Martin Misunderstood (2 page)

Glancing over his shoulder for snipers, Martin
opened the door and got into the car.

Southern Toilet Supply had started as a family
business almost sixty years ago. Over the years,
the Southern compound had spread from a single
metal building to a large, modern factory. In the
late nineties, a German company had bought the
plant. Spreckels Reinigungsmittel und Papier was
also a family-owned company, though they
treated their new families about as well as Evie
treated Martin, which was to say they fired half
the staff the day after the papers were signed. The
Germans seldom showed up in person, but they
sent daily missives to Norton Shaw, demanding
higher results in broken English.

'Why is it so that the 2300 cannot reach with
the higher levels of salesmanship?'

It had to be said that industrial-sized toilet
paper rolls were not a hard sell, but the standards
of the Southern Superroll 2300 were not the same
as a Scott 500 or, the gold standard in public
toilet supply, the Georgia Pacific 2-92. Users of
the 2300 often reported early breakage in the
first wipe, followed by catastrophic breakdowns
in subsequent wiping. Test groups had quit in the
middle, forgoing their fifty dollars for want of
better hygiene. This hadn't been an issue during
the early days of toilet supply. No one had yet
done the math to realize that the thinner the
paper, the more squares you had to use. While
this had proved to be a winning scenario for
Southern for many years, lately the customer had
started catching on. Why spend eight dollars on
a cheap roll of paper that lasts one day when you
can spend ten on one that lasts for two?

Even the bathrooms at Southern Toilet Supply
did not use their own product, a fact which
Martin knew because his desk was conveniently
located by the women's bathroom and he saw
them taking their own rolls in and out, right
under management's eye. Martin had never been
a tattler, so he kept his mouth shut. As a matter
of fact, he kept his mouth shut about a lot of
things he saw happening in the office, most of
which would have gotten any number of his
tormentors fired. Such was his lot in life: he was
too noble for his own good.

He slowed the Camry as he pulled up to the
gate. The security guard sat in his little booth
watching the morning news. Martin caught a
whiff of marijuana as he drove by the open
window, but he kept his eyes trained ahead,
looking for a parking space amongst the sea of
pick-up trucks and SUVs. When he had first
bought his Camry someone had remarked that it
looked like the new girl on the football team.

Martin's hands had stopped bleeding on the
short ride to work. He put a corner of his
handkerchief into his mouth to wet it, then wiped
some of the blood off the steering wheel. The
faux leather would not yield. He would have to
get some kind of cleaner. Southern CleanAway
was rated for cleaning up biohazards. He would
get one of the sample bottles and take care of the
mess after lunch.

'Lunch,' he mumbled. He had forgotten to
bring his bag lunch.

Martin got out of the car and used the key to
lock the door. Then, he saw his briefcase was still
in the car, so he unlocked it again.

'Hey, Beak!'

Martin felt his shoulders rise up.

'Beak!' Daryl Matheson had been greeting
Martin in this manner every morning since third
grade, when Martin had first transferred into
Tucker Elementary School. His father had just
died, forcing Evie to move the family to a less
desirable part of town. Martin had fantasized
that his new school would offer new opportunities
for friendship and popularity unfathomable at
his previous school.

Martin was wrong.

'Beak? Hey, Beak? What's up?'

He would keep calling until Martin answered
him. According to
Taking the Bully by the
Horns
, this was a recognizable pattern. Daryl did
not want to be openly disliked because it would
mean that he was a bad person. So long as
Martin responded to him, Daryl could continue
his fantasy that a 36-year-old man who lived
with his mother enjoyed being called 'Beak'.

'Beak? Beak, what up? What's going on, man?'

'Hey, Daryl,' Martin said. Daryl flashed a
satisfied smile and punched him in the arm so
hard that Martin dropped his briefcase. Papers
scattered and Martin grabbed for them, trying to
keep the order.

Daryl squatted down, but made no effort to
help. 'You've got blood on your hands.'

Martin realized that he was right. The cuts
from the plastic bumper had opened up again. He
reached for his handkerchief, but remembered he
had shoved it in the glove compartment of the
car.

