Friday. He saw her in the hallway by his apartment door. He only saw her for a second, but she had a lingering perfume and a cute look.  It wasn’t something he wasn’t expecting and certainly not something he was used to. Her name was Carrie and she was dead.

It started soon after Steven got the last of his kitchen items put away. He left the room to break the moving box down and when he came back into the kitchen every drawer and cabinet was wide open. He was startled but simply chalked it up to being a little fried from all the moving stuff. Moving usually leaves most people feeling a bit frazzled. He’d left his old apartment in a real trendy part of town because he felt he had outgrown it. It was time for a more adult and respectable place. A place his mother could come to without having to hold her nose.

He closed all the drawers and cabinets and grabbed a beer out of his new fridge. He’d bought a lot of beer because he thought he’d have more friends helping him move but it turned out no one came to help him except his older brother Terry. Terry had a family of his own and could only help move the big items for about an hour and a half before having to pick up his daughter from Ballet.  So Steven moved most of the other boxes by himself and cursed his jerk friends for not showing up to help.

He went to his living room and sat on his couch. It was pretty old and a little smelly and he was pretty sure his old roommate Cam had slept with Katie Morris on it, but it would do for now. He planned on replacing it as soon as he got a little more settled. The TV wasn’t connected to the cable service yet so he had no reception. He had his radio on, but commercial radio was so bad now. It was just commercial after commercial. He shut it off and relaxed on his couch. It was only mid afternoon and he had no idea what he was going to do with the rest of his Wednesday.

He heard a noise from the kitchen. Steven didn’t mind it so much because there were always going to be new noises in new places. Then he heard it again, it was a solid thud, not mechanical or the apartment groaning with its new tenant. Steven got up and went into the kitchen and again, the drawers and cabinets were all open. Now Steven was scared. He immediately thought that he’d rented a haunted apartment. No wonder the rent was only $650 a month.

He almost ran screaming from the place like a maniac until he noticed it. The perfume he’d smelled earlier as he was carrying up his stereo; when he saw that cute girl. He calmed immediately, maybe she was hazing him. Maybe she thought he was cute too and was sneaking in through a door he didn’t know about.

“Hello”, asked Steven.

He stepped further into the kitchen and could smell her perfume again, even stronger. It smelled like flowers you see in those big bouquets at funerals. It was robust and Steven liked it.

“Hello”, he asked again.

He was met with silence again. He took a sip from his beer and swallowed hard. He was getting nervous.

“C’mon now, no more fooling around. Where are you”, he asked the empty kitchen.

He turned around the room straining for an answer but heard nothing. He started closing the cabinets and drawers again.

“Don’t”, said a soft female voice.

Steven dropped his beer to the kitchen linoleum and fell back against the counter with a shout.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you”, the voice.

“Where the hell are you?”

“I’m here. Sorry, wait…”

A young blonde woman entered the kitchen from nothing, she just appeared as she stepped in from the dining room, as if from a mist and Steven felt himself starting to faint.

“Sorry, I’ve been a ghost before”, she said.

“A G-g-g-g-g-ghost”, stuttered Steven.

She laughed at him. It was a sweet laugh, there was something innocent and childlike about it and Steven felt himself more at ease as this ghost woman giggled.

“Are you Scooby-Doo or something”, she asked.

“Hm? No, I… I… more of a Shaggy I guess”, said Steven.

“I’m sorry about your beer. Shame to waste alcohol”, she said looking at the beer can on the floor.

Steven bent over to pick it up quickly and turned to get some paper towels.

“What are you doing in here? I mean, c’mon, you’re not really a ghost right. There’s a door or secret passage from your apartment to mine right”, asked Steven as he bent to wipe the spill.

“Did you see the way I came in here? I’m pretty sure I’m a ghost.”

Steven looked up at her and from his crouched position on the floor he realized that her lower body was somewhat transparent. He stumbled back and fell to his butt.

“Are you okay? I’m sorry. I’m a little nervous too. You’re the first one to see me”, she said, “My name is Carrie”.

She smiled at Steven and he stood up. He tossed the wet paper towels in to the trash and wiped his hand on his pants.

“Carrie. Um… It’s nice to meet you”, said Steven as he reached out to shake her hand.

