The Cube People (3 page)

PO Box 521

Toronto, ON

M5T 8A1

January 2, 2006

Re: Manuscript Submission

D
ear Colin:

Thank you for sharing your manuscript,
The Cube People
, with us. Duck Feather Press unfortunately does not publish works of science fiction. We are only interested in works of literature.

Best of luck with your writing.

Sincerely,

Judy Miller

Editor, Duck Feather Press

I'm doing coding review on one of Dan's programs. It'
s a mess. I don't thi
nk he even bothered to compile the damn thing. I fill in the last comment box, number 15, on our standard code walkthrough 811 form about which areas of code need to be fixed. Shortly after, I find yet another coding error. Another form is needed. I look for one in my filing cabinet, but of course I'm out. Off to the photocopier. I wouldn't dare ask Carla to borrow a walkthrough form to copy – touching one of her pieces of paper might throw her into cardiac arrest. I'd ask Dan, but he called in sick again. Brita has her headphones on, her right leg is bobbing up and down, a piston, and I can make out the tinny sounds of heavy metal. Her headphones are big and make her look as if she might be running the radio on a World War II submarine. She appears to be reading some online leftist news service. I deduce this from the hammer and sickle in the upper left-hand corner of the screen. I tap her on the shoulder. She removes her headphones – screams and pounding drums erupt from the speakers. I'd have a headache within a minute.

“Yeah, what is it, MacDonald? What can I do you for?” she spits.

“Can you give me an 811 form to photocopy?”

“Yeah, yeah, shit, just a second,” she huffs as she pauses her music.

“Don't want to miss a note of that,” I say.

“Fuck MacDonald, you got something against Slipknot?”

“No no, I'm just kidding you, Brita. Just seems a little loud for me.”

“We're living in the bondage of capitalism. What happens when you don't pay your taxes?”

“Umm, I don't know, maybe nothing. There are all kinds of things that could happen. We'd probably send you a letter asking you to please pay.”

“But after, after you don't pay for a long time, do you know what happens MacDonald? You go to motherfucking jail. The cops show up at your house with guns and drag your ass to the slammer because you didn't pay your taxes. How can we call this freedom?”

“But you work for the MRC, you're one of the people responsible for putting tax dodgers in jail.”

A strange look, a mix of confusion and anger washes over Brita's face. “Here's your form, MacDonald. Make sure to bring it back,” she gruffs.

“Thanks,” I say.

As I exit the quad, I hear Carla open her drawer.
Shhech shhech
goes the spray bottle. This is normal procedure after anybody exits our quad. Walking along the outer wall I see Crazy Larry, or at least that's what Phil and I call him. I'm not sure what group Larry works for, or what he does, but he's built himself a cardboard wall/barrier made from the green tops of paper boxes. Taped to the boxes is a handmade sign offering the following information:
I'm wearing earplugs. If you wish to contact me please send me an email. Thanks for your cooperation. –Larry Young.
If there were ever an employee to go postal it would be Larry. I often listen, waiting to hear the cocking sounds of a rifle. If I ever do hear a shot, I know which way I'm going to run. Once some movers dropped a filing cabinet – BOOM! – I shot out of my seat at warp speed. I was halfway down the hall, heart racing, palms wet, when I realized that Larry, nor anyone else for that matter, wasn't shooting.

He's standing up, as he often is when I walk by, looking out the window at the parking lot. I can see the yellow circle of the industrial earplug wedged in Larry's oversized melon of a head. His lips are moving ever so slightly but I can't make out anything he is saying. I wonder if he uses the same earplugs over and over, or does he use fresh ones daily, or maybe he changes them on a weekly basis?

Larry too is in a quad, but two places are empty. The only other occupant is Suzy Scratch, who sits diagonally across from Larry. From all accounts, Suzy is an old veteran, has been around MRC from the time they used punch cards. Apparently, she suffered some sort of collapse in the nineties and was off work for a while, but when she came back, she just wasn't the same. Every time I walk by, Suzy is busy scraping away at a scratch-and-win lotto ticket. She never seems to have any work to do; she's just waiting to hit it big I guess. I puzzle over what she'd do if she actually won. As I pass by the entrance to their quad, I glance back and sure enough, there's Suzy scratching away. I continue down the hall to the coffee room where the photocopier resides. A large notice has been placed on the wall above the copier:

Attention ALL STAFF: Photocopying is at an all-time high. Please think twice and copy once. Thanks for your cooperation in this important matter.

