Why do I have to be so in demand? Everyone wants a piece of my time; Everyone wants a piece of the action. Whether it be work, bill collectors, anthropomorphic crocodiles, or low flying weather balloons, it seems there is always something or someone trying to keep me from whichever personal agenda I may be pursuing.
What? What's that you're saying?
Yes, you're quite right. I haven't been to work in months, so it hasn't really been eating up a lot of my time lately. But to say it has been taking up none of my time would not be quite accurate. I think about it a lot, which takes time, but there's more than that.
Yesterday I actually had the temerity to venture onto the premises of Homolka and Krieger itself. My mission: To inflitrate said company's new year's party and act like nothing ever happened. The outcome? Read on.
I arrived looking quite sharp in the best suit I could steal from Sears. My apologies to anyone newly disillusioned about me by this criminal activity. Unfortunately, with no discernable income, even the cheapest suit (ie. Sears) is considerably outside my price range. I assure all you ladies out there that this behavior is strictly born out of necessity, not recreation... Unless you like that sort of thing.
Anyway, what I didn't realise was that under the kind of fluorescent lights at the office, my suit, which had seemed to be black, now appeared a sort of "70's" brown. My confidence in my ability to pull this off suddenly dwindled.
When the elevator doors opened and I stepped off onto the 2nd floor, the spectacle of the christmas party stretched out before me. All these people whom I had worked with on a daily basis now making drunken asses out of themselves. My confidence in my ability to pull this off sky rocketed.
"Eeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyy." Greeted my ears before I'd taken 5 steps. It was Walter Torag, Man of the Jungle. He'd been hired as a sort of media stunt, thanks to his unlikely but widely publicized contention that he'd been raised from infancy by Mokele Mbembe. He had a ziplock bag that appeared to contain poop and chunks of reptilian skin that he encouraged scientists to test as proof. The one scientist who took a sample would later go on record as saying that the only experiment he conducted on the conents of the bag revealed them to be delicious. In the end, it turned out Walter had a good understanding of structural integrity and we kept him around. Later on he would pioneer a sort of deconstructivist neolithic style.
We used to give Walter a lot of good natured teasing about his supposed fantastical origins, until Mr. Homolka discovered that the legendary Mokele Mbembe was, in fact, a thunder lizard. During one such session, our laughter was abruptly silenced as we collectively became aware of Mr. Homolka standing nearby, motionless, face stoney, eyes blazing with fiery intensity and malevolent purpose. We later speculated that he knew we'd been speaking of thunder lizards, but had arrived too late to catch us in the act. Nevertheless, we'd been sufficiently cowed and never broached the subject during office hours again.
Anyway, Walter was the sort of guy who keeps mostly quiet but becomes that sort of confessional drunk who openly surrenders his secrets without the least bit provocation. So it was just as he was loosening his belt, to prove just how hairy his ass was, that I was granted a welcome reprieve via a summons from no less than Boris Krieger himself.
Boris was a portly and stern fellow who never reacted to anything. His ability to maintain a straight face under any circumstance was exceptional, to say the least. Often, people newly introduced to Boris would mistake his perpetual blank stare as a sign of dullardry, but through his decisive and efficient behavior, it became clear that he was actually a man of tremendous self confidence and composure.
Anyway, Mr. Krieger had been my trump card in my rivalry with Roddy McAmsterdam for partnership at the firm, for he had once championed some of my architectural ideas, even in the face of Mr. Homolka's disapproval. In the end, Mr. Homolka had his way and my ideas were shot down. Nevertheless, I came to regard Boris as a benefactor and powerful ally.
"Where have you been Number 3?"
He called me Number 3 due to my distinction as the third in a line of Jamie Luxtons. But he gave me no chance to answer. "Just keep quiet about it and maybe you'll get out of this with your career intact."
Only one thing could disuade Boris Krieger from whatever current activity or purpose he had in mind, so I didn't need to hear the tremendous round of appaulse that suddenly erupted to know that Thomas Homolka had entered the room.
Mr. Homolka was a man who enjoyed ritualistic ceremony. Because of this, even though he possessed a considerable personal wealth, he loved to shop at Wal-Mart. His favorite pastime was attending parades, and could always be found in Moscow and New York on May Day and Thanksgiving, respectively. I don't know how he originally got people to applaud his entrance, but by my time, it happened without exception and without question. With all eyes now apon him, he launched into his traditional toast.
"Friends,
Do not let this merry making and celebration obscure your understanding. Though we are on the verge of embarking on a new calendar year, be aware that this is the most arbitrary measuring of the passage of time. Tomorrow shall be no different than today, for each new day is no more than a launching point from which we venture into the future. And before you get carried away with optimism about the future's unlimited potential, remember that the future will carry on long after it has stopped carrying you with it. That's it. Drink up... It's the weekend."