Carrie smiled and didn’t reach out to take his hand. She looked at Steven with a raised eyebrow and a smirk on her face. Steven blushed. He really got a good look at her face and she was beautiful. Her eyes were light blue, her hair was blonde and wistfully pulled into a ponytail. She seemed petite, maybe about 5’, 4” in height, although without being able to actually see her legs Steven really couldn’t tell.

He lowered his hand.

“Sorry. Habit. So, really, what are you doing here”, he asked.

“I don’t know. You’re the first one to see me and actually talk with me, so I’m not exactly sure”.

“What’s with the opening of all the drawers and stuff?”

“Oh, I saw that in The Sixth Sense and it creeped me out so I figured it’d creep out anyone that moved in here”.

“It does”, smiled Steven.

She smiled back at him. Steven’s heart started wildly beating in his chest. He hadn’t felt that since eighth grade when Sally Nickels kissed him after the graduation dance. He adjusted his stance and tried to look a little cooler. He sort of chuckled at himself for trying to be cool in front of the cute ghost.

“So, like, how did you, you know, die”, he asked.

“I’m not too sure about that either. I lived in this apartment, I think”, she said.

“You think?”

“Yes. I’m not sure about a lot of things to be honest. Do you think you can help me?”

Steven rubbed his chin and felt the day off stubble. Carrie stood with her hands meekly together in front of her. She was the spitting image of the woman Steven had been dreaming about since he was nine.

“I’d love to help”.

She smiled.

Pin-Ups and Passers-by

Lately I’ve been on a real Pin-Up girl kick and I owe it all to a very lovely friend of mine. She gave me a birthday card with an illustrated, a well illustrated, pin-up girl and I put it on my refrigerator. Every time I walk into my kitchen I can’t help but see this dark hair beauty, sitting on a big heart pillow, clad in red 1940’s lingerie, teasing me with her eyes. (Her eyes, right. Her eyes) I’m tempted to take it down because something about a 1940’s pin-up girl turning me on seems so strange, considering what’s available on the internet.  

It did however bring me to the realization that all that stuff on the internet, all the instant access to pornography and various other things they call pornography isn’t all that interesting compared with the sultry sophistication of this pin-up girl on my fridge. I wonder what she’s thinking and I wonder if she thinks I’m cute. I’d like to make up a back story for her, something like how she sent that card to me after she got off work at the diner to cheer me up while I’m slogging it out in the Battle of the Bulge. I think her name would be Madge or Lilly.

She knows what I like.

For my second article topic today I need to point something out to the slow walkers of the world; get the hell out of the way. Just because you like to mosey your way into work on snowy mornings doesn’t mean everyone behind you likes to. After I got off the train this morning I was literally trapped behind one of these slow walkers. He was just bumbling along the side walk, taking his own sweet time, and every instance I tried to get around him he would seemingly and magically step back in front of me. I actually blurted out, “unbelievable”, as I tried unsuccessfully to navigate around this roadblock of a man.

He finally stepped out of the way and I was able to rush past, along with all the other fast walkers trapped behind him. We moved ahead cursing the slow walker, only to be blocked again by more hordes of slow walkers. I think that TV show, “The Walking Dead”, should totally change its plot and instead of succumbing to a Zombie apocalypse they should just be trying to get to work and are trapped behind the slow walkers. (Show would probably move at about the same pace)

I just can’t figure these slow walkers out; don’t they have someplace to be? If they do, why are they taking such a long time to get there? Are they worried about getting there early? I’d rather stand in a warm lobby for ten minutes than walk slowly around in the cold. It just baffles me.

I think there should be express lanes on the sidewalks for those of us that walk with purpose and speed. I can’t express how very annoying the slow walkers are.

It’s

like

thiiiiiiiiiiiisssssssssss………… sssssss.

Maybe they need a pin-up girl to get home to and impress with groceries to speed them up.

Time does a jig

I went to bed before ten o’clock last night. I was feeling pretty exhausted and needed a full night of uninterrupted sleep. I was fast asleep in no time thinking about how young Gohan would be able to escape the clutches of Cell on Dragonball Z and that one of my friends is very attractive and she just needs a little more confidence, like Gohan. So you can only imagine the crazy dreams I had.

