‘Some days’ whimpered Jay to herself, ‘Some days you ought to be allowed to hit the delete button, call up a clean template and begin again.’

On the outside, a smart and confident business suit, a smart and confident business smile. Inside, life unraveling fast. Lying in tattered shreds at her feet, more like.

It was one of those Mondays.

And it had started as it meant to go on.

Within thirty seconds of the alarm’s rude awakening, Jay had knocked the half-full water-glass from the night-stand in a rainbow cascade, skidded on last night’s discarded underwear, and first frozen then scalded herself in the shower. Her foot had gone straight through the pantyhose. Spraying on deodorant had done nothing for her hair. And now the news was warning of major delays on the freeway.

Abandoning hopes of a wholesome breakfast, she grabbed the car-keys and hurried out. So much for a refreshing weekend with friends. Stepping over its crumbling ruins, Jay exited the flat and lurched into the working week.

Some days her desk was an oasis. Today – well, desert storm would be a better description, Jay thought grimly. Her temples throbbed with the phone’s every ring. Her heart thumped as each incoming email proclaimed its arrival. Her ears roared with the unrelenting hum and buzz and whirr of lap-top, printer, copier, air-con, worse than breakers pounding any beach.

But that was not the problem. Nor was the effect of a third coffee on an empty stomach – that vague nausea and galloping non-specific anxiety were old companions.

The problem was the team.

It had begun the moment she arrived. Jo and Mary had stopped in mid-conversation, and, before awkwardly moving apart, looked embarrassedly towards her.

That was it – towards her, but not at her. No-one would catch her eye. They were deliberately avoiding her, avoiding making any contact, avoiding being drawn into any real-live-human encounter.

Sadie who worked in the outer office and was usually good for sharing juicy gossip, was no better – feigning phone calls whenever Jay passed. Even The Boss – Jocular James – a man possessed of considerable charm, and unremittingly polite even in the most stressful situations, somehow had succumbed to the festering contagion infecting her colleagues. He was positively stand-offish when she took her paperwork through to him.

Was it something she had said? Or done? Jay wracked her brains. No, there was no acrid sharpness of animosity hanging in the air. Rather, it was the peculiarly alienating degradation of being excluded from some glorious private joke, shared only among the blessed cognoscenti. Beyond that privileged inner circle, those damned to ignorance could only wait in humility and humiliation.

‘Stuff that.’ Jay had had enough. She nurtured her resentment, cradling it close, feeding it every juicy morsel of perceived slight, and apparent snub.

Noon passed, and when she returned from the washroom to discover that the whole team had suddenly and simultaneously disappeared, the grown beast within unfurled its wings and took flight.

She felt strangely free as she surveyed the empty office. Nothing too obvious. Nothing too immediate. But she would surely show every last one that she, Jay Greenwood, could not be so insulted. She alone would know, and revenge would be very, very, sweet.

James first. Top right-hand drawer. ‘Emergency tie’ for seeing clients. An elegant weave – a worthy sacrifice on her altar of vengeance. She unscrewed the top of the correction fluid just enough to allow a slow viscous ooze, laid the pot gently upon the silken trophy and slid the drawer shut.

Sadie next. Ah yes – her precision-filed customer contact details. Jay picked a random half dozen and redistributed them freely among the alphabet. Half way to Jo’s desk, she turned back, chose another three cards, and slipped them down between the cabinet and wall. It would take some time to find those, she chuckled.

Glee was rising now. Mary’s personal sugar bowl. From the depths of her purse, Jay excavated a salt packet from last week’s take-away, sprinkled in the contents, and gave a quick stir. Would Mary ever realize why her coffee never quite tasted right?

Then Jo, obsessed with her latest Nikes, bought for her long commute. Jay carefully sliced half way through one lace, positioning the cut invisibly beneath an eyelet. Sooner or later it would give way, and Jo would inevitably regale them all with the great inconvenience (oh, please, let it be great indeed) of that moment.

Job done, Jay left the building with a spring in her step, in search of a sandwich.

Returning, she emerged from the elevator to find balloons, flowers, cake, singing.

‘You didn’t think we’d forget your birthday?!’ exclaimed Jo, enveloping her with a warm hug and kiss.

