Casual Friday

            by Dane Silva

 

            The day began just like any other Friday. Arthur Spooner left for work promptly at a quarter till 8 with only his ancient brown briefcase and his daily cup of coffee in hand. Winter had come in full force this year, icicles hung from widow sills and snowmen were on the lawns of each house. Art slid into his minuscule Toyota and sped off to his office downtown.

              Art strolled through the two gold doors of Lunderstrum & Associates at exactly 8 o’clock. He passed the offices, cubicles, the janitorial closet, and even the bathrooms where Art’s office or what others called the supply room. His “office” was smaller than a cubicle with a petite desk in the center and a pastel blue rolly chair to compliment it. Surrounding his desk were shelves upon shelves of office supplies and a primeval copy machine that had always reeked of burnt plastic. Arranging boxes of pencils and pens, counting staples and packets of paper, and keeping track of how many colors of Post-Its were left was his favorite past-time. His desk was kept perfectly arranged. He had no computer, only a small pad of paper covered in doodles of clowns, a Garfield telephone that wagged its tail when the phone rang, and a large coffee mug labeled “ I love my job” that was filled with a vibrant array of colored sharpies and his favorite yellow Ticonderoga pencils. This insignificant desk was his life. He untied the reflective black buckle of his briefcase and pulled out a tiny black book that was filled row by row and column upon column of erase marks and tiny scribbles of numbers. This was the catalog that knew ever last detail about the offices supplies. This was Arthur’s bible.

            “ ART!!! The copier is broken again. Its been making the most annoying noise all morning and that acrid smell is getting worse. I'm going to need you to fix it before the end of the day. By the way, were sorry Lunderstrum can’t afford to keep Palo the janitor anymore. We would like you to deliver him the bad news. His last check is in the mail,” said a tall man in a black velvet suit and a bright pink tie. A fake serene smile widened across his face and then he left the room wisteling.

            A shiver went through Art face and down his spine to his ankles. He could not say anything. Only a mere whimper escaped his dry mouth as he imagined Palo going agro all over the office. Palo is not really a man; he’s more like Bigfoot with a haircut and pants. Rumors had been passing around the office for years. Like that he had been in science experiments during the Cold War or he had escaped the Russian circus when he was twelve, but none were proven. Other than rumors, nobody really knew the secrets behind this beast of a man. He did his job with vigor and enthusiasm, never leaving a trash bin full.

             Art walked with a delayed saunter, thinking over and over how to deliver the bad news. Sorry, but Lunderstrum cant afford a full time janitor or you will be missed. Oh jeez he was nervous, Small beads of sweat were clinging to his forehead. As Art slowly opened the weathered door it let out a long obnoxious screech. Inside was Palo twiddling a golden lighter. He worked the lighter back and forth between his gritty man hands, twisting and turning it around repeatedly. He had a dazed look upon his childish mug. When Art approached him, he slid the lighter into a box of Lucky Strike brand cigarettes.

            “ How is your day Mr. Art,” Palo said with a faint smell of alcohol and nicotine on his breath.

“Not to well I’m afraid.  Lunderstum and Associates no longer has the finances to pay for a full time janitor. Were going to have to let you go. I’m terribly sorry,” said Arthur. As soon as Art uttered these words Palo’s face ran a bright shade of red. He pulled his long shaggy hair from his face and revealed a single tear that was navigating the wrinkles of his face. It was hard to tell if he was infuriated or just plain sad. Suddenly he grabbed his polished gold lighter and struck the flint with the side of his jeans. An intense yellow flame shined of his glossy eyes that were now dilated and painted a vivid shade of red. The lighter snapped shut and he quickly pocketed it, grabbed his jacket and hastily left the offices screaming obscenities in Spanish.

 

             Art left for work the same time he did everyday, at approximately quarter till 8 on a casual Friday morning or one that at least seemed casual. Identical to every Friday, he wore his favorite Hawaiian shirt, covered in exotic fruits and small umbrella drinks. Rain or shine this ridiculously festive shirt. As his Toyota struggled to climb the hill on top of which stood Lunderstrum’s, a massive cloud of smoke and ash filled the air like a volcano had just erupted. The office was engulfed with flames and streams of jet-black smoke bursting from windows that were now melting and dripping down the sides of the small red brick office.

