Lick Your Neighbor (10 page)

Dale,

See me immediately. You might want to pack up your personal belongings and bring them with you.

Best,

Julie

PS – Thank you, but I don’t celebrate Thanksgiving.

____________________

From: Dale Alden

To: Ted Yacker

Subject: Fw:Re:Re: Urgent

Ted,

See forwarded message. Julie in HR is a Communist. She doesn’t keep the Turkey’s Day holy.

Bestacles,

Dale

PS – Gave your regards to my wife and kids. They farted on them.

____________________

From: Mail Delivery System

To: Dale Alden

Subject: Undelivered Mail Returned to Sender

Message delivery to recipient “[email protected]” failed. Sender “[email protected]” blocked

by recipient.

____________________

From: Dale Alden

To: Brad Rogers

Subject: Tech question

Hey Brad,

How are things in the crazy, mixed-up world of IT these days? Pretty nuts I’ll bet! :)

Anywho, there appears to be something wrong with my email. My messages are getting bounced back. Could you swing by my workstation and check it out ASAP?

Best,

Dale

P.S. – What kind of music did the Pilgrims listen to? Plymouth Rock! Ha!

____________________

From: Brad Rogers

To: Dale Alden

Subject: Re: Greetings

Dale,

Fuck off, MURDERER.

Best,

Brad

PS – I hope someone hangs you like you did to Gus.

____________________

From: Dale Alden

To: Julie Smith

Subject: Fw: Re: Greetings

Julie,

See forwarded message. Brad in IT just told me to “fuck off.” He also misused a postscript by wishing a lynching upon my head. I’m not sure what the exact definition of ‘cordiality’ is, but I know that’s not it. What sort of workplace are you running here anyway? I demand that Brad be fired, preferably in a humiliating fashion.

You’re the best, I’m the best, this email is the best,

Dale

PS - You do realize that by not celebrating Thanksgiving you’re essentially saying that Hank Ferdue was a fucking retard.

____________________

From: Julie Smith

To: Dale Alden

Subject: Endgame

Dale,

Security is en-route to your cubicle.

Best,

Julie

PS – I’m half Native American. Thanksgiving isn’t really something to celebrate for my people.

____________________

From: Dale Alden

To: Julie Smith

Subject: Re: Endgame

Julie,

Should I take them to see Brad about him being fired?

Bestness,

Dale “The Bestmeister” Alden

PS – Just thought of a great joke. Why did the Indian Chief wear so many feathers on his head?

____________________

From: Julie Smith

To: Dale Alden

Subject: Re: Re: Endgame

Dale,

Nope.

Worst,

Julie

PS - To keep his wigwam. Asshole.

____________________

Just as Dale was typing a message to Julie letting her know that using ‘Worst’ as a signoff was another instance of her calling a dead old man a fucking retard, a tiny man Dale had never seen before appeared in his cubicle and said, “Sir, please step away from the computer.”

“And who might you be?” Dale asked.

“I’m Corey Adams with security. HR sent me over here to escort you out of the building.”

“That’s ridiculous. We don’t have security here.”

“Yes we do. I’m it.”

“Oh yeah? Where’s your badge?”

“Security guards don’t have badges.”

“Ah ha!”

Corey sighed. “Sir, please pack up your personal belongings and come with me.”

“Or else what?”

“I didn’t say ‘or else.’”

“Ah ha!”

“Stop pointing at me. Look, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

Calculating that he had a good six inches and thirty pounds on the man, Dale leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and said, “I’ll take the hard way.”

“Why are you making this difficult?”

“Why? Because I have been here for over ten years. I have always done my work well. Maybe not brilliantly, or always on time, but well enough, damn you. I always come in and leave on time, give or take fifteen minutes
max
. I take very few sick days, and when I do take them I always at least have the sniffles. I never steal office supplies, except for pens, which don’t count. I am civil on the phone to customers and I always hold in the expletives until right after I hang up. I have never worn a tie with the Tasmanian Devil on it, which in this office is saying something. Nor have I ever made some sort of nest of toilet paper in a bathroom stall, which, I might add, some freak in here does every goddamn day. Unlike some people, I have never fooled around with any of my co-workers, even though I would have liked to. My Power Point presentations always contain clip art that at least makes some sort of sense, unlike Heather in Accounting who uses that fucking blue bull wearing sunglasses and giving thumbs up in
all
of her shitty presentations. If you have any theories on what a fucking cool dude bull has to do with a revenue report, I’d love to hear them. All in all this job has been my purgatory, and I trudge through here everyday doing anything that is asked of me with a polite smile and a slight nod. Because I am a decent human being, with only one desire in life. To be left alone by the fucking assholes that be so I can go about my goddamn business. So unless you can tell me why, taking all of what I just said into consideration, why I am about to be fired, then buddy, I’m afraid it’s going to have to be the hard way.”

“So be it.”