‘No’ thought Jay in silent screaming horror, ‘Not you – you didn’t forget.’

I am a teacher. My heart aches daily for what I see in my classroom. In order to protect those who should have been protected long before I came along, I’ve changed the details, but not the general idea, of what happened one Monday.

During English class, we discussed discrimination. I invited a guest into my classroom to talk about her own memories of segregation, and I offered the students a choice between two writing assignments: Write about how it would have felt to live in a segregated world, or tell about a time you’ve been discriminated against.

When a foster child, who is in foster care because of the unspeakable horrors inflicted on him, asks if you’ll show his writing to anyone, it should send up a red flag. In a way, I think I knew what I was going to get on his paper. I also knew that there were numerous counselors paraded through this child’s life, and nothing that he could put on paper would be news to me. I’d sat through long, horrible meetings detailing his past on more than one occasion.

Just because something isn’t news, doesn’t mean it can’t hurt you. If you had a dog when you were little, and the dog died twenty years ago, it doesn’t mean it still doesn’t hurt a bit when you see a child with the same breed of dog. Just because you heard that there was a hurricane in the Southern United States, doesn’t mean that it doesn’t jar you a bit to see pictures of the utter devastation left behind.

The first sentence went through me like a bullet: “I was discriminated against by my family because they hurt me and not my brothers.” It got worse. These are the kinds of things that make the news, on the back pages, in articles only a paragraph or two long. They’re not in the back because they’re unimportant, but rather, because nobody is comfortable reading them. Nobody wants to know about the mother that beats her kids, or the man who molested his neighbors’ children, or the father who starved his daughters. Nobody wants to know about the monsters that lurk among us and prey on our children. Yet here, in crooked handwriting and smudged pencil, was a first hand testament of the kinds of things that we’re so much more comfortable with when they’re hidden in the back pages of the newspapers.

I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t vomit. I couldn’t cling to this child and promise that nobody would ever hurt him again. I could only sit, stunned, and wish the world away so I could react.

I don’t remember much else about the day. I’m sure I taught something, somewhere along the line. All I know is that when I got home, I held my own children and sobbed.

I love Mondays.

I don’t often admit this, since I know that such a confession is grounds for instant institutionalization. But I can’t help it. The weekend always leaves me rested and rejuvenated, ready to take on the world.

Today was no exception. I woke up five minutes before my alarm went off, wide awake and rarin’ to go. An hour later I turned into the parking garage at work, all set to annoy my coworkers with a big dose of Monday-morning cheerfulness.

As I pulled up to the entrance, I grabbed my access badge, my mind on my 9:00 meeting. Distracted, I dropped it – between the driver's seat and the door. Conscious of the cars waiting behind me, I reached down to grab it. But it was gone.

I ran my hand back and forth, searching for the elusive card, but it was nowhere to be found. Suddenly, I heard a loud click. I hadn’t found my card, but I had managed to trigger the trunk release. Silently praying that the driver behind me hadn’t noticed the trunk pop open, I desperately continued my search.

Had it somehow slid under my seat? I leaned hard to the left in an effort to grope underneath me. The loud thump I heard coincided with my head smashing into the side window. Giving up on the runaway card, I pulled a ticket and prayed that I had enough change in the ashtray to pay the daily fee.

As the crossbar rose, I drove into the garage, grateful to put an end to that “episode.” I went up a level to my usual spot and prepared to back in. Deftly cutting off the driver behind me, I lined up for my final approach and put the car into reverse.

Halfway into the space, my vision was blocked as a large black object flew upwards. Belatedly, I remember the loud click that had signaled the release of my trunk latch. I looked at the line of cars now waiting for me to get out of the way and briefly considered backing up blind. Then I remembered the thirty foot drop just beyond the parking space.

Waving apologetically, I hurried around the car and slammed the trunk shut. Jumping back in, I barely got into my space before the first car in line shot around me, missing my front bumper by inches.

I was feeling slightly frazzled by this point, but by the time I’d walked into the building I could feel my Monday morning mood returning. I greeted the guards with a smile and wasn’t surprised when they gave me a puzzled look. After all, most people dread Mondays.

