Drink in case of Emergency (2 page)

Pouring the cereal into the bowl on the countertop, and topping it off with milk, Tyler turned on the small TV he had in his kitchen, he flipped it away from the morning news and onto MTV. Tyler never really cared for the latest sixteen year old teen heartthrob’s music video, but it was better than the local news story on an outbreak of penis cancer that was linked to knock off KY lube from China...or whatever pseudo crisis they were reporting on this week.

              Quickly finishing up his cereal, Tyler pulled out two slices of whole wheat bread, two slices of deli ham and a single slice of swiss cheese to make his sandwich for lunch. He stuffed this sandwich into a worn, crumpled, brown paper bag, which he added an apple and carrot sticks to.

Looking at the clock, Tyler mumbled to himself, “7:27...late as usual.” Tyler hurried out of the boring gray apartment building, and into his 2002 Blue Dodge Stratus.

Also unbeknownst to him at the time, in exactly 24 hours, Tyler would be fleeing for his life in that same vehicle.

              The drive to work was routine for Tyler. It was a Thursday, which meant it was a cappuccino treat day. Pulling up to the drive through window of the coffee shop he stopped at every Thursday, Tyler was confronted by another decision.

Was it a double caramel latte day, or a mocha espresso day?

These decisions were getting harder and harder to make. Tyler finally settled on the latte and pulled forward to the window. Tyler accepted his drink from the cute barista whom he always over tipped, but never asked out, and pulled away. The rest of his drive to work, Tyler sipped lightly on his beverage while thinking that he really ought to join a gym.

Pulling into the parking lot at work, Tyler checked the time on his phone, 4 minutes late. Climbing from his Stratus, Tyler walked in hurried steps to the doors of the Mayfair lane professional building. He would walk quickly, but never run, no matter how late he actually was. Tyler always felt like running would make him look guilty and unprofessional, so it was one thing he would never resign himself to do, even if late.

              Tyler walked through the large glass doors into the Mayfair lane professional building. It was a seven story building that was the cutting edge of style and technology when it was built in the 1970’s. There had been few upgrades since then. The first and the seventh floors were both beautiful spaces. Bright, airy, with floor to ceiling windows. Tyler worked on the sixth floor, which would most be best described as “plain”. “Plain” and “mind-numbing” if you wanted to be extra descriptive. Tyler took the elevator up to the sixth floor as he did every day, and passed by Pam, the aggressive and heavy set “administrative assistant” for the floor.

Tyler kept a mental list of the women in his life he was genuinely afraid of, ever since he turned ten and found out that he wasn’t supposed to be afraid of women. Pam was number seven on this list. She had brown hair that she kept shorter than Tyler wore his. He couldn’t be exactly sure on her age, but he would guess somewhere between thirty and fifty-five. She was perpetually angry, built like a bulldog, and had a voice that was somewhere between a grunt and a fog horn. She was also the only Muay Thai boxer that Tyler had ever met, and a black belt no less. Muay Thai, Tyler learned from her, is like kickboxing, only instead of trying to knock your opponent down, the goal is to inflict as much damage as humanly possible.

Not wanting to give an aggressive woman who had been trained to break people a reason to be mad, Tyler made every effort to stay in Pam’s good graces.

“Morning Pam,” Tyler spoke with as much enthusiasm as he could fake.

“Yes, Tyler, I suppose it is morning. And as usual, you are late this morning.” Pam stated, enunciating each word. Tyler could feel his false enthusiasm deflating like a balloon. Most mornings Pam just ignored him, this was a sure sign that today was going to be a bad day.

              Tyler hurried back through the maze of six foot grey cubicle walls to his small space in the middle. Opening his laptop, Tyler pressed the circular power key, slid into his office chair, and waited for his machine to boot up.

              “Morning Tyler, do you have a minute?” A sharp voice spoke cheerfully from behind. Tyler jumped a little bit as he cursed to himself. Partly for being startled, and partly for getting caught being five minutes late.

Charles “Charlie” Westin was the Human Resources manager for the floor, and the only logical reason that Tyler could think of for an 8:10 am meeting was because of his tardiness. Tyler spun his chair to face Charlie Westin and put on his best fake smile.

