Wrote the bare bones of this in 20 minutes. Then spent another 40 adding detail and flushing it out. It has potential, but I'm not sure I want to write another story with violence in it just yet. And this Frank is just brimming with violence, no?
- - - - -
The Letter
He had worked at that soul-sucking company without complaint for ten years, and this was the last straw. Frank stared at the crisp, white paper in his hand in disbelief. He had remained loyal to Lakes for 37 years. Despite every degrading and insulting demand they had thrown his way - pay freezes, reduced hours, a revolving door of incompetent, overpaid middle managers - he had tried to see things from the company perspective. He had accepted every pathetic excuse they had given him.
"Times are tough all over, Frank."
"I understand, Mr. Pickford."
"There just aren't enough hours this week, Frank."
"Maybe next week will be better, Mr. Pickford."
"It's too bad for the guys who used to work the line, but without that new sorting technology we would lose our edge. Then there'd be no jobs for anyone, Frank."
"Of course, you're right, Mr. Pickford."
He had bent over backwards for that damned company for 2/3 of his life, and this was how they chose to repay him? Less than 100 words (even counting that jackass's pompous signature) on a single sheet of copy paper? Perhaps he had simply misunderstood. He scanned the brief paragraphs one more time.
Dear Mr. Miller,
This letter is to inform you that you no longer qualify to receive health benefits through Lakes Recycling and Waste Management. Health coverage is provided to full time employees only, and since your hours have averages fewer than 40/week for the last 6 months, we will be reclassifying your position as part time effective September 1st.
Please contact the Human Resources department at (723) 555 - 8832 if you have questions regarding this change to your employment status.
Sincerely,
James L Pickford, Jr
Senior Management
Lakes Recycling and Waste Management
There was no chance of misunderstanding. The meaning was crystal clear. His reward for being a cooperative and understanding employee was to lose what few extra hours he could pick up, the minimal dollars they brought in, and his insurance all in one carefully crafted letter. With the news from Helen's recent appointment still weighing on his mind like a lead blanket, their timing couldn't have been more perfect.
Frank tossed the offending letter on the table and stood up. Grabbing his jacket and slapping a baseball cap on his head, he headed out the back door. What the hell was he going to do now? Frank didn't have an answer to that question yet, but one thing was certain. Someone was going to pay.
He stomped his way across the yard toward the shed. Helen's cat, Greta, saw him coming and high-tailed it for the bushes, hissing resentfully at his intrusion onto her hunting grounds. He and Greta had a hate/hate relationship, and that was just fine with him. He paused to insert a key into the padlock holding the shed's door closed. Used to be that you didn't have to lock up everything you owned. Now you couldn't leave a potted plant on the porch for fear some neighborhood brat would steal it and try to smoke it. The lock popped open, and Frank nudged a brick in front of the door to keep it ajar.
The light was bad inside the shed. There was only one window, and that was so thickly covered with dust and grime that it reduced even the brightest summer sun to a murky gloom. Frank had originally intended to hook the shed up with electricity, but those bastards down at city hall did everything they could to keep the average Joe from understanding their convoluted building and renovation codes. By now, he knew the inside of that shed like the curve of his wife's hips. It was familiar, comforting. No point in changing things this late in the game.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Guest Author!
This story was written by a (secret) guest author. I think it's fabulous. I particularly like how REAL the characters are - even shy little Doris - in such a brief story. Leave a comment and let my guest know what you think. :)
- - - - -
SHIRTS
Tyrone had worked for the company for ten years, and this was the last straw. This memo. This attack.
He gripped the memo so tightly it crinkled as he leapt up, shoving back his chair all eight of the inches it took for it to smash into the cubicle wall. A quiet "whoa!" slipped over the wall accompanied by the clatter of falling pens on the other side. He stood a moment, staring into the overhead fluorescents as he ran over the lines in his head. He glanced down at the page again.
... and hawaiian shirts ...
Hawaiian shirts! Fuming, he stomped out of the cubicle and into the narrow walkway, elbowing aside Doris from the mail room. She stumbled back a step, bumping another cubicle, and gawked at his retreating form. The cubicle's inhabitant, Steven of the malodorous tuna sandwiches, slowly raised his head over the wall to see. Tyrone ignored it all, pounding forward toward the elevator. More heads popped up as he went, the commotion slowly attracting the attention of the entire office. By the time he reached the elevator doors, a small forest of quizzical heads had sprouted in his wake.
He stabbed at the "up" button four times in quick succession - Ha - Wai -Ian - Shirts! Righteous indignation boiled over and he couldn't hold still. He paced back and forth in front of the doors, pausing every few seconds to roll his eyes or sneer at the crumpled paper in his hand.
The elevator was slow. Above the doors, the 9 winked out, and, after a long moment, the 8 glowed. Tyrone froze and stared up at it for a couple of seconds, then resumed pacing.
How many times had Frank come in in a Hawaiian shirt, blazing with tropical color and life, daring the office to just try to drain the life out of him? How many times? And now this memo?! Tyrone looked down at his own green sweater-vest, coordinated striped dress shirt, muted slacks. Respect. Respect is what this is about. Hawaiian shirts!
Six.