I was still smiling when I reached the elevators. Five or six other people were already waiting, and not looking too happy about it, either. Like the guards, they seemed suspicious of my cheerful attitude and kept giving me furtive glances. Finally, a woman approached me.

“Excuse me,” she said. “But you seem to have a parking card sticking out of your pants.”

Startled, I glanced down at my feet. Sure enough, there was my elusive card, stuck in the cuff of my pants. Laughing, I reached down to retrieve it.

About half way there, I noticed that there was something wrong with my shoes. Technically, there wasn’t anything wrong with them. I was wearing one very fashionable black shoe and one very fashionable blue shoe. Side by side, my feet looked like a giant bruise.

At that moment, the elevator opened and I rushed in, hiding in the corner and hoping that nobody would look down and notice my shoes.

Ha.

Fifteen floors later, I fled the elevator for the safety and anonymity of my cube. Hiding my feet under my desk, I desperately tried to recapture my Monday high. The new department executive vice president was coming down from New York for my 9:00 meeting, and I wanted to make sure that I made a lasting first impression.

Watching everybody else drag themselves into the office gradually cheered me up. At 8:55, I left my cube and headed for the conference room. I was determined that not even my mismatched feet would ruin my Monday.

As I approached the conference room, I could hear the other attendees chatting. I instantly recognized the authoritative voice of the new executive.

“…couldn’t find her parking badge. Then, to top it off, she somehow managed to pop open the trunk while trying to back into a parking place! The idiot had to get out of the car to close it, while the rest of the building had to sit and wait for her. It’s amazing that some people are allowed to drive, let alone work in corporate environment.”

I love Mondays.

Dwayne impatiently checked his watch for a third time in ten minutes. How could she let me down? And today of all days…

Indeed, Jill had been Dwayne’s faithful secretary for nearly twelve years. She had patiently served him as business grew and was there when he sold his first million-dollar home. Recently, Dwayne had trusted her with more responsibilities. He taught her how to update his web site and encouraged her to accompany him on a few showings. Today he was going to teach her how to shoot “virtual tours.”

Dwayne checked his handheld to make sure he had the right date. Yep, it’s Monday the 30th. She should be here…

Dwayne had rented a small office immediately after he passed his Real Estate exams. At first his plans were humble, choosing to focus only on the immediate neighborhood. Business was slow so he tried going door-to-door, introducing himself to the families who lived nearby. Eventually his friendly style won people over and he began getting referrals. Soon, he had more work than he could handle. He didn’t want a “partner,” but had to admit he needed some help. Word got out that he was looking for a secretary.

Dwayne flipped open his cell phone and checked for messages. Nothing. Where could she be?

When Jill had first walked into his office, Dwayne immediately began fantasizing about the incredible commission he was going to make on such a sophisticated client. His initial hopes were dashed when he learned she was only a housewife looking for part-time employment. But his disappointment didn’t last when he realized that having such a beautiful secretary would be a boon to his business.

When Jill finally arrived, her right hand was bandaged and she was carrying her shoes.

“What happened to you?” Dwayne asked as she trudged up the front walk.

“Sorry I’m late,” Jill answered. “Mitch wanted to have a ‘talk’ and I couldn’t get him to shut up. When I finally told him I had to leave, he grabbed me.” Jill held up her bandaged hand. “I don’t think it’s broke, but I worry what I’m going to find when I get back this evening.”

“I don’t know why you insist on staying with him,” Dwayne said.

“Don’t start, Dwayne,” Jill snapped. “Let’s just get to work.”

For years Jill had filled Dwayne with stories of her marital woes. Jill and Mitch were married immediately after he got a basketball scholarship. Jill moved with him to Columbia, hoping to get her journalism degree. But before long, Mitch’s partying got him kicked off the team. Eventually they both dropped out of school and their only source of income was Jill’s meager salary. But lately, Mitch’s drinking began taking up more and more of that money. She had asked him to leave on many occasions, but always asked him to return.

“Okay,” Dwayne relented. “Let’s start in the back room and work our way forward.”

