The Magic Fix-it Plant (Complete)

The Magic Fix-it Plant

       "You have got to be the most irresponsible, childish excuse for a man I've ever seen!"

Peter looks at the cold plate of congealed risotto sitting alone on the table and says nothing.

"You knew I was cooking tonight. You said you'd be home by six." Sharon glares at her husband and sniffs. "Is that beer I smell?"

"I had a rough day at work. Mr. Withers was on my ass all day." He tries for defiant, but it comes out as a whine. "I forgot. I'm sorry," he says without sounding sorry.

"It's every damn night! If you were really sorry, you'd try harder."

"Hey, I'm yelled at all day at work, so why should I rush home for more of the same?" Peter snatches his plate of cold rice and stalks down the hall.

Sharon follows. "You have a child. It's time you grew up, yourself." Her voice fades as he slams the door behind himself. Soon, the sounds of Call of Duty come through the closed door. "If you don't shape up, I'm taking Jimmy and going back to my parents," Sharon yells through the door, drowned out by the sounds of synthesized gunfire. On the other side of the door, Peter grimaces and shovels a spoonful of what was probably once a very nice mushroom risotto carelessly into his mouth.

"I'm serious, Peter. Your family needs you. This has to stop!" Her voice is shaking with anger, but she doesn't open the door.

Peter tries to focus on his game, but he can't. He's angry now, too. Everyone is just out to get me. Screw this! He throws down the controller and slams the door open.

"I don't need this. I work hard to provide for this family. I deserve some time for myself." He gathers his car keys and stomps to the door. "I'm going out." As he pulls open the car door, his wife is still yelling, "This is not how an adult behaves. You get back here."

He drives away. His friends are probably still at the bar. They'll listen to him.

It's after midnight when he parks the car askew in the driveway and stumbles into the house. The lights are off.

In the morning, he wakes on the sofa in his game room, still in the clothes he wore to work the day before. It's 9:43 AM. "Shit."

#

The employee parking lot is full. Of course it is. At nearly 11:00 in the morning, he is sure to be the last person to arrive. The old Dodge sputters unhappily to a stop as though it has no intention of ever starting again, the old engine wheezing as it cranks a few more times and dies with a cough. Swinging his legs out of the car, Peter realizes too late that his socks don't match. One dark blue and the other brown. Neither matches his shapeless grey polyester suit. Grasping his throbbing head, he thinks, is it really only Tuesday?

The boss's office overlooks the parking lot, and the boss must have been watching like a hawk because he is waiting in the doorway.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Withers. My alarm." His voice drifts off.

"Damn it, Peter. It's month-end. We've got payroll reports to get out. The Abrams account is hanging by a thread. What do you think happens to us if they miss payroll because you can't get your ass out of bed?"

Each word is an ice pick between Peter's temples.

"I know, Mr. Withers. I'm just having a rough time. Sharon is all over me for every little thing and it's screwing with my sleep."

"Let me guess, you're as useless at home as you are at work. That's not my problem. A lot of people are depending on you here. So shape up! Because if we lose Abrams there will have to be layoffs, and you can be sure where we'll start cutting."