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.  :)
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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.