The house they were shooting had been empty for several weeks. But Dwayne knew it had potential. It was nicely maintained and the nursery had a cute border of rainbows and ducks. As Jill began setting up the tripod, Dwayne rattled off several tips for optimizing the shoot. It took him a moment to realize, but he eventually noticed that she had stopped paying attention. In fact, she was just staring at the walls with a misty-eyed look.

“Jill,” he ventured. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she said absently. “Are we done with this room?”

They moved on to the master bedroom. “This is one of the most important rooms in the whole house,” Dwayne began to explain. “When people see it on the web, we want them to immediately feel comfortable. The photos should convey a sense of warmth and security.”

And with this, Jill began to sob. She just stood in the middle of the room and let the tears roll down her cheeks and splash onto the polished wood floors.

“What did I say?” Dwayne asked, truly perplexed. But Jill continued to cry. He had always thought of her as headstrong, but now she seemed so vulnerable. He reached out to give her a hug.

Jill responded eagerly to Dwayne’s comforting touch and nestled affectionately into his arms. But when she looked up into his face, she saw a confused and questioning look.

She broke away and in a rage she slammed the camera and tripod to the floor.

“What the…” Dwayne sputtered.

“Oh, God!” Jill exclaimed. “I’m so sorry.” And she rushed out of the room and down the hall. Dwayne heard the bathroom door slam and the lock firmly engage.

“It’s okay, Jill,” he said, standing outside the bathroom. “Come on out, it will be okay.” But all he heard were her continuing sobs.

It was the first day of Summer vacation. Aimee kissed her husband before shutting the door behind him, and turned to the two children sitting on the carpet watching cartoons. She was determined to have a good day. She owed it to Rob. His ex-wife had been hesitant to allow him custody of the boys over the summer, knowing that it was going to be Aimee watching them most of the time while he worked. Aimee had very little experience with children, despite being a teacher. She taught middle schoolers. There was a huge difference between twelve-year-olds and toddlers.

The day went fairly well, until shortly after ten. That’s when Aimee discovered the silver bead on the floor. Bobby, the three-year-old, was busy coloring, and Joseph, the baby, was cutting teeth on some sort of stick he’d discovered. Aimee went to pick it up the little bead, and was surprised when it fell apart into several smaller beads. Even stranger was that it had no feel to it. Touching it had been like touching an illusion. She tried touching one of the smaller beads, and it skittered across the carpet’s surface to join with another one.

Some memory ticked at the back of Aimee’s mind. It wasn’t until she noticed that Joseph had the remains of a thermometer in his mouth when it hit her: Mercury.

Aimee was torn. She had a baby with broken glass in his mouth, a dangerous chemical on the carpet, and as she looked around frantically for help, saw that Bobby had transitioned his artwork from paper to wall. She gently pried Joseph’s mouth open and took the pieces of thermometer from him, then shoved him in his walker and carried him, legs dangling below the wheels, to the kitchen. An angry wail rose out of him.

“Bobby, quit coloring on the wall! Go in the kitchen and find your brother something to chew on!” When someone is desperate, they don’t always think clearly, and Aimee was very desperate. She tried to remember what she knew about mercury, gave up, and called poison control instead.

A very nice lady walked Aimee through the steps of cleaning up her carpet. Mercury beads were now skittering along the bottom of an old baby food jar, that for some reason had been in with Bobby’s art supplies. She walked into the kitchen, and immediately wanted to cry.

A thick white powder covered the kitchen floor and the baby. Joseph blinked up at her with clumped eyelashes, and grinned, showing off his two teeth and a mouth full of the white crud. Bobby was unloading the dishwasher and shoving everything from it into the bottom cabinets.

Aimee hadn’t ran the dishwasher yet that morning.

She ran a finger through the powder and took an experimental taste. Coffee creamer. Not wanting to touch the sticky baby, she wrapped him in a towel before tucking him under one arm. She grabbed his brother with the other, and dragged both of them to the bathroom. She didn’t even undress them first, she simply turned on the sprayer and hosed them down. Milky white water ran down the drain. Once the water ran clear, she undressed the boys, hosed them some more, and then realized she didn’t have towels for them, or clean clothes, or new diapers. Making sure there was no water in the tub for the baby to drown in, she darted off to the laundry room.