A polite cough turned Tyrone around, and Doris smiled shyly at him with a twinkling wave. "Is there something wrong, Tyrone? You seem kind of agitated...," she trailed off, putting her arms behind her back and almost toeing the floor like a six-year-old.
Tyrone put his hands up a moment, started a shout, then caught himself. He looked down at the paper, up at the "5" glowing above the elevator, then back at Doris, who looked one snippy remark from jumping out a window. He pushed up his glasses, exhaled a sigh, and pointed to the memo. "Yes... there is something wrong. There is something wrong here at Jemason Incorporated, and it's rotting employee morale and driving customers away and probably making half the executives drink themselves to sleep every
night!"
His pace accelerated and volume rose with each word, until he was stabbing the page with an index finger to punctuate it. Again, he caught himself. Another deep breath, a hand through his hair. "Okay, I'm sorry. This has got me a little worked up..."
As he searched for words, Doris pointed at the memo and offered, "Is that the dress code memo? It doesn't seem too strict to me-"
"Strict?! Hawaiian shirts!" He stabbed it again, tearing a hole right through the word "Friday". "Of course it's not too strict! This vicious assault on corporate efficiency allows Frank, or any Johnny-dress-crappy with a closet full of eyeburn to wear Hawaiian shirts three days a week! This. Will. Be. Changed. This company can't afford to lose me, I'll tell you that right now."
Doris shrank before his withering rant, glancing left and right as if seeking someone to tag in. Plenty of people were watching, and more were listening, with their heads ducked out of sight, but none close by. When he finished and took a breath, Doris edged away backwards, mumbling what quiet platitudes she could find for a crazy man.
The elevator dinged and silently slid open. Tyrone glanced back at it, watched Doris retreating, then sit his lips into a grim line and turned. He strode into the elevator with the pure purpose of a holy crusader.
- - - - -
SHIRTS
Tyrone had worked for the company for ten years, and this was the last straw. This memo. This attack.
He gripped the memo so tightly it crinkled as he leapt up, shoving back his chair all eight of the inches it took for it to smash into the cubicle wall. A quiet "whoa!" slipped over the wall accompanied by the clatter of falling pens on the other side. He stood a moment, staring into the overhead fluorescents as he ran over the lines in his head. He glanced down at the page again.
... and hawaiian shirts ...
Hawaiian shirts! Fuming, he stomped out of the cubicle and into the narrow walkway, elbowing aside Doris from the mail room. She stumbled back a step, bumping another cubicle, and gawked at his retreating form. The cubicle's inhabitant, Steven of the malodorous tuna sandwiches, slowly raised his head over the wall to see. Tyrone ignored it all, pounding forward toward the elevator. More heads popped up as he went, the commotion slowly attracting the attention of the entire office. By the time he reached the elevator doors, a small forest of quizzical heads had sprouted in his wake.
He stabbed at the "up" button four times in quick succession - Ha - Wai -Ian - Shirts! Righteous indignation boiled over and he couldn't hold still. He paced back and forth in front of the doors, pausing every few seconds to roll his eyes or sneer at the crumpled paper in his hand.
The elevator was slow. Above the doors, the 9 winked out, and, after a long moment, the 8 glowed. Tyrone froze and stared up at it for a couple of seconds, then resumed pacing.
How many times had Frank come in in a Hawaiian shirt, blazing with tropical color and life, daring the office to just try to drain the life out of him? How many times? And now this memo?! Tyrone looked down at his own green sweater-vest, coordinated striped dress shirt, muted slacks. Respect. Respect is what this is about. Hawaiian shirts!
Six.
A polite cough turned Tyrone around, and Doris smiled shyly at him with a twinkling wave. "Is there something wrong, Tyrone? You seem kind of agitated...," she trailed off, putting her arms behind her back and almost toeing the floor like a six-year-old.
Tyrone put his hands up a moment, started a shout, then caught himself. He looked down at the paper, up at the "5" glowing above the elevator, then back at Doris, who looked one snippy remark from jumping out a window. He pushed up his glasses, exhaled a sigh, and pointed to the memo. "Yes... there is something wrong. There is something wrong here at Jemason Incorporated, and it's rotting employee morale and driving customers away and probably making half the executives drink themselves to sleep every
night!"
His pace accelerated and volume rose with each word, until he was stabbing the page with an index finger to punctuate it. Again, he caught himself. Another deep breath, a hand through his hair. "Okay, I'm sorry. This has got me a little worked up..."
As he searched for words, Doris pointed at the memo and offered, "Is that the dress code memo? It doesn't seem too strict to me-"
"Strict?! Hawaiian shirts!" He stabbed it again, tearing a hole right through the word "Friday". "Of course it's not too strict! This vicious assault on corporate efficiency allows Frank, or any Johnny-dress-crappy with a closet full of eyeburn to wear Hawaiian shirts three days a week! This. Will. Be. Changed. This company can't afford to lose me, I'll tell you that right now."
Doris shrank before his withering rant, glancing left and right as if seeking someone to tag in. Plenty of people were watching, and more were listening, with their heads ducked out of sight, but none close by. When he finished and took a breath, Doris edged away backwards, mumbling what quiet platitudes she could find for a crazy man.
The elevator dinged and silently slid open. Tyrone glanced back at it, watched Doris retreating, then sit his lips into a grim line and turned. He strode into the elevator with the pure purpose of a holy crusader.
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