Whenever Tyler looked at Charlie, the word “pudgy” (in puffy, marshmallow letters) always popped into his mind. Charlie Westin wasn’t a fat man, but he did look like the type of person who might have had a rough time with bullies in middle school.

He was heavier set, but more than that Charlie carried his weight poorly. With his narrow shoulders, the extra fat was stored almost entirely in his face and around his hips in such a way that from a distance, wearing the wrong clothes, Charlie bore a strong resemblance to a bowling pin.

              “For you, Charlie? I’ve got 10.” Tyler said cheerfully. He worried his false enthusiasm might be taken as sarcasm, but he couldn’t stop himself for some reason.

There was a part of Tyler, a part he didn’t fully acknowledge at this time, a magical part of himself, that was dripping with anger.

*****

             
Tyler followed Charlie to his office.
It was located on the perimeter of the building and was one of the few workspaces with a window and a door to it. The door was cheap plywood and the window was very small and only offered a commanding view of the adjacent building’s gravel rooftop. Once inside, the office was a menagerie of awkwardness.

When Charlie joined the company, the walls had been painted yellow at his insistence. He had convinced management that having yellow walls would make him more effective at his job because the color was soothing to employees who would come to him with issues. He had decorated the ‘soothing’ yellow walls with a mismatch of very personal and terrible artwork. An abstract painting he had done in college, a caricature of himself he had gotten at a local carnival last year, and charcoal drawing of a cat that his (mini-bowling pin) daughter had created in eighth grade.

Charlie sat down on a large blue yoga ball he used for a desk chair. He had bought it after his divorce, so he could build up his core muscles while at work. Tyler caught a glimpse of Charlie’s computer screen before he could minimize the window. Tyler saw the words “E-date.com”, and reflected that this must mean that Charlie’s getting himself back on the market.

Tyler sat in one of the ‘guest chairs’ that were set up across the desk. He didn’t know at the time, but those chairs were actually specially designed for guests in a business office. They were ergonomically ‘crafted’ by a team of engineers, scientists, and yogis to help open the heart chakra, creating a positive environment. Or at least that’s what the feng shui brochure that Charlie ordered them from had claimed. Tyler did not feel like he was in a positive environment.

              Folding his hands together on his desk, Charlie spoke cheerfully. “How have things been going for you lately?” He was gyrating his hips ever so slightly on his exercise ball/chair to activate his gluteal muscles. In any setting, whether on an exercise ball or not, this is an obscene gesture.

              “Okay...I guess...the Sandworth project is about to wrap up, so that will be a big load off the team.” Tyler had learned early in his career that when dealing with HR, it was always better to phrase things in terms of the group as a whole. Being an individual is great in second grade, but as an adult in an office, you wanted to appear as part of the whole. A small, non-offensive piece of the machine. Preferably one that was a little bit mysterious, so they weren’t looking for a replacement part, and at the same time didn’t feel comfortable taking you out altogether. This led to “I, me, my” to be almost entirely removed from the corporate lingo.

              “Yeah, that was a doozy of a project for sure.” Charlie replied without the appropriate amount of enthusiasm for a sentence that had the word ‘doozy’ in it. While he said this, he reached down for his reading glasses.

Fuck.

              Tyler knew what the reading glasses meant. Charlie only needed them when he was reading paper. Everything in the office was electronic now, everything except for personnel files.

It had become folklore in the office that whenever Charlie’s reading glasses came out, the personnel files came out as well, and that was never a good thing. If you were getting promoted, they offered you the job and then added the changes to your file later. An HR manager really only used personnel files with you in the room when they were about to fire you.

Fuck.

The rest of the meeting happened in a blur for Tyler. He was pretty sure he heard the words “tardiness,” “negative,” “uncooperative,” and “tardiness,” although he couldn’t really be sure. He felt like he was sleepwalking as he went back to his desk and found his few personal things already packed up in a crisp cardboard box. He was a little ashamed when he realized that everything that belonged to him in this office could be packed into a single cubic foot of space.

He was distracted from his shame when he realized that he had never seen a box like this before, not in the entire office. For a brief moment he wondered if his employer specifically purchased these boxes for employees who just got fired. And then did they keep a small stockpile on hand, or did Charlie have to make a special order whenever they fired anyone?

              Tyler snapped out of his daze when he slammed his car door shut. Letting out a deep sigh, the full effect of what just happened settled onto his chest.