When she returned, Bobby was nowhere in sight. Joseph was splashing in a yellow puddle he’d made while she was gone. Aimee yelled frantically for the older boy as she tried not to gag and rinsed off Joseph again. She stuffed him into a footed sleeper, and decided it was nap time, whether he wanted it or not. She found Bobby in her bedroom, with a bottle of cough syrup. Child-proof, was, apparently, not Bobby-proof.

Aimee debated calling Poison Control again. Then she decided against it. If Bobby drank cough syrup, she’d at least get a longer nap out of him. She resolved herself to check on him every five minutes once he laid down, and then drug him to the bathroom to rinse the sticky syrup off of him.

Ten minutes later, Aimee sat back down on the couch. There was crayon on the wall and coffee creamer to clean up, but right now, she just needed a break. At least the day was halfway done, she thought glancing at the clock.

It was 11:05.

Aimee called Rob and begged him to come home early. While she was waiting, she thumbed through the yellow pages looking for daycares.

Ok. I’m late. It’s 9:17 a.m. Monday; I thought I’d put stuff in the dryer last night, but I didn’t so I put on the shirt I wore to work last Friday, then the neighbor’s dog jumps up on me, but I'm already late so . . .

James lunges at me as I walk into our cubicle.

“Have you heard?”

“What?”

“That book--that canary in the doghouse thing—they want it.

“But Samuels gave it back to me; he said it was lame.”

“I know, but he was just down here looking for you. I guess he told Murphy about it at golf Friday afternoon and Murphy says, ‘Hey I like it. I want it—sight unseen.’ He thinks the concept’s a winner. So Mickey, this is huge for you; I mean, you pulled the thing out of the slush pile and went with it.”

James doesn’t even sound jealous. He’s like that. Two of us interns: same time, same job—and only one editorial assistant will actually be hired—the guy who “discovers” books which actually end up getting printed.

“Samuels said to get the manuscript to him asap,” James says.

“Oh, man—of all days for me to be late.” I pull open my file drawer and then I remember.

“I don’t have it.”

“What?”

“I threw it out.”

“You’re kidding,” James says.

“I am not kidding. When Samuels shot me down. I just tossed it.”

“Ok, ok not to panic. Just call the guy. Have him e-mail it.”

“What guy?”

“You don’t remember the guy’s name?” James is incredulous.

“I don’t know, I don’t know—it was something like Prather or Pather or something?”

“Where does he live?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You know, man, maybe you deserve to be blowing this,” James says.

“No, wait, I remember now. I looked it up to see if Quitman, Mississippi was really a town.

“Ok, I’ll get the number for you,” James says.

Two minutes later, a male voice answers.

“Ok, so Mr. Prather,” I say. “Here’s what happened--they like your book, but at first they didn’t so I threw it out but now they like it so this could be very cool but you have to e-mail me the book.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “I would not have read a handwritten manuscript, Mr. Prather. . . Oh, the librarian typed it up for you--good, good. Then just get her to e-mail us a copy.”

“She what? She typed it on an electric typewriter? I see. So, after she typed it up, did she make a copy? Yes, like on the Xerox machine. Good, good. Well, you’ll just have to fax it—I’ll pay for it. . . No fax machines in Quitman—none in all of Clark County that you know of, uh, huh. Ok . . . well—“

Samuels walks in.

“I’ll take over this call for you, Mickey,” James says grabbing the phone. “I will make this happen.”

“Ok,” Samuels says to me. “Murphy’s having one of his read-alongs. You’ve got eleven minutes to get up there. He wants you reading from that abomination—uh, you got a change of clothes here?”

I shake my head and he calls up for Suzanne to bring down a clean shirt and tie from his closet.

Suzanne! Man, I’ve been trying for weeks to get up the nerve to ask her out. And now I’m standing here in a filthy shirt and a mud-splashed tie being yelled at when she walks in wearing some dynamite red dress and I say

“Thanks, Cathy, I really appreciate it.”

As soon as it’s was out of my mouth, I’m like--Cathy—I can’t believe I called her that . . .

Samuels rolls his eyes. “SUZANNE, I think you meant,” he says, “has the code for the penthouse elevator. She’ll wait for you.”