A period of chastised quiescence followed, with people sectioning off in small groups to make subdued, idle chatter. Personally, as I believe I have stated before, I hate small talk. So it was with a bit of dispair I realised Doug Rubber and Tom Craze were shuffling towards me for the purpose of conversation. It would prove worse than I imagined, as Tom immediately launched into discourse about his automobile.
Do not talk to me about your car. If you own a car, it is altogether good and right that you should be knowledgeable about it. It is, after all, your property, and to ensure longevity of use and enjoyment, you'll want to have a good understanding of it's capabilities and functioning. But it seems many a fellow has translated this pratical knowledge into a form of recreation. Worse than this, is that many of these same fellows just assume that any other fellow within earshot will be likewise entertained by the recital of said capabilities and functionings.
Well, you know what the say when you assume: You make a conclusion not grounded in empirical methods of evidence collection.
I do not own a car and therefore, by my own logic, do not care about the capabilities and functionings of any car. I have no reason to care about any of these things in your car or anyone else's. My disinterest in the subject is authentic, profound, and cannot be overstated. My response, should you choose to inform me of any mechanical malfunction that ails your ride, will always be a polite "That's unfortunate."
Conversely, no matter how many dollars you've invested in your set of wheels, my interest in it's maximum performance values will always be at a minimum. At most, purely as a token of social necessity, I may inquire "How fast are we going now?"
Coversation was not exclusively about Tom's car, however. there was also talk about sports.
Do not talk to me about sports. No one seemed to be mentioning my absence, however. Had no one really noticed?
Something of significance that I did learn was that Mr. Homolka had taken some time off himself. As you may have heard, his second cousin Karla had recently been released from prison. What was not so well known was that she had been staying with Thomas for awhile. Unfortunately, for the Homolka's at least, some angry canadian citizens found out and attempted to make good on the many death threats Karla had recieved for her crimes. Attacks on the house were almost hourly at one point. So Mr. Homolka took a few weeks off to personally defend his home. The rumor was that Mr. Homolka had actually killed at least one home invader with a prized and antique elephant gun he'd found at the side of the road some years earlier.
Anyway, when Karla's tenure at Mr.Homolka's home came to end, Thomas returned to work. During his abscence, Boris Krieger had been in charge, which may well be the largest bone possible to have thrown my way, where my continued employment was concerned.
At that moment, Mr. Homolka's rounds amongst the various groups had finally lead him to us. He singled me out immediately. "Luxton. Haven't seen your work on my desk in a while. What project is it that you're now working on?"
His thin frame, white hair and grey skin might lead one to assume he was frail and weak. This was most certainly not the truth, however. I think he prided himself on his ability to maintain this deception. On those occassions he felt it neccessary to reveal his full ability, it was a sight shocking and terrifying to behold. I have personally witnessed him lift a microwave over his head and thow it against the wall, and also bend a saucepan in half. But no one who ever saw those eyes could judge him infirm. Those eyes always blazed like the visage of Dormammu.
I was unsure what to say. My eyes glanced past to his shoulder to where Krieger was standing. He looked back at me without expression. He wouldn't be of any help to me now. Or would he? There was no way to know. I knew this was the moment when my future would be decided, and it seemed I was on my own in shaping it. I froze. I didn't know what to say.
Miraculously, it was Tom Craze who came to my unwitting rescue.
"Someone taste this cake. It's delicious!" he said, rushing over. His hurriedness lead his feet straight into a potted plant, and he stumbled. Though he didn't wind up flat on his face, cake and plate and fork flew from his hand and landed with a clatter and a splatter near Mr. Homolka's feet.
"Sorry about that, Mr. Homolka." said Tom Craze.
But Mr. Homolka didn't respond. He didn't even move. He stayed as he was, frozen in a crouching position, Tom's fork in his hand. "What's this." he said.
"A fork." said Tom with a forced casualness. I thought I detected a bead of sweat on his forehead.
"A salad fork."
There was nothing for anyone to say, now. No point in denial, no point in protest.
"Is that a salad you're eating there, son?"
Tom looked like he was about to cry. He shook his head. I felt bad for him.
"What the fuck are you on about, son? It's the holiday season, and this is the shit you're trying to pull?"
Now Tom really was crying while trying to look at the fork being held an inch from his face, which made him slightly cross eyed. It would have been comical if it hadn't been happening right in front of me.
"Get the fuck out of here. Let me show you the door."
Mr. Homolka took Tom by the arm and lead him to the elevator, all of us watching. When those doors closed, we knew we'd never see Tom again, and worse, the party had effectively been killed.
"See you on Monday." said Krieger as his hand came down on my shoulder.
One career died so another could be reborn. I would have vowed then and there to not let his sacrifice be in vain... but I never really liked Tom anyway. Once the shock wore off, the office would be a much nicer place to come to. I realised I was experiencing something I'd not felt in a long time. I was looking forward to going to work. Isn't that weird?