He was fired. Fired, not just let go due to ‘downsizing’ or some boloney. Tyler sunk into the fabric of his car seat. The weight on his chest grew, and he felt like he might cry.

Trying not to think about everything, Tyler pulled out his cellphone and prepared himself to tap out a text message. There were five people he considered messaging at that moment. Of the dozen pointless decisions he had made that morning, this would be the one that would save his life. If he had sent the text message to either of his parents, his sister, or his ex-girlfriend, he and his friends would no longer be among the living, and our story would end here. By almost random chance at 8:11 a.m., through tapping out a simple text message, Tyler set the chain of events that would make this story possible.

             
Nineteen miles away, Justin Lindel rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as Beth Lyons emerged from the bathroom wearing only a single white cotton towel, which was wrapped tightly around her wet hair.

              “Good morning, beautiful.” Justin mumbled as his eyes lingered on her very naked and still pleasantly moist body. Beth walked past the bed to her suitcase on the floor, where she began pulling out clothes for the day.

“I don’t know if it’s a good morning, Tiger puked in your bathtub again last night.” Beth’s voice was flat as she pulled out a matching top and bottom set of scrubs. Justin had gotten used to her aggressive responses in the morning. She was usually grumpy in the morning, and often in the afternoon as well. Sometimes she wasn’t grumpy in the evening, but then again, sometimes she was. Justin was able to overlook this grumpiness because it typically wasn’t directed at him, she often said very amusing things while grumpy, and she looked amazing, even when she was grumpy.

They had been together for almost six glorious months. Five of those months she had been crashing at his place most nights. Justin took this to mean that things were getting serious. He chose not to think about the fact that he lived closer to the hospital she worked at. Justin reflected on how lucky he was as he watched her rummage through her suitcase. Then Beth spoke.

Tiger, of the bathtub vomit fame, was the orange tabby cat that Beth had adopted almost a year ago. Justin honestly couldn’t remember if there was any time in the six months they had been dating that the cat didn’t have some kind of health problem. Between the stomach bugs, various bouts with pneumonia and the ever looming threat of cat AIDS, it had spent the majority of the last five months at Justin’s place, depositing a variety of bodily fluids throughout his apartment.

             
After pulling on her underwear, Beth turned and looked at Justin. “You can clean that up today, right? I’ve got another twelve hour shift.” Beth worked as a nurse assistant at the nearby St. Vincent’s Hospital. The hours left much to be desired, but the money was good for having a two year degree. Justin had stopped counting how often she talked about going back to finish her four year degree, it was a strange day when he didn’t hear about it at least once.

              “Sure, I can clean up after the little guy.” Justin replied as Beth pulled a scrubs top over her head, pulling the towel loose and shaking free her long, platinum blonde hair. He had always loved her hair, it was almost white and contrasted beautifully off of her dark Mediterranean complexion. “I thought you worked twelves the last two days so you would only have a six hour shift today?” Justin said half questioning as he made the bed.

              “Yeah...but Jessica called in sick so they needed someone to stay late tonight and I thought I’d volunteer. I could use the money, and Dr. Robertson is working so it should be an easy shift.” Beth replied. Justin was familiar with the names of her coworkers, he actually prided himself on always listening intently when Beth told stories from work. He knew Dr. Robertson was good to work with, and that Jessica was bad. Beth had many highly creative and offensive names she had called Jessica over the last six months. Beth’s creativity was one of the things Justin loved about her.

Justin’s favorite nickname had been the week when Jessica was referred to as “Skeet-ball.” A colorful amalgamation of the words “skeeball”, the popular carnival game where balls are thrown into holes of increasing challenge, and “skeet” which is a slang term for semen commonly used in rap music. It was the most creative way Justin had ever heard to call someone a slut, (i.e. Skeet-ball actually took two guys home last night, can you believe it?).

Justin was pulled from this memory by Beth’s question. “Could you make me some french toast while I dry my hair? Thanks hun.” Without waiting for the reply, she walked out of the room and Justin heard her blow-dryer roar to life.

              Justin walked through the hallway of the small one bedroom apartment and into the kitchen. The apartment was the upper level of an old house. The place always reeked of cigarette smoke because of the two women who lived downstairs, but at least it was cheap.