–The Management

I look at the walkthrough form in my hand. “Do I really need to photocopy you?” I ask the paper. The paper doesn't reply and I grow incensed at its silence. I feed it into the machine and select a conservative ten copies rather than twenty. Peter Cann comes waltzing in with an empty coffee mug and heads over to the communal twenty-five-cents-a-cup pot and pours himself one. He sees me and says with a smirk, “Take it easy, photocopying is at an all-time high.”

“I see that,” I say as the copier spits out my last page.

“Hey, I finished off
The Cube People
last night. I thought it was really really good. The analogy of art as freedom against determinism was really interesting.”

“Hey Peter, wow, that's great. It means a lot that you liked it.”

“I think you've got talent, Colin. You hear anything back from any publishers yet?”

“One rejection so far. I'm not optimistic.”

“Don't be discouraged, it'll happen for you. Are you working on something now?”

“Yeah, a new novel called
Hungry Hole
.”

Peter smiles at the title.

“More science fiction?” he asks.

“More horror than sci-fi.”

“You know I tried to read Stephen King's
Pet Sematary
and threw it straight into the trash. Awful garbage. However,
The Dead Zone
was one of the finest pieces of literature I've ever read. So I say to you Mr. MacDonald, keep it up,” he says raising his cup in salutation as he leaves.

I feel good. I'd given him a copy of
The Cube People
because he'd asked to see it. I didn't actually expect him to read it, let alone like it. I can't wait to tell Sarah.

On my way back I notice that Larry is no longer staring out the window, and because I'm not looking straight ahead, I don't see Larry when he comes barrelling, head down, out of his quad. We crash into each other. This scares the bejeebers out of me and I nearly drop my paper.
Larry's bug-eyed face is only inches from mine. “Sorry,” I blurt out.

Larry doesn't say anything to this, doesn't apologize either. He just stares at me, confused. “I think they know,” he blurts out, then continues down the hall.

“Fucking freak,” I mutter to myself, passing Suzy, still hunched over her desk, scratching.

When I get back to my quad, I can smell disinfectant coming from Carla's desk. I glance over at Dan's desk and see a decaying, half-eaten muffin lying beside his keyboard. Is this some passive-aggressive move on Dan's part to drive Carla batty? Not his style – he's just a plain old slob.

“Here's your 811 back,” I say to Brita, although I doubt she can hear me.

She swivels in her chair and responds loudly, likely due to Slipknot blasting in her ears, “Just put it on the fucking desk MacDonald, Jesus, can't you see I'm coding here?”

I log back onto my machine and an email from Phil greets me wanting to go to lunch; apparently he's starving and about to lose his mind. Before I even click reply, Phil appears at the entrance of my quad. He performs a huge fake sneeze in Carla's direction. Carla looks like somebody just told her that a family member had died.

“Must be coming down with something,” says Phil.

I try not to laugh.

“You ready dude?” asks Phil.

“Yeah, let's go.”

“Time to get the fuck out of Dodge, baby.”

I lock up my machine, alt-ctrl-delete, as I hear Carla open her drawer for the spray.

I don't really know why Phil bothers to email me about lunch; he comes by my desk at the same time every day and says the same thing, “Time to get the fuck out of Dodge.” Dodge, our office building, is located across the street from a shopping mall. If I d
on't bring my lunch, which Phil never does, this is where we go.

We frogger our way across the street through heavy traffic and into the temperature-controlled environment of Sunshine Valley Mall. Escalators carry us upwards through the suspended 3-D fibreglass clouds. When we reach the top, the bustling noise of hungry shoppers is almost deafening. A huge wrought-iron archway with the words “Sunshine Court” greets us. Choices abound. Neon and fluorescent lights illuminate the culinary repertoire of such fine eateries as New York Fries, Pizza Pizza, Subway, Tim Hortons, McDonald's, KFC and the family-run Lebanese place, The Shawarma Pit. We've been coming here for years and don't bother to discuss where we're going to eat. I hand Phil seven bucks and look for a good seat near the tranquil artificial rock mound, equipped with a soothing waterfall, goldfish pond and lush plastic plants. From this magical vantage point, we can gaze into the den of beauties, the all-female staff of First Choice Haircutters. Phil gets his haircut at least once a month, usually from Lulu, the clipper with the biggest breasts. Within five minutes, Phil has returned from The Shawarma Pit with a couple of waxed-paper-wrapped chicken sandwiches, garlic potatoes and sodas.