Martin muttered, 'What a mess,' as he tried to
stack the pages without transferring blood on to
them. He saw graphs and pie charts, his grueling
work for his presentation at the Toilet Supply
Industry Trade Show made visible.

Daryl moved on to more interesting things.
'Damn, man, somebody hit your car.'

'I know.'

'The whole half of the front bumper is
missing.'

'I know.'

'That's going to be expensive. Worse than the
"twat", even. Hey, when are you gonna get that
fixed?'

Martin felt one of his back molars move as he
bit down too hard.

'Beak?' Daryl was squatting in front of the
bumper. He was dressed in gray coveralls, his
name emblazoned in red script over his heart.
Daryl worked on the assembly line as a quality
checker. Every tenth bottle of Urine-B-Gone had
to be spray-tested. For eight hours a day, the man
grabbed bottles and pumped their triggers until a
thin stream of blue liquid shot out, and yet
Martin – who worked in an office and had to
wear ties to work – was considered the loser.

'I filed a report,' he lied. He shoved
the rest of the papers into his briefcase.
'The police are taking these injustices very
seriously.'

'You know who you should use?' Daryl stood
As Martin did. 'Ben Sabatini. He got me fixed real
good on my truck. Remember I scraped against
that tree and it cut a line into the paint? He had
me fixed up the next day. Got one'a them
Chrysler 500s as a loaner. Damn, them things are
sweet! Ben even worked it so I didn't have to pay
my deductible.'

Martin stood there. He really didn't know
what to say. 'We should get to work.'

'Yeah,' Daryl agreed. 'Let me know if you need
Ben's number. Best guy in the business.'

'Thank you,' Martin responded, gripping his
briefcase handle so hard that he felt sweat
dripping down his fingers.

Daryl glanced down at Martin's hand. 'You're
bleeding again, man.'

'Yeah,' Martin agreed. 'I'll take care of it.'

The two men split – Daryl toward the factory
entrance, Martin toward the front office. Instead
of going to his desk, Martin went to the men's
room. He washed his hands, wondering what
kind of diseases the open wounds were exposing
him to. The employees were expected to clean up
after themselves, so the resulting lack of
cleanliness was unsurprising.

He found a bottle of CleanAway in a cabinet
by the door. Martin sprayed some on to a paper
towel and tried to clean the handle of his
briefcase. To his dismay, the leather started to
come off. He stopped rubbing immediately, but
the chemical kept eating into the handle. He was
reminded of a beetle on a corpse as the fake
leather started to peel back, exposing the bone
white of the plastic underneath. This would have
been fascinating but for the fact that Martin had
paid almost three hundred dollars for the
briefcase.

Tentatively, he touched the exposed edge of
the plastic handle. It was sharp as a knife, able to
make a thin surface cut into the pad of his finger.
Martin watched blood seep out from the flesh.
Death from a thousand cuts.

Martin had never been good at cursing, despite
Evie's excellent example. He mumbled under his
breath as he left the bathroom and walked
through the factory floor, briefcase held close to
his chest with both arms. The machinery was not
yet running, so he could hear his footsteps
echoing around him. He took a detour down a
long row of shelving to avoid Daryl, past the
stacks of plastic Sani-Lady sanitary disposal
units, then went out the back door.

There was a bubbling stream behind the
building, tall trees swaying in the wind. During
his early years at Southern, Martin had often
come out here for a break, taking advantage of
the solitude. Now that there was no smoking
allowed in the building, that small slice of peace
was gone. This was where everyone went during
their breaks, as evidenced by the thousands of
cigarette butts that littered the concrete. A
dilapidated picnic table had two coffee cans full
of more cigarette butts. Martin had proposed
several weeks ago that a section of the area be
cordoned off for non-smokers. His suggestion
had been met with the type of ridicule he had
come to expect. His insistence that the suggestion
box was meant to be anonymous had only made
them laugh harder.

The Dumpster was usually overflowing, so he
was surprised to find that it had been emptied.
Martin opened the briefcase and took out his
report, two pens, his business cards and a yellow
legal pad, all of which he placed on the only semiclean
part of the concrete he could find. He tried
to open the Dumpster's metal door, but it was
rusted shut. The top was at least four feet above
his head. Martin glanced around, then spread his
legs and tossed the briefcase granny-style into the
air. It went straight up, then straight back down.
He nearly tripped over his own feet to get out of
the way as it hurtled toward his face. Martin
cursed and tried again, pushing up on the
corners, trying to concentrate his aim. This time,
the briefcase ended up at his feet, the corner
collapsing against the concrete.

