Thomas World (16 page)

On the way to the office I roll down the windows and open the sunroof. It's a beautiful day, sharp colors and cool, fresh air. Early November bliss. At the freeway light, while I wait for the red orb to become a green arrow, an old white Cadillac convertible pulls up beside me. The top is down, and two dudes are sitting in the front seats. The passenger is dark skinned and kind of heavy—swarthy, really—while the driver is gaunt, almost skeletal. He's wearing some kind of soft-brimmed hat and big sunglasses. When he sees me looking at him, he pulls off his sunglasses in dramatic,
exaggerated fashion and bares his teeth at me. His eyes are bloodshot, wild. The irises are nearly eclipsed by his pupils. I stare at him, unable to wrench my eyes away, and watch as he takes a swig of alcohol from what looks like a bottle of tequila. My hand idly drifts to my own drink, tucked safely in the center console cup holder. A double shot of rum and a splash of diet root beer. I pull it to my lips and suck in a swallow, then another. The gaunt fellow's sneer turns into a smile. The light turns green. He speeds away.

I've seen that man before, that car. I don't know from where. He's very different from the man in the church bathroom, he's not the man in the Stetson hat, but somehow he's just as familiar. I saw him on the highway somewhere near Barstow. I don't even know where Barstow is, but that's where I saw him.

Images of Gloria strobe through my mind and I blot them out. Chase them away. I can't deal with all these things at once. When I have the screenplay in my hands again, I can move on to the next problem.

A little while later I pull into the parking lot at work. At first I drive straight toward the front entrance, where the receptionist sits, but then I realize I'm very, very drunk. There's a good chance the receptionist will notice. If that happens, she might call security instead of William, and either way I probably won't get into the building. But you might remember the back door, the one I normally use, closes slowly. All I have to do is sit in my car and wait for someone to enter the building, and I can follow them inside. Then I could conceivably walk right into the office, get my files, and leave. Even if I run into someone, as long as it isn't William or some other manager, they probably won't even know I'm not supposed to be there.

I drive to the back entrance, but instead of my normal spot out in the boonies, I park against an open curb near the door. This way I can quickly get out to follow someone. I turn off the engine and sit for a moment while the engine cools. Take another drink or two of my cocktail. It's almost gone but I have supplies in the backseat in case I need a refill. You can never have enough liquid courage, you know?

It doesn't take long for someone to show up. After about five minutes (or so it seems) a girl in a black Jeep Liberty rolls up and parks in one of the front parking spots. There's a Roxy sticker in the back window. The girl is slender and dark-skinned and has brown hair and is wearing big, fashionable sunglasses. She steps out of the car and hurries toward the doors, so fast I realize I have to go right now if I want to catch her.

But when I step out of the car, my balance isn't so good. I feel like my eyes are orbiting my brain like a planet orbits the sun. My hands find the cool, metal surface of the car. I want to stand there and collect my thoughts, but if I do she's going to reach the door before I even start walking.

Across the asphalt, toward the sidewalk, I nimbly step over the curb and make my way to the doors, and all the while my heart beats like a snare drum in my head. That's right, my head. That's where it's beating. The girl is wearing expensive jeans that compliment her butt. Her heels click on the sidewalk. I'm about twenty feet away when she reaches the first set of doors, and that's when I remember there are security cameras in the parking lot. I forgot about that. If he's smart, William will have alerted the security guards to watch for me on those cameras. But still I walk, maintaining a good pace, at least four miles per hour.

“Warning! Warning 47!”

I whip around, quickly, and nearly fall over. What the hell was that? It sounded like a drill sergeant barking through a megaphone, which is impossible, which means I must be hearing things again. Which isn't really surprising since I am shithammered right now.

The girl is through the glass doors and I can see she's holding her purse up to the card reader.

I lurch toward the doors. The girl is through the second set, the doors that lock, and the one she opened is slowly closing. I finally reach the foyer and pull open the first door, reaching the second set just before the door clicks shut.