“Lulu there?” he asks, rubber necking to the hair salon as he sits down.

“Haven't seen her yet.”

“Hey, is that one new?” he asks, referring to a young blonde woman with an almost indecently short, black miniskirt.

“Yeah, I think so. Looks pretty hot.”

“Fucking right on. I need my haircut anyway. It's a friggin' mop.”

“Phil, you hardly have a mop, it's a crewcut.”

“Bullshit, I need a haircut. How's Sarah, you guys pregnant yet?”

“Sarah has PCOS and has been on this Metformin drug to help regulate her blood sugar. The idea is that she will start to ovulate normally. It's been six months now and still no luck. We're going back to see Dr. King next week
to see what the next step is. Sarah's depressed. She keeps talking about adopting a little girl from China, but I keep trying to tell her to keep her hopes up and not give up. Adoption's bloody expensive. Over twenty
grand if you want a kid from China and it takes three years.”

“Holy shit,” says Phil as he shovels a garlic-covered potato into his mouth.

“Yeah, crazy eh?”

“Fuck, do you at least get to pick the kid yourself, or is it random?”

“Pretty sure it's random.”

“Christ, so you could get a real ugly one then?”

“Dude, that's not very nice. Sarah and I, if we ever do manage to have kids, well they just might be the ugliest kids in the world.”

“You and Sarah, ugly kids, I don't think so. The only ugliness would be coming from you, so I think the kid would have a pretty good chance. Hey, look there, it's Freddy Fruitcake,” says Phil, pointing to a man who's slowly walking down the mall carrying a flashlight.

Phil's coined the name “Freddy Fruitcake” only because Freddy is obviously mentally ill. Freddy snakes detective-like through the mall armed with a flashlight and attired in his standard uniform of neon green pants and orange baggy sweater. Freddy and the Sunshine Valley Mall were partially my inspiration for
The Cube People
. I always envisioned the cube, this supercomputer, to resemble this food court, a giant glowing brain with a beehive of drone workers, coming and going – happy cube people in their idealistic society, eating the same thing repeatedly.

“Phil, why do we eat at The Shawarma Pit almost every day?”

“Dude,” he muffles, taking a swig of his drink and washing back the food, “the food is the bomb and the girl at the cash is smoking. But you know this already, so why are you asking? You're thinking about determinism again aren't you?”

“Maybe,” I say, always amazed at how intuitive Phil can be.

“Shit man, I told you, it will unfold as it will, so you should focus on the here and now. If you sit around thinking about how it is you're thinking all the time, well life is just going to pass you by, man. Live it as if it means something and you will find happiness.”

“Phil, have I told you recently that you're one awesome dude?”

“Shit man, I know that. Now I just have to convince the new little hottie at First Choice of that fact and life will be grand.”

We finish our lunch and head to First Choice so Phil can make a hair appointment for 4:30. He flirts heavily with the new girl. When we get back to the office my project leader and immediate supervisor, Bruce, is exiting my quad. Bruce is a micro-manager, a nitpicker – typical red-tape government. I always feel compelled to tell him, just let me do my job for Christ's sake and quit all the nonsense. “Hey Colin, hate to be a pest, but can you resubmit your timesheet for last week, you used code 855 when it should be 856 for the two-hour meeting on Wednesday.”

“Sure thing Bruce, right away.”

“I'm going to have estimates for you soon.”

“Sounds good.”

“Oh yeah, I'm supposed to remind everyone that photocopying should be held to a bare minimum. Also, try not to print anything if you can.”

I think of Bruce as not responsible for his actions, like Freddy Fruitcake. They have no choice. Bruce can't help being Bruce. I correct my electronic timesheet and hit submit. I smile and think I can't help the fact that I hate my job.