Flyover City! A Novel (with Superheroes)

36. Help Wanted

It's three in the morning. In just a few more hours, the sun will rise on the most important day of my entire life. I have to be at my best. Better than that, better than I've ever been before. I'm searching for an analog; something out of my own life that I can compare it to - however remotely. 

Last year, on an otherwise completely uneventful evening, I bowled the first, the only, 300 of my life. Spliff was late, because he agreed to help these two underage girls look for a rave that they ultimately never found. So it was just me and the early-rush drunks, who wouldn't have cared, even if I unzipped my pants to mow the pins down with a laser-precise stream of urine. No matter - and no 'mind' (see what I did there? The 'Lama - he'd appreciate that). The ball, the pins, the Joel - a unified symphony, calling one-perfect note into existence, as if...

(...)

Alright, yes. Yes, that really is all I could come up with. 

I am So. Fucked.

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Twelve hours, six vodka tonics and one-whole lifetime ago, I found Tim in his office, clutching his hands to the edge of his desk, the way you would a toilet seat at the end of a long, sad night.

"Oh - you're here already. Little early...." he squinted hard at his watch, like he was trying to stop the flow of time.

"Maybe a hundred and twenty seconds, I guess. Can I close this?" 

"No!" he yelped, snapping up from his chair, "No, really busy today. Not a lot of time. To talk." He approached, edging me away from door. He glanced outside, then threw in another "Busy" for good measure.

"Alright, but there's some things I wanted to talk about, too."

"Well. Yes, we do have some things to talk about," He was cordial, but curt. Stern but apologetic. And staring out the door the whole time. "your sick day a couple weeks ago..."

"My vacation day. Yeah?"

"Your vacation day was Thursday... you called in sick on Friday."

"Yeah, right. Whew. Goin' around. Call centers, man... one big giant petri dish." Stupid Buddhist ritual that can only be performed with the rising sun. "Maybe I should start taking some vitamin C." I nodded at the pharmacy's-worth of bottles filling the cabinet above his monitor. 

"Alright, " he said, hopping over my transparent segue, "the thing is, that's considered a 'no-call, no-show'. Plus a tardy last month. Together with your write-up..."

"Write-up? But that was forever ago -"

"I know," he said sympathetically, "I know it was. And you've been doing really well on your calls lately..."

"Thanks. I promise I'll - "

"...but I'm afraid we're going to have to let you go."

I was halfway through my next apology before it registered. "Wait, hold on... you're firing me?"

"I know. I'm really sorry, but it's not my decision..."

"Oh, really? Well who's 'decision' is it then? Huh? Let me guess...straight from the top?" I said, using my middle finger to indicate 'upstairs'.

There was a friendly knock - shave-and-a-haircut - from behind me. "Are we all set here?" 

The Mullet leaned casually against the frame, a self-satisfied grin stretching across her jowls.

I was mere seconds from a display of full-on belligerence and righteous indignation, but I noticed her adjusting the newest feature of her uniform: a not-small holster, velcroed to her belt. The sight of it brought our meeting to an abrupt, unquestionable end.