I woke up at some point and felt as if I had been sleeping for hours and I was sure that I would have to get up and get ready for work. I lifted my head to check my alarm clock and was shocked to see it was only 11:36 p.m. I had only been sleeping for a little more than an hour but it felt like the whole night. I put my head back down and went back to sleep.

I woke again at 3:11 a.m., only to again think I had to wake up and go to work. At that point I was quite happy I could go back to sleep for a few more hours. I did consider getting up through and going to work. I fell back to sleep imagining the faces of my co-workers as they saw me sitting at my desk at five o’clock in the morning. I stayed in bed however.

When my alarm clocks did finally go off I was up and ready to go. Well, maybe not ready to go but able to wrestle myself from my dreams and blankets and head to the shower without too much aggravation. It was then that time pulled its third trick on me and seemed to rapidly advance. I could have sworn I was only in the shower for eight minutes but it seemed I was in there for 12; which put me a few minutes behind schedule, which meant it would be a no-shave Thursday.

I had to hurry to get ready, yet again, and I made it to the train with two minutes to spare. The whole while I marveled at how time plays these little tricks on us. It was then that I realized time was Irish. Think about it, O’clock. I think its full name is probably something like Seamus Riley Daniel O’clock.

S. R. D. O’clock is a wily trickster and he’s no time for you and your problems. I would think his philosophy is, “Either get drinkin’ or get dying, just get outta my way”.

He’s got a gruff exterior but inside, he’s all fluff.

He just need some love, like all the Irish men do.

Infamy

“Hawaii is quite possibly one of the most peaceful places God ever crapped out when he squatted over the world. When God finished his business he used the Holy Toilet Paper to wipe his Holier Than Art Thou ass and tossed it to the side. It landed in the water and eventually became Japan”, said Sergeant Ross.

Three months had passed since the sneak attack on Pearl when Lionel Lark arrived at Fort Jackson, South Carolina.

“The Germans are the dingle berries that hung onto God’s ass until they just fell off on Europe”, continued Sergeant Ross.  

Lionel was now part of the 30^th Infantry Division, 117^th Regiment. He’d enlisted as soon as he could and was itching for a fight.

“And we’re going to knock all of their ugly teeth in”, finished Sergeant Ross.

Some of the other men cheered when the Sergeant completed his speech. Lionel did too.  He was 19 years old and was fiercely proud of his country and would do anything he could to help win the war. It was a typical story as far as he could tell. Most of the other guys around were all about the same age and seemed just as determined to knock some Kraut or Jap dick in the dirt.

Sergeant Ross walked up and down the line of the eager young men. He looked at each dead in the eyes as he passed, as if trying to gauge which might make it through boot and which would come home draped in a flag.

“I hope you men like running. I love running. So we will be doing a lot of it”, barked the Sergeant. “I don’t want you boys thinking you’re going overseas for a sewing circle. I want you fast and I want you lean”.

The Sergeant gave the order to start running and Lionel and the others took off at a mild clip. This run was the first of Lionel’s Army career and he was he wanted to make a good impression on the Sergeant. It was the first mistake Lionel made in the Army and one that taught him the best lesson. By the time they would finish boot and the rest of their long training he’d know better than to try and lead a charge or try to stand out from the other men. He’d learn that boys he was with now would become the men he’d need to lean on for the rest of his life.

But that first day, running in the sun, he didn’t know what hell was like and still imagined himself standing over a defeated Hitler, saying something like, “Take that Herr Asshole”, while smoking a victory cigar with Betty Hutton on his arm.

They ran for what seemed like days and when finally dismissed, Lionel promptly got back to barracks and threw up. This was going to be harder than he thought.       

A Sickness

Gerald searched his house from top to bottom but couldn’t find his gloves or winter hat anywhere. He had put them somewhere in the spring he was sure he’d remember when winter returned. Now he had gone through every drawer and closet shelf without locating them. The clock was ticking and he had to leave to make his train, so it was either be late and warm or on time and cold.

He had no choice but to throw on his coat and hat, sans gloves and ear goggles. He called them ear goggles because they sort of were. He felt weird about calling them ear muffs because they just weren’t, they were ear goggles.  He hurried down his front steps and hustled to the corner. The cold fall winds had given way to the early winter chills and his head was cold instantly.

