Zombie Tales: Primrose Court Apt. 205 (4 page)

My job was definitely not secure. Even with
all my time working for Comdex Pharmaceuticals, I was just as
expendable as the next guy; maybe more so, I was one of the highest
paid accountants in the company. They could hire one of the young
fresh graduates off the street for nearly half of what they paid
me.

I work hard, but I see no reason to waste any
part of my lunch break in the john. Other than a pen or two and
maybe a few sheets of copy paper, those fifteen minutes are my only
extra compensation for the wonderful job I did at Comdex. But I
suppose I should quit rambling and just start at the beginning.

Lunch had been a frantic race to find
Rebecca, the sandwich girl. She made her rounds in our building
every day, but ultimately she seemed to forget me three times a
week. It wasn’t by accident of course. I don't know what her
problem was. I mean, sure I asked her out once, but when she said
no I didn't push. I don't know why everything got awkward after
that. I'm an adult and she's an adult, just because she didn't want
to be an adult with me doesn't mean I don't still like
sandwiches.

That day, by the time I caught up to her on
the third floor, all she had left was turkey on rye. I can't stand
rye bread, why would anyone fuck up a perfectly good loaf of bread
like that? I bought it anyway, because I hate spending the
afternoon with an empty stomach more than I hate rye.

She sold the sandwich to me, but was very
flippant about it, like just because I chased her down to purchase
something for lunch, she had grounds for a sexual harassment
suit.

As if, I thought. Plenty of other girls out
there refused to date me, why would she think she was so
special.

I mean, sure Rebecca was attractive and had
eyes that flirted from across the room whether she knew it or not,
but I don't see how selling sandwiches out of a basket puts you
anywhere close to the top of the most eligible single woman
list.

Anyway, I had to eat my sandwich on the move.
By the time I caught up to her, purchased the sandwich, and got my
change, I had ten minutes left to get back to my office.

The elevator ride back up to the fourth floor
was not at all note worthy. I got a few strange looks from the
other passengers because I was woofing down my turkey on rye, but
fuck them. There is no law that says you're supposed to stand all
ridged staring at the numbers above the door waiting for your
floor. I was hungry and I wasted precious time chasing down the
bitch that didn't have time to date me.

I got off the elevator on my floor, humming
the tune to some bluesy number that had been playing in there. I
tried to remember the words but quickly gave it up, words were not
my thing. Numbers were my thing.

I made my way to my cubical eating my entire
sandwich except the bottom crust; I tossed that into my wastepaper
basket. I booted up my computer and made sure the spreadsheet on my
screen looked like I had been working hard. My screensaver was set
for twenty minutes, more than enough time for me to hit the
restroom, but still have proof that I had returned from lunch and
started crunching the sales figures again.

I gave Marcy a little wave as I passed the
reception area. She looked right at me but pretended that she
didn't see, putting her hand up to the headset she was wearing and
turning in her plush leather office chair.

Bitch.

I had been there for her. When she and Julio
from the mailroom broke up, I was her shoulder to cry on. I
bolstered her self esteem. I helped her understand that Julio's
need to screw other people had nothing to do with her. And what did
I get for all my trouble?

Nothing, that's what.

I didn't force myself on her. I mean, that's
what you're thinking, right? That I tried to make a move on her
while she was crying in my arms. Well, that's not how it happened
at all. I was a perfect gentleman. After she had somewhat recovered
from her falling out with “Don Juan” Julio, she started badmouthing
me all over the office, said I tried to take advantage of her.
There is no doubt in my mind that it was because she had seen my
crappy studio apartment and had second thoughts about me and
her.

She played it off like I was relentless in my
pursuit of her to the point of bordering on harassment. Like I got
nothing better to do than beg dumb chicks for sex, so much for
being the nice guy.

So that day was much like any other. I enter
the men's room at the end of the hall to do my business with my
copy of
USA Today
under my arm; well truth be told it wasn't
my copy; I didn't actually have a subscription. I routinely stole
the copy from the waiting area, but who cares? Who really expects
to have up-to-date reading material when they’re sitting in a
waiting area anyway?

