Read Online American Spirit: A Novel by Dan Kennedy - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dan Kennedy
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I take care of this.”
“You seem a little…”
“You’re the one that seems drunk, if you ask me.”
“… tired.”
The door shuts behind him with the little terrier’s exit clearing the slam by an inch or so. In Matthew’s head, a montage of how he tried to go through the usual channels with a level head. He had gone as far as putting in several calm, passive-aggressive calls to Office Services simply stating that his office seemed to smell like urine for some reason. He never threw any human or dog under the bus, he went about this the way that is supposed to almost guarantee success. When one calls Office Services to tell them that, say,your office is too cold from the air-conditioning, the reply is kind and pleasant, small talk and a course of solution, and the problem is fixed. But when one calls Office Services to say that one’s office smells of urine, there is a deafening pause on the other end of the line that seems to suggest you should simply stop pissing in your own office if you aren’t fond of the smell. And if you persist, there are only calls back to ask you questions.
Off with his jacket; hung it on the back of the door; unzipped his pants. After the doctor’s office, unzipping his pants in an office didn’t feel as out of place as it once may have. Matthew was under contract with New Time Media for another five years of employment. More than that though, he was under the implicit social contract that everyone in the world is honor-bound to, the one that implicitly says you won’t urinate all over your workplace. He broke that contract by holding himself, aiming himself, staring up at the ceiling to relax himself, and then proceeding to paint a primitive border; a language that the president’s dog would understand on its next visit; a circle that started at the closed door and went over to the desk and looped back again, and then sort of mapped the remaining real estate in short intermittent remaining bursts, demi-borders if you will, that claimed the territory to the side of the desk, and then the last of the bladder’s reserve dotting and dashing a small square sub-border to mark the area where he would like to be able to set his bag when he comes in. And then one last small stream began that could be spent filling in any dashed bordersthat didn’t seem solid enough. The entire process was wrapping up perfectly, discreetly, effectively, until the office door flew open and his boss poked his head in. This was that most painful of impromptu meetings with a company’s president, the sort where one has to quickly stop urinating midstream
and
think of something to say.
“Woops.”
“What are you…”
“Nothing.”
“Clearly, you’re doing
something.”
“Your dog pisses in my office at least once a week.”
“That doesn’t make it okay for you to do it.”
“I’m speaking the only language your dog understands.”
“Have you been drinking?”
Matthew considers. “I had a doctor’s appointment, yes.”
“I think you’re done here.”
“I am, I know, I just have to…” And with this, a nod down at what he’s hiding beneath his hands.
“I don’t mean done pissing in your office, I mean you’re done coming in to the office. You don’t need to come in on Monday. You’re being fired, that’s what’s happening here, in case I’m not being clear enough.”
“I literally told her no calls, no visitors,” says Matthew, looking at his boss shaking his head, hoping for some shift in focus here, but again, no luck.
There was no surprise in the heart or head; he knew that if it ever fell on him, it would be a Friday. But questions rocketed through, Does this mean no severance package? Doesthis mean no more health insurance? Does this mean not taking long expense-account lunches to drink and see movies? None of the questions had anything to do with a second or third chance. None of the questions had to do with wondering if the job could please stick around or
“You seem a little…”
“You’re the one that seems drunk, if you ask me.”
“… tired.”
The door shuts behind him with the little terrier’s exit clearing the slam by an inch or so. In Matthew’s head, a montage of how he tried to go through the usual channels with a level head. He had gone as far as putting in several calm, passive-aggressive calls to Office Services simply stating that his office seemed to smell like urine for some reason. He never threw any human or dog under the bus, he went about this the way that is supposed to almost guarantee success. When one calls Office Services to tell them that, say,your office is too cold from the air-conditioning, the reply is kind and pleasant, small talk and a course of solution, and the problem is fixed. But when one calls Office Services to say that one’s office smells of urine, there is a deafening pause on the other end of the line that seems to suggest you should simply stop pissing in your own office if you aren’t fond of the smell. And if you persist, there are only calls back to ask you questions.
Off with his jacket; hung it on the back of the door; unzipped his pants. After the doctor’s office, unzipping his pants in an office didn’t feel as out of place as it once may have. Matthew was under contract with New Time Media for another five years of employment. More than that though, he was under the implicit social contract that everyone in the world is honor-bound to, the one that implicitly says you won’t urinate all over your workplace. He broke that contract by holding himself, aiming himself, staring up at the ceiling to relax himself, and then proceeding to paint a primitive border; a language that the president’s dog would understand on its next visit; a circle that started at the closed door and went over to the desk and looped back again, and then sort of mapped the remaining real estate in short intermittent remaining bursts, demi-borders if you will, that claimed the territory to the side of the desk, and then the last of the bladder’s reserve dotting and dashing a small square sub-border to mark the area where he would like to be able to set his bag when he comes in. And then one last small stream began that could be spent filling in any dashed bordersthat didn’t seem solid enough. The entire process was wrapping up perfectly, discreetly, effectively, until the office door flew open and his boss poked his head in. This was that most painful of impromptu meetings with a company’s president, the sort where one has to quickly stop urinating midstream
and
think of something to say.
“Woops.”
“What are you…”
“Nothing.”
“Clearly, you’re doing
something.”
“Your dog pisses in my office at least once a week.”
“That doesn’t make it okay for you to do it.”
“I’m speaking the only language your dog understands.”
“Have you been drinking?”
Matthew considers. “I had a doctor’s appointment, yes.”
“I think you’re done here.”
“I am, I know, I just have to…” And with this, a nod down at what he’s hiding beneath his hands.
“I don’t mean done pissing in your office, I mean you’re done coming in to the office. You don’t need to come in on Monday. You’re being fired, that’s what’s happening here, in case I’m not being clear enough.”
“I literally told her no calls, no visitors,” says Matthew, looking at his boss shaking his head, hoping for some shift in focus here, but again, no luck.
There was no surprise in the heart or head; he knew that if it ever fell on him, it would be a Friday. But questions rocketed through, Does this mean no severance package? Doesthis mean no more health insurance? Does this mean not taking long expense-account lunches to drink and see movies? None of the questions had anything to do with a second or third chance. None of the questions had to do with wondering if the job could please stick around or
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