She follows me to the men’s room and stands next to the door. I think, “this is about as much humiliation as I can take,” but, of course, it isn’t.”

Because for some reason I take the shirt and tie into the stall with me, and when I unzip my pants, I drop them both.

So here I am in a stall with a dripping tie I just fished out of the toilet, supposedly on my way to a presentation with the Big Boss which could make or break my first real job--with nothing at all to present, while the girl of my dreams decides to write off a guy whose boss has to tell him to wash up and who calls her by his ex-girlfriend’s name.

This has probably been the longest day of my life. I look at my watch; it’s 9:53.

“And another thing, I’m really going to need these reports in by Friday. You don’t mind do you? I mean, that gives you all week. It’s just Monday.”

The words spilled forth from the man’s mouth as Brad stared blankly. The boss. Big kahuna. Numero uno. The man with the plan. A portion of his mind, determined to preserve a desire to be left alone, neglected to capture most of the words.

“I knew I could count on you. I see great things ahead.” Brad nodded back mechanically, his attention focused on the monolith now situated by his keyboard, a tower measuring exactly 8.5” x 11” at the base. "Here’s to you, architects of the world," he thought. Brad savored his own joke, and limply gestured with his mug in a toast. His wrist bumped into the cubicle wall, and he could only watch helplessly as the steaming liquid cascaded out of the jostled container. Only mothers can comfort those in such pain.

“Son-of-a!” The rest was lost in a storming tirade as he stood up, waving and fanning his lap – a corporate jungle native lost in the dark ancestral rhythms of a burning coffee dance. Coworkers peered over their office fences, the urge to assist suddenly stifled by whatever tasks they could hurry themselves with; their eyes quickly lowered in deference.

“The cleaners won’t take a check,” she’d reminded him. “Honey, I’ll just pick up my extra suit on the 14th then…it’s not like I can’t live without some spare clothes at work. I’ll be fine.” His notion to run the errand had been lost somewhere in between his son’s karate class and a pit stop for eggs and milk.

After waddling to the haven of the men’s room for a sponging, he returned to his workstation and composed himself. His eyes moved down and his attention focused on his watch. 4:07. What did that mean? Oh-seven. 4:07? “THE MEETING!”

Hands scrambled for papers, a mental checklist being tallied within the confines of his psyche as he tried to prepare himself. The papers, a pen, a pad, the chart, where’s the chart?! A moment later, all well with the world, he and his effects were on the first elevator going up.

From this height, the elevator afforded a luxurious view – one had only to gaze out to escape the insanity. He looked out over the boulevard, his concentration scurrying between the taxis, vendors, and the passerby, ants dressed from every cornerstone of life. Sunlight kissed his body. A chime awakened him from his daydream, and he glanced once again at his watch before stepping off the elevator. 4:17. “I’m just going to waltz into that boardroom like I’m the man of the hour. Late, but present. Nothing to beat myself up over.” It sounded good, but his anxieties consumed him nonetheless. One step at a time, he made his way to the oak pull-door, and held his head high before entering….to nothing. No glances, no lights, no chastising. No meeting. “Wrong Monday…” he thought.

I like to think that I am an easy-going man. I don’t ask for much; a roof over my head, some food in my belly and a steady paycheck.

So when I woke up on Monday morning to the small black form of my cat purring while sitting on my chest and staring at me with bright eyes, I was content. Then she sneezed, not once but three times. It was an almost cute sound; a brief, repeated and delicate exhalation.

Yes it was adorable, however it was also juicy, and her sneezes covered my face in a fine spray of cat snot.

Not being one to over react, I calmly set the cat aside, ripped off the warm covers and screamed like a little girl who had just lost her favorite doll. On the way to the bathroom, while still screaming and trying to wipe away the sputum my cat had so lovingly spread across my face, I misjudged my approach and ran smack into the bathroom doorframe.

One of the things that I consider wonderful about being alive in this time is that we have learned to multitask. So as I stood in front of the mirror admiring my newest anatomical feature; an egg-sized lump and red mark smack in the middle of my forehead, I was also simultaneously trying to brush my teeth, get a handle on my unruly hair and scrape dried cat mucus off of my face.