Gerald stopped to look for the morning paper but it wasn’t there. It seemed the paperboy decided it was too cold to deliver papers. Although in the city it seemed they tossed the papers onto the porch from a moving car. He could hear it every so often rumbling down the street at four o’clock in the morning. He imagined it was a later model car, all rusted and Bondo covered, belching out exhaust into the early morning quiet. It probably didn’t start on this frosty morning and that’s why there was no paper.

The light at the corner went red right as Gerald reached the curb forcing him to stop his rapid pace. He had about seven minutes to make his train, which was plenty of time to make the four minute walk, but he still hated having to stop at the light. It was a very long light and waiting for it to change in the cold was just miserable. Gerald’s nose was all ready feeling runny and his eyes were tearing from the cold breeze.

Gerald started walking across the street in his classic double time pace; hoping to make up the time the red light had cost him. He got to the newspaper box on the opposite corner and hoped to get a paper from it, but it was also empty. He cursed.  Now he would just have to sit there on the train, staring out the window instead of reading.

The ramp to the train platform was already salted by the diligent train staff. They were usually on top of their game when it came to the cold weather. Gerald realized that this ramp would be quite a challenge once ice did actually form on it. He would probably need new and better winter shoes.

On the platform, Gerald did the usual commuter thing and looked down the tracks for the light of the oncoming train. He jammed his hands in his pockets and realized he’d be doing this every day, for the rest of his life. The thought hit him like a cartoon anvil from the sky and his shoulders sagged. He no longer felt chilly. He no longer felt rushed. He no longer felt human. The train approached and stopped. The doors opened and the other commuters rushed onboard. Gerald just stood, staring down at the tracks, trapped in his shoes, unable to move. The train doors closed and the train pulled away. Gerald couldn’t escape the rest of his days. His heart, broken by the news, pulsed once and stopped. Gerald heard birds chirping and he dropped to the platform. The cold wouldn’t bother him anymore.

Everything

The entirety of human evolution and history has led up to this single moment. Our conquest of fire and then of the Earth, the wars, the scientific discoveries, all culminating in this moment of you sitting there reading this article. We have come so very far in a relatively short amount of time and what is the apex of our achievements? This. This is the penultimate in human progress.

I’m not the first to point it out I’m sure. The first person to use a typewriter probably thought, “Heck, can it get any better than this? I’m totally more awesome than the Romans”. In a way, that guy was better than the Romans, merely by being alive. For him, that was the best technology could offer and civilization reached a new high point.  Then some pervert got a hold of the technology and figured how to put ladies naked ankles on it and everything went downhill for a while. It was the Victorian age after all. (God I could go for some hot ankle right now)

I must express some usual dissention however as I just can’t believe the amazing human progress made in the last 100 years has resulted in my cubicle sitting. We can micro size the totality of a personal computer that has more computing power than all the Apollo space missions to something that fits in our pocket and yet, here I am, sitting in a cardboard and carpet cubicle answering questions about why I’m not more compassionate about your drunken driving accident.

I understand that not everyone is destined for greatness; some of us aren’t even destined for mediocrity. Human progress has determined that for great advances in our society, there has to be a worker class grinding out the day to day stuff. So in essence, history deemed my eventual role the very moment a caveman held the first flaming branch up to the sky to illuminate the dark of night. From that moment, history was set on a course to put me in this spot, right here, right now. (Not to quote Jesus Jones)  

I have the capacity to change my place in history but surely not the means as history has also decided that I am to be poor. Well, not poor. I’m not poverty stricken, but I could get there far faster than I could become financially sound. I make what is expected a cubicle worker would make less a few thousand than what you imagined, minus the few hundred you added on in your imagination to be generous. But again, the whole of human history decided what I would make the day the Americas were discovered. I’m not 100% on the math but I’m sure it has something to do with sailor’s wages.

So enjoy your place, millions came before you, striving to carve their own niche in the place carved out by the millions before them. On second thought, screw that. Perhaps we should strive for a little better than that. I’m not satisfied and neither should you be. Unless you are very happy with what you are doing. In that case then I salute you, but please sit down, you’re blocking our view of the future.