He stood there, hands on his hips, feeling a
lifetime of failure starting to bubble up into his
chest as he stared at the briefcase on the ground.
It wasn't just that he'd been duped into paying
leather prices for a vinyl. It was the 'twat' on his
car. It was the damaged bumper. It was Daryl
calling him Beak, and his mother's Munchausen
by gay Proxy.

Martin kicked the briefcase. The release felt so
good that he kicked it again. Soon, he was
jumping up and down on the briefcase, smashing
it to pieces. He scooped up the mangled case and
slammed it into the side of the Dumpster several
times before exhaustion took over. Martin bent
at the waist, panting. He was sweating in his pea
coat. Rivulets of perspiration slid down his back.

The door opened. One of the line workers
stood there, a cigarette in her mouth, lighter in
her hands. They had never been formally
introduced, yet the woman felt familiar enough
with him to ask, 'What the hell are you doing?'

'Mind your own darn' business,' he said,
scooping up the pieces of the broken case. He
glanced up at the Dumpster, but did not dare try
another attempt with a witness. He picked up his
report and the other items, then walked around
the building. Several minutes later, he found
himself at his car. He unlocked the trunk and put
the tattered briefcase beside the broken bumper.
Martin looked up at the cloudy, gray sky. Two
strikes already and it wasn't even nine o'clock.
What could possibly be the third?

Suddenly, the clouds moved, a ray of sun
peeking out. Martin closed his eyes against the
light. Without warning, the joyful tones of the
Harlem Gospel Choir filled his ears. '"Lord, lift
me
up
! Take me
hi-yi-yi-igher
!"'

The singing abruptly stopped as the engine was
cut on the black Monte Carlo that had pulled up
beside Martin's Camry.

'Whatchu doin', fool?' Unique Jones slammed
the car door, her keys jingling in one hand, a tall
Dunkin' Donuts mocha latte in the other. Her
purse was the size of a feed sack; the strap cut
into the fleshy part of her exposed shoulder.
Despite the chill in the air, she was wearing a
tight-fitting, bright orange sundress with
matching orange shoes. Unique was a large black
woman who liked to offset her dark skin with
colorful scarves and glittery fingernail polish.
Sometimes, she wore a turban around her head.
Other days, she let her intricately braided hair
dangle around her shoulders. She had terrified
Martin from the day she had first walked into the
building.

Martin stammered, 'I-I-I—'

'Hush up, doughboy. We got work to do.'

She talked to him like she was his boss, when
in fact the opposite was true. The only time she
had shown him any respect was when she had
interviewed for the job. 'It's Unique with an
accent on the "e",' she had politely corrected
him. Martin had glanced down at her application
where she had written her name, Unique Jones,
wondering which 'e' she could mean. He was
befuddled. Was it French? Jo-naise, perhaps?

'You-nee-kay,' she had explained, laughing,
'That's all right, baby, nobody gets it at first, but
once they do, they never forget.'

He had smiled at her, thinking that this was
the first time he had been called 'baby' without
the implicit pejorative. One of the few things
Martin could remember about his father was a
joke he liked to tell: How do you catch a unique
rabbit?
Unique
up on it.

This Unique was a high school drop-out who
hadn't even bothered to get her GED. She had
one month from a secretarial school under her
belt and two months of accounting school. 'I
learned everything I needed,' she told him. 'You
either got it up here or you don't.' She tapped her
temple on this last part, and Martin noticed the
gold dollar-sign appliqué on the glossy red
fingernail of her index finger.

'We're doing a lot of interviews,' he told her,
which was actually a lie. He had reserved the
office conference room weeks ago when he
placed the ad, expecting back-to-back interviews.
He had read up on
Interviews for Dummies
so he
could ask salient questions such as, 'What are
some of your best features?' or, 'If I asked a close
friend to name one of your flaws, what would it
be?'