My usual stall was empty, thank God. This
restroom only had three stalls, two the size of my linen closet and
one fit for a king. It was the handicapped stall of course, set
aside by society for those less fortunate. But being as there were
no employees on our floor confined to a wheelchair, what was the
harm in me staking claim.

I settled in. I'll spare you all the
embracing details, but suffice to say, I visited my local Mexican
restaurant the previous night. I didn't eat there, mind you; I
can't stand the ethnic music they play and watching all the white
patrons attempt to apply what they remember from high school
Spanish class is enough to turn my stomach. I ordered to go and
went home to watch Jersey Shore.

I know, I know; what kind of single young
professional would waste a Tuesday evening watching Jersey Shore? I
watch it like some might watch a disaster movie. The people
portrayed on that show are shining examples of everything I find
wrong with America today.

It was just another bunch of self centered
shallow kids cashing in on their fifteen minutes of fame. Not one
of them took the time to learn about their heritage.

And fuck their heritage anyway. Mussolini
sided with Hitler in World War Two, didn’t he? How the fuck did
Italy get off so easy on that one? As far as I'm concerned, Italian
Americans in the 21
^st
century are a joke. They think
they can embrace the word 'Guido' like the blacks embraced the word
'Nigga' and everything is going to be alright. Why shouldn’t those
kids have to go find jobs and work for a living? America's fixation
on the blacks pretty much ended when Bill Cosby retired, but this
new fixation on Italians made me question what this country is all
about. Don't even get me started on the Kardashians.

I dropped trou and parked my behind on the
elongated toilet with the horseshoe shaped seat to do my business.
I really don't understand why the commercial toilet industry thinks
that cutting six inches out of the front of the seat is going to
work. Anyone willing to piss on a toilet seat isn't going to limit
themselves to that small space missing from the front and the few
shlubs that would have lifted the seat think they don't have to
because the seat has that gap. So they do their best to stand
directly in front of the gap to do their business. Of course, more
often than not they defile some part of the seat, whether it’s due
to inattention, or a lack of respect for the future users.

When was the last time you dribbled a few
drops on a public toilet seat and took the time to clean up after
yourself with a few squares of toilet paper? Not fuckin' likely.
That's why I bring an individually wrapped Lysol wipe with me every
day. Then I lay down the recycled paper seat cover, recycled from
what? I don't even want to know.

The article I'm stuck reading is a fluff
piece, just more Obama propaganda about how the Democrats could
pull us out of the recession if the Republican Party would just
work with them. I figured at some point the shock of being the
first African American in the White House would wear off and Obama
would get down to business, how wrong I was. He talks a good game,
he wouldn't have been elected otherwise, but I feel like I wasted
my vote. Maybe Hilary was a chump for staying with Bill, but in
hindsight, she probably could have brought more to the Presidency.
With Bill as the First Husband, it would have been like two
Presidents for the price of one.

The outer door squeaked open and slammed
shut. I listened to the shuffling of feet echo in the way that only
the tiled walls of a public toilet can. I'm not the type to get
nervous about using the public restroom, but I am the type to sit
and try to picture what the other occupants are doing.

The new occupant seemed to be an old man as
far as I could tell. He shuffled a few steps then stopped. A few
more steps then stopped. With my luck, the poor sucker was using a
walker or one of those canes with the pronged base. The kind that
should have good sturdy rubber tips that would outlast the aluminum
frame, but seemed to end up with tennis balls instead. Bastard
probably thought he was going to stroll right into the handicapped
stall. Well, the old codger would just have to wait.

He shuffled right up to the door of my stall
and I could hear the thump of something on the painted steel
door.

“There's someone in here,” I said, pissed
that he wouldn't even try the other, smaller stalls. I knew the
doors were wide open. How hard could it be to sink your ass down on
one of those? It should be easier considering that there were two
good handrails on either side well within reach.