            By the time the fire department arrived the fire had extinguished itself leaving only the two golden doors standing. Art struggled to disregard the fact that he no longer had a job or the finances to be unemployed. His job was the glue that kept him from falling apart. He wadded through the ashes, attempting to keep his flamboyant shirt clean of the ashes that were once the cubicles and offices of his beloved office. He now stood where his supply closet was once located. Sifting through the ashes he came across a puddle of orange goo that was his phone and his favorite coffee mug that was still intact but now read, “I love my tub” because the painted metallic blue letters had melted and become slightly deformed. Once again rummaging through the filth, Art found a small box smothered with black ash. He used his slender fingers and a little saliva to gently scraped away the grime. It was a simple red box that was empty but retained a very familiar fragrance, a mixture of spices that he only recognized from the office.

            Art didn’t drink often but he had an excuse today. The King Fish was a small bar downtown that was known for its salty food and vast selection of international beers. He had the time to waste time there as an adult, but as a child it was like a second home. His father took him to play shuffleboard every week and he occasional got to play a Star Wars version of pinball. Even though it was a bar, only good memories surround this quant tavern that sits down a graffiti covered alleyway about a block from Lunderstrum’s. 

            Art entered the bar expecting the jovial images of his childhood, but instead was attacked by the surreal picture of what the bar had become. No longer did neon beer signs from all corners of the globe cast a mysterious glow upon the barroom floor, but Budweiser posters plastered the lonely walls, which were covered in various green stains a small ring of holes where a dartboard once hung. Art took a seat at the bar on the only stool that legs were all different sizes. It rocked back and forth as he looked for the bartender who was busy filling a large glass jar with pickles and filling a bowl with an assortment of nuts. He dragged his fingers through the dust, etching out a few doodles of crying clowns.

            “What will it be son,” the bartender asked when he dropped the last pickle into the jar of vinegar. Art couldn’t answer, he was too distracted by the bartender’s lazy eye that was examining a fly at the end of the bar while the other was fixed dead straight on Art’s sweating forehead.

            “ Umm. How bout your best tasting beer and a pack of cigarettes, if ya got em,” responded Art trying to avoiding the old man’s face. The man grabbed a can of Bud and set it on the table then reached into the depths of his leather jacket and pulled out a red rectangular box of Lucky Strike brand cigarettes. His mind made the connection immediately. The Box he found at the office were Palo’s cigarettes. He had the incentive and the lighter. It had to be him. He’s the only explanation for a massive building fire in the middle of winter. The red box entranced his eyes. He was fixed on examining every square inch. He quickly gulped his beer not paying attention to the liquid dripping down his chin and laid out a wrinkled ten dollar on the filthy bar.

            Ten minutes and two cigarettes later he was waiting in a long line at the police station. He looked around at the busy office. A cop was pillaging over the last jelly doughnut and a homeless woman in handcuffs was being escorted to a jail sell. Art couldn’t wait to tell his story to the authorities. I fired Palo last Friday and he took it pretty hard with a lot of cursing you know. Then before he leaves he lights a lighter and shoves within two inches of my face. He’s crazy. Almost burnt my eyebrows. The line was finally moving. One by one he moved closer to the desk, jittering his feet while he stared blankly at a broken clock, hoping one of the hands would budge out of their coma.

            “Hello. How may I help this beautiful evening,” said a lovely young woman at the front desk.

            “I’ve got some interesting information regarding the arson today at Lunderstrum’s and Associates. If you know what I mean. I did some undercover work,” said Art with great enthusiasm.

            “Well, I’m sorry but the Berkeley Fire Department all ready gave their statement saying that the fire was caused by electrical problems,” said the pretty woman. She handed him a small folder with a single sheet of paper inside. December 26, 2004. There was an electrical fire at a small office (Lunderstrum’s and Associates.) The Source of the fire was a broken copy machine that spark flame sometime Friday morning. Art dropped the folder and left the police station not saying a single word. It was his procrastination that burnt down the office. He lit one of his cigarettes, took a drag and through it on the ground. A small golden ember began to smolder in a pile of dry oak leaves. It glowed an eerie orange as the flames slowly grew.