Read Online Your Body is Changing by Jack Pendarvis - Free Book Online
Authors: Jack Pendarvis
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the smoke detector. I noticed again that her thighs smelled elegant, like a funeral parlor.
“Okay, let me down,” she said.
I did.
“We need two butter knives and a plastic milk jug,” she said.
“Where are we going to get that?”
“What about that little brick building on the side of the interstate? What is it, an office?”
“Yes.”
“Well, they must have a break room or a kitchenette.”
“My supervisor’s over there,” I said.
“I’m not asking for the world,” said Puddin’.
“What’s your plan?” I said.
“Have you heard of hot-knifing?”
“No.”
“Then don’t worry about my plan.”
I returned to the main building and tried the handle, but the door was locked. There was a slot where you could slide your ID card and get in, but I didn’t have an ID card, so I pressed a gray button I saw.
“Who’s there?” said a voice.
“A maintenance worker,” I said.
There was a pause during which I suppose I was scrutinized by unseen eyes, followed by a buzzing sound from within. I pulled on the door and it opened for me.
I could find no way of avoiding the supervisor’s office. I breezed by. She was in there, with her blinds open, talking on the phone and laughing like it was the most ordinary day in the world. She didn’t seem to see me. I went down the hall, looking in doors until I found the empty break room.
Over by the sink, someone had left the coffeemaker on with just a swallow of coffee left in the bottom of the pot. As a result, a hot black crust had formed. I turned off the coffeemaker as a courtesy, then began rooting through drawers for butter knives.
“You there!” someone shouted.
I cracked my head on the corner of a low-hanging cabinet. For a second all I could think about was the dizzying pain, then I turned to face the supervisor. My head smarted so much that there were tears in my eyes.
“Have you delivered the package?” she said.
“No ma’am.”
“Then you better have a pretty good reason for abandoning your post.”
“Oh, yes ma’am. I’m looking for an orange. Otherwise I might go into a swoon, as we discussed earlier.”
“Didn’t your friend bring you your medicine?”
“No ma’am, I’ve seen no one. I’m utterly alone.”
She gave me a hard look that lasted forever and I thought the jig was up.
“Okay,” she said. “Some people keep their lunches in the refrigerator, in paper bags. Find what you’re looking for and get back where you belong. If you’ve screwed this up you’ll be extremely sorry.”
She split. I grabbed a handful of stainless steel butter knives—seven or eight—and made a beeline for the tollbooth.
Puddin’ had a little fire going in the wastebasket, and a dirty old license plate laid flat across the top like a little table. It said “New Mexico, the Land of Enchantment” and it was just wide enough so that it didn’t fall into the fire.
“I forgot the milk,” I said, “but I got a load of knives.”
“Forget the milk. Grab that bullhorn and hand it to me. I just need one knife now.”
The tollbooth was getting smoky.
“This doesn’t seem smart,” I said. “How’s the ventilation?”
“You worry too much.”
“I almost got caught. She’s on to us. We have to watch our step. I think the jig is up.”
“Getting away with things is the norm,” said Puddin’. She held the blade of her butter knife against the license plate, heating it. “Think about it. All you see on TV is when somebody gets caught at something that society has told us is wrong. But that’s just one percent of the time. The other ninety-nine percent never get caught. People just don’t care, or they don’t know what they’re seeing. It’s a mathematical certainty that you’ll never get caught at anything.” She placed a small clump of hash onto the license plate. I stood there watching her, the megaphone in my hand. “I’m telling you, doing bad stuff is as safe as flying in an airplane. Come
“Okay, let me down,” she said.
I did.
“We need two butter knives and a plastic milk jug,” she said.
“Where are we going to get that?”
“What about that little brick building on the side of the interstate? What is it, an office?”
“Yes.”
“Well, they must have a break room or a kitchenette.”
“My supervisor’s over there,” I said.
“I’m not asking for the world,” said Puddin’.
“What’s your plan?” I said.
“Have you heard of hot-knifing?”
“No.”
“Then don’t worry about my plan.”
I returned to the main building and tried the handle, but the door was locked. There was a slot where you could slide your ID card and get in, but I didn’t have an ID card, so I pressed a gray button I saw.
“Who’s there?” said a voice.
“A maintenance worker,” I said.
There was a pause during which I suppose I was scrutinized by unseen eyes, followed by a buzzing sound from within. I pulled on the door and it opened for me.
I could find no way of avoiding the supervisor’s office. I breezed by. She was in there, with her blinds open, talking on the phone and laughing like it was the most ordinary day in the world. She didn’t seem to see me. I went down the hall, looking in doors until I found the empty break room.
Over by the sink, someone had left the coffeemaker on with just a swallow of coffee left in the bottom of the pot. As a result, a hot black crust had formed. I turned off the coffeemaker as a courtesy, then began rooting through drawers for butter knives.
“You there!” someone shouted.
I cracked my head on the corner of a low-hanging cabinet. For a second all I could think about was the dizzying pain, then I turned to face the supervisor. My head smarted so much that there were tears in my eyes.
“Have you delivered the package?” she said.
“No ma’am.”
“Then you better have a pretty good reason for abandoning your post.”
“Oh, yes ma’am. I’m looking for an orange. Otherwise I might go into a swoon, as we discussed earlier.”
“Didn’t your friend bring you your medicine?”
“No ma’am, I’ve seen no one. I’m utterly alone.”
She gave me a hard look that lasted forever and I thought the jig was up.
“Okay,” she said. “Some people keep their lunches in the refrigerator, in paper bags. Find what you’re looking for and get back where you belong. If you’ve screwed this up you’ll be extremely sorry.”
She split. I grabbed a handful of stainless steel butter knives—seven or eight—and made a beeline for the tollbooth.
Puddin’ had a little fire going in the wastebasket, and a dirty old license plate laid flat across the top like a little table. It said “New Mexico, the Land of Enchantment” and it was just wide enough so that it didn’t fall into the fire.
“I forgot the milk,” I said, “but I got a load of knives.”
“Forget the milk. Grab that bullhorn and hand it to me. I just need one knife now.”
The tollbooth was getting smoky.
“This doesn’t seem smart,” I said. “How’s the ventilation?”
“You worry too much.”
“I almost got caught. She’s on to us. We have to watch our step. I think the jig is up.”
“Getting away with things is the norm,” said Puddin’. She held the blade of her butter knife against the license plate, heating it. “Think about it. All you see on TV is when somebody gets caught at something that society has told us is wrong. But that’s just one percent of the time. The other ninety-nine percent never get caught. People just don’t care, or they don’t know what they’re seeing. It’s a mathematical certainty that you’ll never get caught at anything.” She placed a small clump of hash onto the license plate. I stood there watching her, the megaphone in my hand. “I’m telling you, doing bad stuff is as safe as flying in an airplane. Come
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