I stared at his shoes under the door. They
weren't old man shoes. Not that there was a type of shoe that old
men had to wear, but these were DCs. Who the hell wore skateboard
shoes to the office? His jeans were faded and bunched up heavily at
the cuff. The denim was frayed and stained along the back where it
had drug on the ground. I shook my head, whoever this guy was, he
definitely didn’t work here on the fourth floor.

There was another thump on the door.

“Hey, I'll be out in a minute,” I said.

There's nothing worse than being rushed when
you're trying to do your business. The asshole didn't even have the
common courtesy to take a few steps back and wait like a normal
human being.

If he hadn't been moving like a decrepit, old
man, I would have given him a piece of my mind, but chewing out
some hadicapable kid dressed like a skater seemed in poor taste. It
wouldn’t bode well for my standing in the company to chew this
inconsiderate prick a new asshole only to find out later that he
was the grandson of the CEO or the son of some outside consultant
hire to minimize the company's cost base.

In any case, my fifteen minute respite was
ruined. How can you expect a man to do his business while your
stand right on the other side of a one inch thick hollow metal
door. I folded up my newspaper and reached for the toilet tissue.
Just my luck, there was about three squares left on the industrial
sized roll in the plastic dispenser.

While I might trust three squares of the
heavily quilted, double ply toilet paper in the comfort of my own
bathroom at my apartment, three squares of the semi transparent
scratchy stuff common to public restrooms just wasn't going to cut
it.

“Hey, Mister, could you do me a favor and
hand me some T P under the door?” I asked as politely as I could. I
was at his mercy after all. I watched his feet shuffle and there
was another -
thunk
- on the door, but that was the only
response I got.

I waited for a good sixty second then started
to become annoyed.

“Look buddy, if you want the stall you're
going to have to help me out here,” I said.

Still no response.

I searched the stall for any help, and
finding none weighed my options. I stared at the newspaper in my
hand and thought it fitting that the Obama propaganda be used in
such a manor, but couldn't bring myself to tear up the newsprint
and do the deed. Knowing my luck, the high pressure toilet would
get backed up and I would soon become the laughing stock of the
fourth floor.

I thought about using the toilet seat covers
from the dispenser behind me, but they were thin and rough with no
absorbency what-so-ever; I could just imagine how they would spread
my mess around without aiding in cleaning my person. That would be
my last resort I decided.

Just as I was about to give Mr. DC shoes a
piece of my mind, I heard the door open and slam shut again.

“Hey, Mathew, was it? How’s it going?” I
heard a voice say.

No answer.

“Excuse me,” the voice again, “Hey...Hey!
What the fuck man...”

There was a -
thump
- then I heard the
door to the next stall slam shut and the lock slide into place.

“You mother fucker; fuckin' bite me, what the
fuck man?” It was Colby from accounts payable.

I could see that the DCs had changed
positions. I could still see the left shoe, but they were pointed
towards the now occupied stall next to mine.

“You mother fuckin' piece of shit. Why the
hell would you bite me? My arm is fuckin’ bleeding now, bastard,”
Colby said to his assailant.

There was a -
thump
- as Mr. DC Shoes
banged against Colby's door.

“Hey, somebody help!” Colby yelled then
waited a moment for a response, “Hey...somebody...anybody...”

Nothing.

“Hey, Colby, is that you?” I asked
tenuously.

It took a moment for him to answer. I think
he was trying to place my voice.

“Don?” he finally asked.

“Yeah, it's Don,” I responded.

“Hey, Don, that mother fucker out there just
bit me,” he said, as if I hadn't heard, “That fat, sweaty piece of
shit grabbed my arm and took a big chunk out of it, I'm bleeding
pretty bad.”

He seemed shook up, I really felt for the
guy. Colby was one of those poor suckers who lost his hair in his
early twenties and developed a weight problem just after high
school. I gave him a moment to collect himself before I spoke.