Holy shit I made it!

And then I'm in the office. It's only been one day but it still feels like I haven't been here in months. Maybe years. Somehow it smells both musty and antiseptic. I can hear the clickety-clack of a computer keyboard. Someone on the phone. I've never been to work drunk before.

I stumble down the cubicle hallway, running my hand along the gray fabric wall for balance and support. The first corner is just ahead, and I watch for William over the wall as I approach. But he's not very tall. I might not see him.

And then I'm around the corner. Someone is headed right towards me, but it's not William. It's the guy who runs our Intranet, Scott. He's kind of short, completely bald, and wears glasses so small they could be spectacles. The lenses are thick. Scott is brilliant and the most positive man you will ever meet in your life.

“Thomas!” he cries.

I instinctively duck, like a convict running from the po-po. Scott's smile falters a little.

“Hey, man,” he says, with what sounds like genuine concern. “Everything all right?”

My mouth opens to answer him, but I realize whatever comes out is going to be slurred. So I stop and collect myself. Proceed carefully.

“Everything's cool. I'm off work today. Just came in to get some flies off my computer.”

To his credit, Scott's facial expression doesn't change, but I think he can tell I'm drunk. Plus I just said “flies” instead of “files.”

In my head I can hear a clock ticking. The doomsday clock. I don't have much time before William walks by.

“Is it a screenplay?” he asks with a smile. “I had no idea you were so talented!”

I told you before I don't talk about my screenwriting at work. I don't know how the hell Scott knows. I guess Gloria told William and William told whoever the hell he felt like telling.

“Well, I don't know about talented.”

“Sure you are. You sold a screenplay, right?”

Like I said, Scott is probably the nicest guy I've ever met. He's asking these questions out of genuine interest. But I don't have time for it right now.

“Sort of. I got an option. But it wasn't ever make—made—into a film.”

“Well, that's better than most people. Really awesome stuff.”

“Yeah, but I'm sort of in a hurry today. I safe—save—my files here at work in case something ever happens to my computer at home. And wouldn't you know it, my harsh drive crashed today.”

Yeah, I know. I said “harsh drive.” I hate myself.

“Oh, man. I'm sorry. I bet you're eager to get that backup file.”

“Yeah.”

“All right, man,” he says, and pats me on the arm. “Good luck with that.”

“Thanks, Scott.”

And that's when I see it on his face. He just smelled alcohol…on my breath or from my pores, it doesn't matter. As he walks away, he looks back over his shoulder at me. I make eye contact with him, looking for understanding in his eyes, but he doesn't smile now. He's disappointed, and Scott is rarely disappointed with anyone. Why the hell did I start drinking already? In the morning? I mean I know it's because Gloria left, but Jesus Christ, I'm almost incapacitated. I'm an asshole.

As I turn around I feel like someone else is standing there, watching, but the cubicle hallway is still empty. I reach another corner and turn left. My cube is three down on the right.

And then I'm there.

I collapse into my chair. At least now I am out of sight. And if I made it this far, I might have a real chance to get my file and get out of here.

But when I grab the mouse to wake up the computer, nothing happens. I look at the power light and realize the computer is off. I never turn it off. Either the power went out or someone has been on my computer since I left, and there weren't any thunderstorms last night. No reason for the power to have gone off.

So I turn the computer on. Wait for it to run through the boot sequence and start Windows.

This takes forever. Why? Why does it have to take so long?

As I wait, the alcohol in my brain causes reality to wax and wane. Consciousness drifts in and out like waves, and the intervening time could be minutes or hours. I imagine what Gloria might be doing right now. Sitting in her office…the door closed? Crying? Or is she in Jack's office, pouring her heart out to him, revealing how miserable she has been all these months? Years?

Windows finally launches, and a moment later a dialog box pops up asking for my username and password. I key them in, more sure than ever this is going to work.