“You feeling a little better, buddy?” Tiger brushed up against Justin’s leg as he opened the refrigerator door.

              Justin worked quickly to create breakfast for Beth. Fifteen minutes later he had the French Toast steaming on the table, with warm maple syrup and an ice cold glass of orange juice to wash it down with. Beth quickly walked through the kitchen, a hurried look on her face.

              “Oh babe, I changed my mind like ten minutes ago, I’m just going to grab some coffee on the way. I’ll call you later. Don’t forget about the puke in the bathroom.” Beth had already slammed the front door behind her before Justin could reply.

              Justin sat at the table with two plates of French toast in front of him, and Tiger meowing around his ankles. Beth’s mind changed faster than her moods. Sighing softly, Justin rose from the table and discarded both plates of French toast into the garbage. “I don’t even like French toast, Tiger. I’d give it to you, but with your luck it would give you diabetes.” Cleaning up the dishes in the sink, he was about to go to the bathroom to begin vomit clean-up, when he heard the quiet rumble of his cell phone vibrating on the nightstand. Picking it up, he read the message.

‘Just got fired, is 8:30 too early to start binge drinking?’

              A slight smile crawled across Justin’s face as he began tapping a response: ‘8:30 is way too early, but it’ll take you 30 minutes to get here. 9:00am is a perfectly acceptable time to start.’

*****

              Tyler parked his blue Stratus on the street in front of Justin’s apartment. He had thought about calling his parents or his sister while on the way, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Every time he reached for his phone, the weight on his chest got heavier.

Just get through today.  Then you can let them know.

Walking up the narrow sidewalk along the side of the house, Tyler climbed the creaky outdoor staircase to the apartment that Justin lived in. Tyler didn’t bother knocking, he simply let himself in.

“Justin?” Tyler called out when he didn’t find his friend already waiting in kitchen. He paused a moment before calling out his alternate greeting. “Beer?”

              Following the sound he heard coming from the back of the apartment, Tyler found Justin in the bathroom. Standing barefoot in the tub, Justin wore black athletic shorts, an old Chicago Bulls jersey, a backwards baseball cap and bright yellow rubber cleaning gloves that went up almost to his elbows. If Tyler hadn’t just lost his job, he might feel overdressed in his Dockers’ Khakis and yellow polo. Justin was holding a squirt bottle of all purpose cleaner and a rag that looked like it had done some terrible things in its day.

              “Tiger got sick, again.” Justin mumbled, gesturing with his gloved hands at the bathroom in general. “Sorry about your job though, that sucks.”

              “I am at least a dozen drinks away from being ready to talk about that.” Tyler replied. “What do you have around here that is made of alcohol?”

              “That depends on your poison.” Justin spoke as he carefully pulled off his gloves and dropped them into a blue bucket beside the bathtub. I know we’ve got a sixer in the fridge, some whiskey from my birthday a few months back, and a couple bottles of wine from when Beth tried to set up a book club with her friends. Personally, nine in the morning is usually a little early for me to start drinking, but given the circumstances...” Justin was about to continue when Tyler cut him off.

              “We’ll start with the beer and see where destiny takes us.” Tyler was already walking back toward the kitchen to find the beer before Justin was able to respond.

              “You know, a friend might feel obligated to point out that binge drinking does nothing to solve your problem.” Justin called out as he washed his hands in the kitchen sink.

              “Good thing you’re my best friend then, which means that obligation is overridden by the obligation to shotgun a beer with me, right now.” Tyler shouted back as he stuck his head into the fridge and pulled two beers, flipping them both upside down on the kitchen table

              “Really? Shotgunning? At 9:00am? I haven’t even had breakfast yet.” Justin stared across the kitchen at his friend.

              “The obligations between best friends can be rough sometimes, I know. But it’s what you have to do, that’s why they’re called obligations.” Tyler pulled out his car keys, punched a hole in the bottom of each can of beer while he continued. “Besides, beer makes a great breakfast. It’s got the perfect blend of water, alcohol, carbs, and poor decisions.” Both cans were bubbling, spilling beer onto the table when Tyler slid one across to Justin. Without another word of protest, Justin lifted the can in response to the toast that Tyler was making.

              “To terrible days and the friends that get you through them.” Tyler spoke before pulling the tab, opening his can and draining the beer in two short seconds.