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Wednesday, March 23 6:30 p.m.
Dave looked at the bottle in his hand. He squinted down the narrow neck into the black fluid below searching for answers. A two thousand year old bottle shouldn’t be wasted on a pity party, but rather a celebration. His head buzzed slightly. Right now, all of his area managers were quitting for the day while each supervisor was clocking in the Wednesday night shift. What did he have to do that was different from what he had ever done to get his district back on track and competitive with his peers? Tomorrow he would assemble his B.E.S.T. team and begin brainstorming. He swished the dark liquid around in a slow circle.
PAUL
Wednesday, March 23 5:12 p.m.
Paul ducked his head hard to the left, but not fast enough to evade the whole blow. Just catching a part of it was enough to stretch his jaw a few micrometers in what seemed like a lifetime. Matrix-like, the world went into slo-mo as he saw his own sweat splinter in a thousand directions. Already his left fist was three quarters en route to its mark, and a momentary sense of satisfaction swept through him as it dug up and into the softening sola plexus of his opponent. Using the body in front of him he thrust himself backwards and drew both gloved fists up in front of his exposed face. His expression went from triumph to puzzlement and then concern as the man in front of him dropped to one knee waving him off. Sammy “Samson” looked up at Paul, his eyes slightly bulging. Something wasn’t right.
“Mako!” Paul shouted, still panting from the exertion, trying desperately to be heard above the loud and unruly hubbub of gym noise. Jake Bagwell and Case Thompson were already over the ropes and bending over Samson with towels. “911, man!” Paul all but screamed, and vaulted over the ropes making a dash for the tiny office. Mako proceeded to dump the contents of his coffee mug down the front of his wife-beater when Paul charged through the door, the edge of it neatly dislodging the unsuspecting manager from his leaned-back chair. Paul almost jerked the grimy phone off the wall, his fingers punching the keys frantically, while Mako tried to make sense of what was happening. The phone started to ring and Paul looked at Mako jabbing a finger toward the gymnasium doorway. “Samson! Go!” and Mako bolted out of the office.
Paul sunk to one knee, starting to shake all over. He closed his eyes. “Dad,” he whispered. The blood pounding in his body and head was almost enough to prevent him from hearing, “911, what is your emergency?”
BOB
Wednesday, March 23 4:44 p.m.
Bob clicked his mouse hurriedly trying to close the offending windows on the computer. The carpet was so thick near the door that he had failed to hear Clausia enter. It wasn’t until he heard the tap of her heals on the custom stained and imprinted concrete that he was aware of her presence. It irritated him somehow, but he hid it well.
“Bob, sorry to interrupt, but Denton is here to go over this evening’s program with you.” Bob's eyes refocused beyond Clausia’s flawless figure to the man waiting in the adjoining office waiting room.
“Dang, Clausia! Is it that time already?” Bob exclaimed smiling, gesturing for Denton to come in. He quickly reached over to inlaid button to kill the power of the built in computer, then though better and simply reached to shut the power from the two 32 inch flat panel monitors.
“Dude!” Denton’s stride was purposeful but light as he entered Bob’s office, crossing the floor swiftly to clasp the hand of his friend. Bob clapped him across the back and both of them walked over to plop down on the leather sofa and chair in the office sitting area. The table lamp, its mahogany shaft exactly matching the end table it sat on automatically lit at the presence of the two men.
“If you guys don’t need me…” Clausia trailed off as Bob waived her the ok. Both men watched her leave.
“Here’s the final.” Denton threw the glossy sheet on to the couch next to Bob and sunk back into the chaise.
Bob picked up the program and began reading. “I think that we should kick ‘How Great is Our God’ in right after I do my intro, don’t you think? We won’t have to change the handout program, I would just like to do that for maximum effect.”
“No problem, Bro. I will make sure I upload it to the prompters so the band will know, I’ll get the sound guy to do the final tweaks and then we should all be set.” Denton took the master program from Steven’s hand and scribbled across its glossy surface. “I’ll route this back through the main frame, and have the print shop have the new one out before service tonight.” Denton stood up. “Do you mind if I use your computer?”
Bob jumped up, his heart almost in his throat, eyes darting toward the desk with its two blank monitors. “Naw, Dent, I was just getting ready to leave and head back home before the service. I was going to get Clau to lock up before I go. Would you mind doing it in your office?”
TRACY
Wednesday, March 23 3:17 p.m.