Somehow in a blur, I managed to make it to work, where I ran in and quickly sat down at my cramped three-sided cubical. I found it disappointing that Richard was in. Richard was a man whom evolution forgot. I know this because on his desk is a picture of him on some beach with his huge belly hanging over an alarmingly small thong swimsuit. I am not sure but I think he has hair in places where baboons don’t. Speaking of baboons I am sure that they are smarter and smell less than Richard does too. However the aforementioned baboons are not my boss’s son-in-law, so they don’t work here. It’s a pity since I would have enjoyed their company more than Richard’s.

After working for about five minutes I heard a loud ripping noise from the other side of the cubical wall. The said noise was immediately followed by an almost childish giggle. While I was wondering what the sound could have been, the rancid smell of rotten fish with a delicate touch of sulfured eggs, descended upon me like the hand of Death incarnate and almost seized my heart as well as my lungs.

Pushing my chair back, I leaned past the wall to yell at Richard. I found him with a sausage-sized finger shoved so far up his nose he should have been lobotomizing himself. Alas, that weak and dim light of cognizance remained in his eyes. He laughed when he turned and saw my discomfort.

I was speechless, not because I was angry, which I was, but because somehow through that fog of death he had released, I could still manage to smell his body odor.

I rolled back to my desk and began to work once more. Approximately three minutes later Richard turned on his MP3 player. My already aching head throbbed in time with the incredibly loud bass. The haunting lyric was about some urban youth's woman--here he used the female dog term--who seemed to have stolen his crack money. He felt he should tell her that although his heart remained hers forever, he would now have to put a bat upside her head. Isn’t that lovely?

This Monday was getting worse and I could feel my anger rising. Later when Richard leaned over to brag about the promotion he had received, I flipped my proverbial lid. Slamming my hands down on my desk, I screamed at Richard, “You worthless sack of excrement. You inhuman waste of skin, the only reason you HAVE a job is because your head is so far up your father-in-law's butt you can probably lick his spleen. You are the only person I know of that is more vile than him. You two make a great pair. You are both wallowing morons, who don't realize how revolting they really are. I swear the only reason that ugly cow you married sticks with you, is because you remind her of her father. I almost didn’t believe it possible that a woman could be that ugly, until I saw the parents she came from.”

When I saw Richard start to laugh, I knew what was going on. His father-in-law; my boss, had walked up right behind me. Without even bothering to turn around I said, “No need to call security, I’ll pack my things.”

I was sitting in one of those ultra-modern waiting-for-the-bus kiosks in a pouring rain. Three sides, paneled in cheap plastic, were opaque with dew and heavy drops slid down leaving little runways, markers to their demise on the cement floor. It was not particularly cold, in fact it was one of those humid, mid-50's, so-called winter days. Drivers by didn't know whether to turn on the heater at a low temperature or the air conditioner. They did know, however, that all the windows of their cars were fogged up.

The light at my corner cycled red and the early morning commuters sloshily stopped. The passenger of a green Pinto placed her fingers at the top of her cloudy window and pulled them down, as if scraping them on a blackboard. I saw one eye peering through the slit created by the first finger. As the Pinto pulled away, the fingers started on the far side of the window, making a waffle design.

Shortly, a young couple sat down beside me on the bench. Their faces revealed nothing. As if they had just been created; pulled out of the oven and thrust into public and didn't know enough yet about smiles or speech. Manners. I nodded to them. He stared for a moment, then turned away. She didn't even look.

As luck would have it, my new kiosk bunkmates' bus arrived first. They rose, stepped up into the bus and sat near the front. Not bothering to wipe away the crud on the window and bid me farewell. Newborns are like that. Some call them a*****es. Not me. No. Not me.

The humidity had me sweating and cool at the same time. My skin felt like a raw oyster tastes. At least I think that's good description. Hot, cold, sweaty, slimy, and clammy. You know.

The light turned red again. The car directly in front of me was an old Mercedes. The passengers window gradually became clear in the middle as the woman wiped her hand in cirlces. She looked at me, then at the dreary sight of the bus stop. She leaned in close to the window, and I thought she was going to mouth something to me. 'Hello', or something. She inhaled deeply, opened her mouth wide and exhaled onto the window, re-fogging it quickly. The light turned green and they sped off. I thought about it for a moment, looked at the rear window, fogged up as well, and hoped she could see me.