Moving faster than Dale thought humanly possible, Corey flung a lasso around Dale and tightened it, pinning him to the chair. Then he quickly wrapped the rope around Dale several times to keep him nice and snug. Dale tried to budge, but he couldn’t move an inch.

“Well,” Dale said, “that wasn’t so hard.”

“I know,” Corey said as he threw Dale’s personal knickknacks into a small box. “It’s only hard in relation to the easy way, which involves you not acting like a little baby and walking out of here with some dignity and self respect, instead of being lassoed like a cow and wheeled out.”

“Wait, you’re not going to wheel me down the hall are you?”

“Yes. And I’m going to enjoy it.”

“I’ll take the easy way.”

“Too late.”

Corey dropped the box into Dale’s lap and pushed him out into the hall, the wheels on the chair squeaking with every turn. Dale’s co-workers popped their heads out from their cubicles, like gophers. As he slowly crept past them Dale thought,
Dead man wheelin’
.

Lassoed like a cow

Uncaring faces drift by

My dignity? Poof!

11
The Wild Will of God

Excerpt from the diary of John Alden

N
OVEMBER 21, 1693

Astounding news! I have made a friend! However, he is a man, so sadly there will be no warm embraces betwixt us, less we risk the Fist of God coming down from the Heavens and squashing us beneath His Holy and Vengeful knuckles, as Reverend Brewster has repeatedly warned us. No matter, for the daily warm handshakes, periodic tender back pats, and frequent knowing glances will more than make up for the lack of snuggling.

My new and only friend’s name is Mr. Ely, a sailor on the Ship, and he is the most delightful man I have ever met. Many a late night, whilst all of the other dewberries are fast asleep, have Mr. Ely and I spent together on the deck of the Shiteflower, staring off into the endless black sea. We stand there, side by side, with a modicum amount of space between us, like true manly friends, and I listen to all of the fascinating things that Mr. Ely has to say. His most favorite topics concern the nature of Disorder in this World, which I find most interesting, as we are about to make our home in a land that is filled with nothing but. Mr. Ely says that rather than fear Disorder, we should embrace it, and let it carry us wherever it may.

I asked, “But doesn’t the Almighty Father prefer Order to Disorder?”

Mr. Ely’s eyes twinkled as he replied, “Look at the Land before you, which your God created. Wolves howl, half-naked men and women run through the forests, there are no streets to follow, no judges to enforce law and order. Disorder reigns, as it has for all time. It is the men and women on this Ship who will create Order out of the Disorder, with the Good Book in one hand and a musket in the other. If I were you, John, I would fear the Harmonious Hand of Man more than the Wild Will of God.”

Such wonderfully strange ideas. I do however hope that Mr. Ely is careful with who he tells such things too, because if the Reverend ever caught wind of such talk I do believe that Mr. Ely might wake up one morning to find himself in a most disagreeable state. Engulfed in flames.

Even though I do not agree with many of things Mr. Ely says, he has done much to calm my fears of this new Land, giving me the gift of comfort. For that I am eternally grateful, for no one else on this Ship has given me anything besides their scowling faces to stare at.

And that is why I shall never tell a soul that Mr. Ely is not the sailor he pretends to be. So what if he had a run in with the constable in Sussex and had to flee England. Are we not all fleeing England for one reason or another? Besides, poor Mr. Ely was falsely accused. His Prick neighbor told the court that he saw Mr. Ely engaged in a most wicked round of vile buggery with a sheep, which is most untrue. Mr. Ely informed me that he was tired from a long walk in the countryside and was merely attempting to mount the sheep and ride her back to his house. Being a rather small man, a large sheep could carry his weight I suppose. But it had just rained, making the sheep quite slippery, and Mr. Ely kept slipping off her and so had to continuously thrust himself back up on the sheep, which from afar could be construed to be buggery. Seems perfectly reasonable to me.

Ely often talks of his friends back in Sussex, a group of philosophers, theologians, scientists, magicians, artists, and similar folk. They would gather together often to play a game called Sink, which involves sinking various objects in water, mud, or, if I remember correctly, giant tubs of pudding. What fun!

Ely demonstrated the game by throwing a Bible overboard. Once it sank, Ely yelled, “I sank God!”

Then it was my turn. Ely offered me another Bible to sink, but I wouldn’t dare. So instead I snatched up a rat, which was nibbling on my boots, and tossed him overboard instead. The rat immediately went underwater and I shouted “I sank the devil!” But as soon as I said that, the vermin popped back up and swam back to the Ship. It was quite dark, but by the light of the moon I swear the rat did a backstroke.

The wet rat scampered up to the bow, and to my surprise, the creature allowed Mr. Ely to gently stroke its wet head with one finger. How strange. Then the rat ran up Mr. Ely’s arm and perched on his shoulder, like a parrot would. Mr. Ely looked at me, smiled and said, “You lose.”

That I did. But what a delightful game betwixt friends!

—John Alden