But instead of continuing into Windows, the computer returns this message:

The password is incorrect. Please retype your password. Letters in passwords must be typed using the correct case.

Dread settles over me, somehow cold and hot at the same time. I type my password again, hoping my drunk fingers might somehow have keyed in the letters wrong, but I know they didn't.

Error message again.

The cooling fan in my computer hums. My hard disk whirs. Conversations from other cubicles float toward me, a few words here, a chuckle there. Footfalls and swooshing pants as someone walks by in the hallway behind me.

The synthetic smell of microwave popcorn.

The surreal and contrived florescent light.

And in my head, distantly, maybe I'm imagining it or maybe it's real…a woman reciting numbers. Again.

5…8…2…0…9…
pause…
7…4…9…4…4…
pause…
5…9…2…3…0
.

I see movement in my peripheral vision. When I look up, William is standing there.

“Thomas,” he says. His voice is strident. Urgent. Nervous.

“Hi, William.”

“I'm sorry, but you're not allowed in the building any longer.”

When you're really drunk, obstacles normally easy to overcome turn into vast, complex problems. Like how your brain works overdrive to keep your car in the correct lane, or how you can't remember the code to your house alarm, even though you've successfully keyed it in thousands of times before.

Convincing William to let me copy personal files off my work computer would be difficult even if I were stone cold sober. As it is, I don't know where to begin.

So I beg.

“Please,” I say. “My computer at home crashed. I losh—lost—some important files. But I have them backed up here. Can I please just copy those? After that you'll never hear from me again.”

William is not a man who welcomes confrontation. This entire discussion has taken place well outside his comfort zone. But now his facial features relax and it seems—for a moment at least—like he might relent. Then he glances over his shoulder, as if someone is standing behind him, and when he looks back I know his heart has hardened.

“I'm sorry, Thomas. Any files saved on a work computer are the property of the company. In fact any intellectual property you have created on company equipment is legally owned by the company as well.”

Unless my alcohol-soaked brain is mistaken, I think William just told me that my screenplay, whether I could gain access to the file or not, is not my property. And I still (again) hear that British woman reciting numbers.

“I haven't worked on it here,” I blurt. “I just saved it here in case of emergenshy, like right now.”

“I'm sorry,” William says. “We have no way to determine that. All we know is the file resides on that computer, which is property of the company.”

“That's bullshit and you know it. You're being intentionally shitty, William.”

“I'm sorry, Thomas.”

“Stop saying that!”

I try to stand up, but I don't get my feet under me. For a moment I totter at a weird angle and then fall back into the chair. My face flushes hot.

“You're being an ass.”

“Thomas, if you don't—”

I stand up again, bracing myself against the desk this time to keep my balance.

“Don't pull that profeshional horsheshit with me! You've been talking to my wife behind my back! You asshole!”

And right then the pressure of everything that has happened the past few days, especially that Gloria left, that my Junior is gone forever, is on top of me, like a monkey straddling my shoulders, beating on my head, crying into my ears, and the only way I can think to get rid of it and find some equilibrium is through brute force.

William's birdlike, pasty features beg to be defiled in some way.

I lunge at him.

Then a flash of darkness, a burst of pain, and the next thing I know I'm on the carpet of my cubicle, looking up at the underside of my desk, at some kind of weird, white stain.

A head pops into view. It's Geoff Nunn, our security director.

“Mr. Phillips,” he says. “I'm here to escort you from the grounds. Are you able to stand up?”

My face feels flat. Hot and flat. I don't really feel much pain at this point. I'm too self-medicated for that.

I nod.

He extends his hand, but I ignore it. I roll over and try to jump to my feet, and Geoff Nunn hits me in the back of the head again.

“Stop that!”

But when I look back at him, I realize I'm even farther under the desk. I guess I hit my head on it when I tried to stand up.

Geoff offers to help again, which I ignore again. I crawl out from underneath the desk and rise to my feet, swaying, and I would probably fall if not for a strong hand that grabs my elbow and steadies me.