I've got another one of the
Simple Something entries up for today, this one suggested by
Jeff Vibes. Look below to see what I had to work with. It's a bit somber, but that's par for the course with me. Also, for those interested in the other ones I've written so far click
here,
here, or
here.
This one is titled "The Breakdown Lane."
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Name: Harold
Location: The men's room
Emotion: Bitter disappointment
Object: Half-eaten chocolate cake.
Harold sat in in his car, holding his head in his hands and listening to the rhythmic ticking of his hazard lights. Cars zipped by him in a blur, thousands of people in hundreds of cars on the highway, all in a rush to get wherever it is they are going. He had pulled his modest Toyota Camry as far off the road and onto the shoulder as possible, but the wind from the cars passing by in the lane closest to him still buffeted the Camry, rocking it slightly from side to side. Harold balled up his hands into fists and rubbed his eyes.
He looked up after a moment, allowing his eyes to focus slowly. A rueful, cynical smile crept onto his face as he remembered the events of the day before. He played them over in his mind, the events that brought him to where he was now, sitting in the breakdown lane of the interstate just minutes from work, drenched in a cold sweat. As he recalled the events of the day before in his mind, anger, embarrassment, and bitter disappointment formed like a cold rock in his stomach.
That day had been the worst day of Harold Butler's life.
At his job at a local consulting firm, he wasn't responsible for much. He pushed papers around and ran reports, attended conference calls and replaced the toner. Harold told himself he didn't mind it (as his own shyness held back his true desire for human contact), but he was largely ignored by his peers. That is, of course, except for Lance.
Lance Evans was the office hot-shot. He was the man every other guy in the office wanted to be, and the man every girl in the office wanted to be with. He had a smooth complexion and a brilliant smile, oozed charisma, and had impeccable taste in clothing. He always seemed to know the right thing to say and when to say it. In short, Lance was the polar opposite of Harold. Like all the bullies he endured in high school, Lance was drawn to Harold like a magnet, and went out of his way to make sure that Harold was miserable.
For two years Harold endured the torment he received from Lance, and with as much grace as possible. He accepted that this was the way the world was for people like him, and simply put up with it. He did all the extra work Lance dropped on his desk, and took the blame on several occasions when Lance's flaccid efforts fell short on an account. He suffered through verbal abuse as well, as Lance had a never-ending supply of insults to throw at him on a daily basis. Harold put in his time every day, and every day he went home feeling violated and empty.
On the worst day of Harold's life, Lance came sauntering into work at his usual ten minutes late, and instead of starting off the day by launching another verbal assault, he inquired as to how Harold was doing. Harold was caught off guard at the drastic change in treatment. He replied cautiously that he was doing well, and returned the question.
“Good, man, I'm doing good,” Lance replied warmly, and sat on the corner of Harold's desk. “Say, I've been wanting to apologize for how I've been treating you. It's not fair that I single you out like I do, and I've been a real asshole. I'm sorry.”
Harold was very suspicious, but thought it was possible Lance was being genuine. He sat back in his chair and blinked a few times, and found himself replying before he knew what he was saying. “It's alright, Lance. Really.”
“Awesome, man,” Lance said, his trademark smile showing brilliant white veneers. He stuck out his right hand and thrust it towards Harold. “Truce?”
“Truce,” Harold agreed, albeit with a degree of hesitation. He stretched out his own hand, diminutive in comparison to Lance's, and they shook on it.
“Great. Hey, I'm going to go to my desk and work for a while, but come see me at lunch. I've got something for you.”
“Okay, Lance, thanks!” Harold called after him as he walked away. His own faith in the good and humanity of others and his gullibility made him blind to the veiled malice in Lance's eyes. Lance was up to something, but Harold couldn't see it.
At lunch, Lance presented him with a small chocolate cake as a token of his gratitude. In swooping cursive letters made of frosting, the word “Thanks!” lay across the top of the cake. A group of people gathered around as Lance gave the cake to Harold, all of them smiling. They clapped a bit as Harold took the cake, and for the first time in his lonely life, he felt wanted and appreciated.
He offered to share his cake with Lance and the others, but they all turned him down. They all said it was his to enjoy, and that he deserved it. Harold's heart swelled with pride. It wasn't until he had eaten half of it that he realized the truth behind why no one wanted to share his cake.
His stomach suddenly felt like it was going to explode inside of him. His lower gut churned and gurgled violently, and a sweat broke out on his brow. He threw down his fork and clutched at his stomach, looking up to see Lance standing at the door to the office break room. He wore an evil smile on his face, and the people behind him were laughing.
“Feeling okay, Harry?” he asked facetiously.
Harold jumped up from his chair and ran full tilt to the men's room, doing his best to hold everything together until he was behind a stall door. He barely made it over a toilet with his pants down before he was terribly sick. Foul smelling waste tore out of him, and it was all Harold could do to hold back from crying from the pain it caused as his waste forcibly left his system.
He moaned and whimpered his way through the worst of it, and when at last it seemed like it was over, the door to the bathroom opened and someone walked in. From underneath the stall door, Harold recognized the expensive loafers. It was Lance.
“Leave me alone, Lance,” Harold said weakly. “Haven't you done enough?”
“Yeah, I've done plenty,” he said, snickering. “I'm just coming in to collect my camera.”
“Your what?”
“My camera. A wireless web cam. Thought I'd document your experience just now. You know, to share it on the internet.”
“You can't be...” Harold started to say.
“Serious? Oh, I'm very serious. It was epic, too, by the way. I didn't think anyone could take a shit like that, but you proved me wrong. You just wouldn't quit. And the crying? Hilarious.”
“I wasn't crying,” he protested.
“Whatever, man, it was priceless.” Lance started to walk back to the door to leave. “By the way... got enough TP in there?”
Harold snapped his eyes to the toilet paper dispenser mounted to the stall wall, and saw that only a few thin sheets remained. He groaned and leaned forward as another bout of sickness ravaged through him. The ferocity of his sickness made a mess that what little toilet paper he had would be useless for. With no other choice, Harold peeled off his polo shirt and tore it into rags to clean himself.
Once he got back to his desk, Harold sat down to turn off his computer and grab his coat. After such humiliation, he was going to take the rest of the day off. He heard laughter scattering around the office, and saw an e-mail in his Inbox from Lance. The subject line read “Thanks, Harry!” and from the distribution list, Harold saw that it was sent to everyone in the office. A hyperlink lead him to a video of the inside of the men's bathroom, and Harold watched on in horror as he saw himself stumble into one of the stalls. Lance hadn't been kidding after all.
Harold ran from the office to his car through a chorus of laughter. Everyone was watching the video, and everyone was laughing. Even his manager was laughing, and he was one of the people Harold thought he could trust. Apparently no so much any more.
And so it came to be that Harold Butler would sit on the side of the highway, recounting the events of the previous day, the worst of his life. One would think that a person having had such a horrible prank played on them would take a personal day to let things blow over, but not Harold. Something broke irreparably inside of him that day, something that was hungry for revenge.
Sitting now in his car on the side of the road, he took his eyes from the road in front of him and looked at the passenger seat to his right. On it lay a police-issue Glock 22, three full magazines, and a box of bullets. His rueful smile turning into one of icy hatred, Howard Butler turned the key in the ignition, and his Camry came to life. He checked his mirrors and pulled into traffic.
Harold Butler went to work and had the best and last day of his life.