Sweat poured down Tracy’s face. In the 100-degree plus weather the torrid rays coming from the sun were doubled by those emanating from the superheated asphalt beneath her tires. All four windows were open, but it only seemed to suck the heat in while sucking the life out. Inwardly she cursed her husband for failing to get the air conditioner fixed, well, cursed him for mismanaging their finances so badly that they could not afford to have North Hills look at it and fix it. She glanced at her watch. It was three seventeen and the kids should have been milling among the line of cars being carted home from their day at school. Her face red, she felt like screaming, like laying on the horn as long as she could to produce an effluence of scrambling children, two of which she needed to get in the car, get it moving to produce at least the movement of air.
Her thoughts turned back to the air conditioner, and softened somewhat. At least this was better than being beaten. She looked at her arm resting on the steering wheel, her gaze coming to rest on scar. Subconsciously she traced its length from her hand almost to the elbow, the heat momentarily forgotten.
She couldn’t feel the shaky sobbing of the small body she was wrapped around. There was nothing but the raw smack of a clenched fist against her naked back. The dress was torn aside and already the welts were turning a sick reddish green as the pummeling continued. “Bitch, bitch, BITCH,” he screamed. She tried to make herself smaller huddling around Cynthy’s small body, a feeble attempt to protect the only thing on earth worth living or dying for. The onslaught stopped. Daring to raise her head she looked up only in time throw her hand out instinctively. She gasped as the hoodless lamp, wielded as a crude club crashed into her arm. Her eyes met the terrified, blood spattered gaze of the child she cradled. “Jesus…” she whimpered.
She heard the car in front of her start up. The children were beginning to flood into the waiting area, and she scanned the crowd for the two familiar faces. Glancing at her watch she tapped the steering wheel nervously. She just knew her boss was going to kill her.
JIMMY
Wednesday, March 23 2:54 p.m.
Jimmy awakened to the sound of the neighbor’s lawn mower. “What the heck are they doing home today?” he thought. He rolled over, squinting at the clock radio. Slowly he became conscious of the pounding in his head. It matched the beat of his heart. He settled back, seeking solace in the covers, his head filling with images, some of which seemed to coalesce and float across the red light of his closed eyelids.
Along with the visions, a voice from the past.
"Yea, this trash is great... well, except for smelling like toe cheese. That's 'cause we thought we were going to sell some to this kid down behind the Little Cricket on Beattie Street, Jermaine a.k.a. The Tire Boy, a ten year old kid who steals tires, hubcaps, and anything inside an unlocked car to support his habit -- that’s one industrious kid, and I am keeping my eye on him because he could prove to be a potential rivalry who I will have to run out of the trailer park, like I did his older sister, when she tried to bring in her own crank from those high-falutin preps from the high school -- all those jerks think that they’re better than us just because they’re mom and dads work in town in some office and they all live in the Chanticleer subdivision. I say, hell no, we got our own meth-mouths to support."
The toothless face leers for just a moment before it erupts into a bloody mist. The sound of a bullet so real that it could have happened right in the very room.
His eyes flew open. Desperately he scrubbed at them, wishing the images and noise out of his head. He sat up and reached for the … water… resting by his bed. He sipped it distastefully, much of it dribbling down the side of his face. He didn’t want to get up, but knew that he should. School would be getting out soon, and he needed to pick up Gracie. He also needed to do a few things around the house before Kathy got home. He didn’t want to cook, so it would be fast food tonight.
The thudding pound in his chest grew more pronounced standing erect. Then the pain began.
AIMEE
Wednesday, March 23 2:47 p.m.
Aimee winced. The knife bit deeper than usual, but she swooned in satisfaction as she felt the damp stickiness on her leg. It was stuffy and semi-dark in the confined space, but no one would think to look for her here. The endorphins surged through her body creating a sensation like no other. Her vision sharpened and she opened her diary for the next entry. Idly she began to read back through previous entries:
“Hello Diary: I have been cutting myself for a couple weeks now. I need to write about it. I hate it how cutters are looked down on. It’s like we’re the worst thing ever to hit the face of the earth. Stress is to hard to handle right now, and it’s like when I cut I see that someone cares. Life is like a movie and everything is passing me by, when I cut I know that I’m still alive and that this is real. I get so embarrased when people ask me about it! It’s none of there freakin’ business! Well school has been so stressing, I’m like failing all of my classes. I feel like a screw up. I’m going.
Hello again, Diary: I had to cut, it’s addicting. I’m obsessed I need it, it’s like my pill. I need it so bad to keep alive. I hurt so bad, school is horrible I feel like a reject, no one understands me. My family is like dirt poor, and don’t care about me. God I can’t live like that, like I’m not breathing anymore. I have to cut, I’m sorry I can’t stop it’s to hard eighty-two gashes and every time I do it I feel a little better
Its me again, Diary: Oh my gosh, school actually went semi-okay! Besides some people giving me weird looks I actually understood it! It was great! This deserves a celebration tonight I sneak out for a party! Yeah! Wish me luck!