"Scre you, too." I said quietly.

Jerry tore open the pink packet of sugar substitute and emptied it into his mug, lightly dusting the pile of powered creamer already resting on the bottom. Holding the cup up the spout of the carafe, he pushed down on the lever, dispensing a stream of hot coffee. The brew mixed with the other two ingredients, forming a light brown concoction. As Jerry prepared the day’s first cup of coffee, Andrew passed by the doorway to the break room.

“Have a good weekend, Jerry?”

“Hmmph!”

That about summed it up for Jerry. Hmmph. Actually, the weekend was much like every other weekend. He spent all day Saturday and the early part of Sunday performing various tasks around the house: yard work, cleaning, minor repairs, bills, and any number of other chores. The difference came Sunday night. Jerry didn’t mind giving his all on the weekend, as long as he could wind down Sunday night in front of the television with a couple of DVD’s and a Budweiser. But last night wasn’t any Sunday night. It was Halloween.

Now, Jerry held no animosity toward the holiday itself. He just didn’t want to be caught up in all the Trick-or-Treat activities. Therefore, he never bought any candy and always kept his porch light off, which was the universal sign for “No candy. Don’t bother knocking. Just go away!” Still, a few ghouls and ghosts ignored the warning and knocked anyway, requiring Jerry to pause his movie, answer the door and disappoint the youth with the bad news.

Despite all this, however, Halloween did have one thing going for it. Left over candy! The day after Halloween always produced a glorious feast for Jerry. Everyone in the office would bring in their surplus candy and offer it up to the masses by placing it in a large plastic bowl. The bowl would sit in the break room, a communal stockpile free for the taking. While the majority of the goodies were off-brand lollipops and hard candies, a fair amount of chocolates could be found in the hoard. Hershey’s miniatures, individually wrapped Mounds and Almond Joys, bite-sized Peanut Butter Cups. But Jerry’s favorite were the Kit Kat’s. Was it any wonder they were shaped like little elongated chocolate bars of gold? Rather fitting, he thought, for the crème-de-la . . .

Jerry stared at the empty table. No bowl of candy. No miniature chocolate delights. Not even a crumpled wrapper. Nothing.

“This isn’t right,” he thought. Never in ten year’s with the company has Jerry’s chocolate lust gone unfulfilled the day after Halloween. Why was this year different? Did everyone suddenly become stingy? This just simply wouldn’t do! He wouldn’t let them get away with this!

Clutching his coffee, Jerry stormed out of the break room in the direction of his cubicle. He wanted to yell at someone. He wanted to hit something. But being a small, unassuming man, he was not prone to outbursts or violence. That wasn’t his way, nor would inflicting harm to a co-worker be wise. Instead, he opted to rely on less destructive means. He would thrash them with the written word!

Finally reaching his workstation, Jerry accessed the company’s email system.

TO: ALL EMPLOYEES
SUBJECT: WHERE THE HELL’S THE CANDY?

IN PREVIOUS YEARS, EMPLOYEES WHO CHOSE TO HAND
OUT CANDY ON HALLOWEEN HAVE BROUGHT IN THE
LEFT OVERS TO SHARE. IF YOU ARE NEW, UNDERSTAND
THIS IS TO EXPECTED OF YOU IN THE FUTURE. IF
YOU’RE NOT NEW, WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOU THIS
YEAR!

DON’T TELL ME YOU HANDED IT ALL OUT. DID YOU
EAT IT ALL, YOU PIGS! ARE YOU HOARDING IT ALL
FOR YOURSELVES, YOU SELFISH B@STARDS!

I’M GIVING YOU 24 HOURS TO CORRECT THIS MISTAKE.
BY TOMORROW MORNING AT 9:00 I EXPECT TO SEE A
BOWL FULL OF CANDY IN THE BREAKROOM. IF YOU
DON’T HAVE ANY LEFT OVER, GO OUT AND BUY SOME.

AND THERE BETTER BE SOME KIT KAT’S, OR ELSE
SOMEBODY MIGHT GET HURT.

EOM