Marie\u2019s hovering, Ron\u2019s cock-blocking and Mom\u2019s ghost is squat-thrusting. Marie\u2019s my boss and we\u2019re in secret love, Ron\u2019s a new-hire hunk, and Mom\u2019s been dead a month. We\u2019re gathered around a stack of paper that\u2019s scaling my cubicle wall.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s nothing wrong with help,\u201d Marie says, pointing at the paper mountain I\u2019ve failed to summit, laying her other hand on Ron\u2019s triceps. Ron\u2019s jazz hands brush Marie\u2019s side-boob.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s lying,\u201d Mom says. \u201cHelp\u2019s for losers. Flash Marie your balls and tell her she\u2019s the one. I\u2019m almost at goal weight and I swear to Leo if you keep me here.\u201d<\/p>\n
Leo, the afterlife gatekeeper, hates mothers and the overweight, but pretends he\u2019s doing Mom a favor by making her fulfill her wants before he lets her in: thinness and a married son.<\/p>\n
\u201cAlmost caught up,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cBro, I\u2019ll finish in three hours,\u201d Ron says. He reaches and I roll in front of the stack. Mom kickboxes a roundhouse to his junk.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy bad,\u201d Ron says, backing up.<\/p>\n
\u201cRon, give us a sec,\u201d Marie says.<\/p>\n
Ron mimes relinquishment of a steering wheel. He leaves, Mom travel-lunging at his heels. \u201cDo it now, puss,\u201d Mom says. \u201cI\u2019ll keep an eye on mister meat slab.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mom thinks if I make my move, Leo will consider me on track to wed.<\/p>\n
Marie leans in.<\/p>\n
\u201cRon\u2019s not your enemy,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n
She smells like a flower.<\/p>\n
\u201cRon is fast, but his mistakes are copious,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe all have strengths, Arnold,\u201d Marie says.<\/p>\n
Her teeth gleam.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s mine?\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou work hard, but slow,\u201d Marie says.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s right,\u201d Mom says, re-appearing, dumbbells curling. \u201cYou\u2019re slow like Dad.\u201d<\/p>\n
My drunk father hid in the bedroom half my childhood and weaved head-on into an eighteen-wheeler prior to the other half. My seatbelt saved me, but when the headaches start I can\u2019t see straight. They say it\u2019s not my fault, but it was me who begged until he couldn\u2019t take it, me who said the mall was too far to walk.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m staying late,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cSuit yourself,\u201d Marie says.<\/p>\n
\u201cWait!\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d Marie says.<\/p>\n
Her chocolate mane engulfs her shoulders, her green eyes pierce my soul, and her manicure makes me wish I were born a scratching post.<\/p>\n
\u201cNothing,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019ll get it done.\u201d<\/p>\n
It\u2019s just me and the stack. I adjust my chair. I breathe deep. I plant my feet. I Google productivity tips. I play a round of e-solitaire. I stare into my screensaver and see Marie laying with me in pixilated fields beneath a trademarked sun.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Two hours gone. Don\u2019t ask where.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re biting your nails instead of working and your beloved is in her office with Mr. zero carbs,\u201d Mom says, struggling through sit-ups. My gnawed thumbnail resembles an OSHA violation.<\/p>\n
Mom applied Bite-No-More to my nails Fridays after kindergarten, back when she did tenderness. She\u2019d blow on my fingers to dry the polish, then massage my palms. One Friday, the serum slid from her hand and she followed it to the floor, flailing. I dialed 9-1-1. Later, I asked Dad what would happen and he asked why the house reeked of shellac, then had ten beers and passed out on the porch. I dialed those three numbers for Mom again last month and thought she\u2019d be okay again.<\/p>\n
\u201cI can\u2019t concentrate, Mom,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhoa,\u201d says Ron, apparently released from Marie\u2019s office and eavesdropping in his cubicle. \u201cLet\u2019s keep mommy issues low, bud.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cEat shit, Ron,\u201d Mom says.<\/p>\n
\u201cSnoop less, Ron,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cCall me when you give up,\u201d Ron says.<\/p>\n
I don headphones and take a piece of paper off the stack.<\/p>\n
\u201cAttaboy!\u201d Mom says.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The stack grew while I slept.<\/p>\n
\u201cI tried to wake you,\u201d Mom says, her medicine ball landing near my feet.<\/p>\n
\u201cFuck,\u201d I say, mopping drool.<\/p>\n
Ron appears.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow is this bigger?\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you okay?\u201d Ron says.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m haunted, broke, terrified to tell Marie I love her, and exhausted from contemplating the void at night.<\/p>\n
\u201cFine,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cFine,\u201d Ron says.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m starting to think you need him,\u201d Mom says. She stops exercising and her eyes fill with love I recognize from years ago.<\/p>\n
\u201cMom, I got this,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
She\u2019s trying not to cry.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Six o\u2019clock coffee equals a sleepless night. If I start now, I\u2019ll be done before the morning bustle and still have time to sneak a nap on Mom\u2019s yoga mat.<\/p>\n
\u201cQuick!\u201d Mom says, and I follow her voice to Marie\u2019s office, where Mom is doing chin ups in the doorframe.<\/p>\n
\u201cStill here?\u201d Marie asks. I walk through Mom and sit in Marie\u2019s corner chair. \u201cCould you look in that cabinet for the contracts file,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n
I find it. I write \u201cI love you, Marie\u201d on a Post-it and stick it to the file.<\/p>\n
\u201cLame!\u201d Mom says. \u201cAbort!\u201d<\/p>\n
I put the file on Marie\u2019s desk and wait for fireworks. Suddenly, Ron is laughing in the distance, then he\u2019s at the door. \u201cYou\u2019re fucking right,\u201d he says into his air pods. Before he sees me, he says to Marie: \u201cHey babe, ready?\u201d<\/p>\n
Mom tries to grab the note but she can\u2019t grasp things outside her realm.<\/p>\n
Marie laughs like a loon. Ron sees me and shits.<\/p>\n
\u201cI was talking to my girlfriend on the phone,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
I grab the file, but it slips. I dive at the fluttering papers, and gather them into a mound atop of which I hunker. Before I know what\u2019s happening, Ron is peeling the Post-it from his shoe.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo!\u201d Mom says.<\/p>\n
Ron reads it aloud and his bray-laugh stings.<\/p>\n
I played peewee football when I was five. The one time I tackled an opponent Mom took me for a chocolate shake.<\/p>\n
Reaching from the rug, I yank Ron\u2019s wrist and pull him down. The Post-it flies and I grab it. Hardly a tackle, but I\u2019ve regained possession. Mom claps, Ron checks himself for bruises, I run, Marie gives chase.<\/p>\n
\u201cArnold, please keep this to yourself,\u201d Marie blurts.<\/p>\n
\u201cHim?\u201d I say. \u201cWhat about us?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry, Arnold\u2026us?\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I place the stack on Ron\u2019s desk. Mom says Leo can fuck himself and I say Marie can too. Home, we mainline cookies and try to get some rest. I can\u2019t sleep because I\u2019m trying for the millionth time to remember what I\u2019d wanted at the mall.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
It\u2019s just me and the stack. I adjust my chair. I breathe deep. I plant my feet. I Google productivity tips. I play a round of e-solitaire. I stare into my screensaver and see Marie laying with me in pixilated fields beneath a trademarked sun.\u00a0<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":17215,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-17214","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","writer-amy-lyons"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17214","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=17214"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17214\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":17216,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17214\/revisions\/17216"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/17215"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17214"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17214"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17214"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}