My head hurts, Diary: Oh my gosh, I got trashed at that party and I don’t know what happened! I don’t know how I got home, what happened? I’ve been asking some people I know from the party but they are calling me a slut! I can’t handle this, this is so much crap! Screw them, screw school, I’m not even going to be alive by then! It doesn’t matter I HATE MY LIFE!
Sorry it’s been so long, Diary: I’ve been in and out of the hospital. That night, it was all a blur, I couldn’t take it anymore and it was like no one understood me. I feel like no one cares. It’s like I’m everyone’s little broken toy and I couldn’t take it any longer. I still can’t take it but I’m getting better, little by little. I just need someone I can tell stuff to without them telling my parents. I’m going to go write.
Diary: Crap I cut! I thought I could make it but I can’t! I can’t handle it, why does it even matter. It’s my way of healing the emotional scars! SO WHAT IF I HAVE PHYSICAL SCARS! To my parents I’m just one screw up after another, they asked me what happened to me! LIFE! LIFE HAPPENED TO ME!
Its me again, Diary: Yesterday I was really moody, I just don’t understand why it’s such a big deal. I mean they expect for me to just drop the razor and forget about cutting THEY ARE WRONG! They have taken away almost everything in the house I can use to cut. Cutting is like my friend that understands, I want to talk to them more and more because they make me feel good. Well schools been okay, I’m still failing but it doesn’t matter.
Dear Diary Dude: Hm what should I say? Today was okay. Everyone left me alone, it was lonely. It was a lonely day! I guess it’s better then the stares, yeah well that’s basically it. My stomach hurts though.
Aimee put her pen on the blood flecked paper and began to write:
Diary, I really don’t know what to do…
HYSSOP
Wednesday, March 23 2:23 p.m.
Dave stared at the cracked plaster in chagrin. It would be hard to explain away to a sudden visitor, and he was not in the mood to have to lie his way out of this one. He went to his desk, pulled out a paperclip and made a crude hook. Picking up the “Employee of the Quarter” plaque on his desk, the one with both a hook to hang and a prop to set up, he returned to the wall, pushed the paperclip into the wall above the fist imprinted drywall and hung the plaque on the hook. It sagged slightly and listed to the side, but it would be enough to hold it. He straightened it momentarily, and drew his breath in sharp and deep.
His fists still clenched, he returned to his desk and sat down.
The meeting had not gone well. He picked up the offending piece of paper and gazed through it, finally focusing on the words at the top. “Performance Improvement Plan. (PIP).” Everyone in the company knew that this was a prelude to being fired--just the necessary documentary steps. The first part was the usual company drivel. “Team Member Deal,” was the heading followed by:
If you:
Become and remain effective in your job responsibilities
“Wow” your customers
Help us grow and improve our business
Work together
We will:
Invest in your growth and development
Reward you fairly for your contribution
Provide a respectful, caring leadership team and working environment
Partner with you to realize your potential.
“Riiight,” Dave sighed wryly, and then felt the bile rising once again in his throat along with bubbling rage.
He looked down again at the paper and lightened his grip on the crumpling sheet. Stuffing it in his pocket he straightened the papers on his desk, punched the intercom key muttering that he would be gone for the rest of the afternoon, and stormed out of his office without listening to the reply.
Dave stared at the cracked plaster in chagrin. It would be hard to explain away to a sudden visitor, and he was not in the mood to have to lie his way out of this one. He went to his desk, pulled out a paperclip and made a crude hook. Picking up the “Employee of the Quarter” plaque on his desk, the one with both a hook to hang and a prop to set up, he returned to the wall, pushed the paperclip into the wall above the fist imprinted drywall and hung the plaque on the hook. It sagged slightly and listed to the side, but it would be enough to hold it. He straightened it momentarily, and drew his breath in sharp and deep.
His fists still clenched, he returned to his desk and sat down.
The meeting had not gone well. He picked up the offending piece of paper and gazed through it, finally focusing on the words at the top. “Performance Improvement Plan. (PIP).” Everyone in the company knew that this was a prelude to being fired--just the necessary documentary steps. The first part was the usual company drivel. “Team Member Deal,” was the heading followed by:
If you:
Become and remain effective in your job responsibilities
“Wow” your customers
Help us grow and improve our business
Work together
We will:
Invest in your growth and development
Reward you fairly for your contribution
Provide a respectful, caring leadership team and working environment
Partner with you to realize your potential.
“Riiight,” Dave sighed wryly, and then felt the bile rising once again in his throat along with bubbling rage.
He looked down again at the paper and lightened his grip on the crumpling sheet. Stuffing it in his pocket he straightened the papers on his desk, punched the intercom key muttering that he would be gone for the rest of the afternoon, and stormed out of his office without listening to the reply.
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