Parker slumped
into the office, crept past the receptionist that reminded
him, for some reason, of Gossamer from those old Bugs Bunny
cartoons, and quietly sat down at his desk. The rain had
wet his shirt and it stuck uncomfortably to his chest and
back. He shook out his hair, spraying a fine mist on his
keyboard and monitor. He sneezed.
“Bless you,” came
a timid voice over the cubicle wall.
“Thanks,” he answered.
“You sick?” the
timid voice asked again.
“Nah, just allergies,” Parker
lied.
He turned his
computer on and stared at the monitor, waiting for it to
come to life. He was motionless for almost a minute before
he realized that the monitor hadn’t yet been turned on. He
reached forw—
“Packer!” A voice
boomed from behind him.
Parker jumped.
His hand moved forward violently and knocked his monitor,
making it teeter on the edge of its base. He immediately
launched for it with too much enthusiasm and caught it before
it fell. He paused for a moment, hugging the computer screen.
“Heh heh! Just
checking!” his boss bellowed, putting extra emphasis
on “checking.” Parker never understood this little catchphrase
that he used all the time.
Parker let go
of his monitor, sat back in his chair, and took a few moments
to calm himself down. After his heart rate returned to normal,
he pressed the “ON” button on his monitor, and the screen
lit up. He stared blankly at the desktop background, a picture
of Mondrian’s 1927 Composition with red, yellow, and blue,
and waited.
“Parker?” It was
the timid voice again.
“Mmm?”
“Why do you let
him talk to you like that?”
Parker paused,
then, “I don’t know, Jesse. I couldn’t tell you.”
There was silence,
punctuated almost imperceptibly by the tiny clicking noise
that never quite went away. Parker stared at the Mondrian,
studying it. He appreciated the crispness of it, the subtle
difference between the whites, the slight fade in the yellow,
the sharpness of the red. He leaned closer, staring more
intently. He could make out the brushstrokes in the black
for Christ’s sake! He inhaled, convinced that he would be
able to smell the stale smoke of Mondrian’s cigarette as
it hung loosely from his mouth.
“Parker?”
“Yes, Jesse?”
“I could kill
him for you, if you wanted?”
“Yes Jesse, I
know you could, but I don’t think so.”
“Well, just let
me know, okay?
“Okay, Jesse.”
Parker leaned
back in his chair and closed his eyes. He tried to imagine
what Mondrian looked like. He had seen images of him, but
he wanted to know what it was like be near him, in the same
room. What were his mannerisms? How did he carry himself?
What did his voice sound like? Parker decided that he’d like
it if his voice were high pitched and nasal. Not too high
pitched, but just enough to cause people to think “Hmm, I
didn’t imagine his voice to sound like that.”
“I was late this
morning.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah. I cut my
dog open and I had to clean it up, that’s why I was late.
I snuck right past Jackie. She didn’t even see me.”
“That’s great,
Jesse.”
Parker opened
his internet browser and did a search for “Piet Mondrian.” The
first link was to Mondrian’s Wikipedia page. He clicked it.
He had read this article, every word, over 100 times, yet
he began to read it again. He went slowly, absorbing every
word, every minute fact. He was born Pieter Cornelis Mondriaan
on 7 March, 1872, but changed the spelling to “Mondrian” in
1912. He was an important contributor to the De Stijl art
movement. He died on 1 February, 1944. Parker wished that
he had been alive back then so he could have met him. He
imagined what it would have been like to shake his hand,
to look into his eyes. He—
“What did you
bring for lunch today?”
“I don’t know,
um, peanut butter and jelly.”
“That’s it?”
“And a bag of
chips.”
“I brought some
gazpacho I made this morning. It’s in the fridge, cooling
down.”
“Nice. I don’t
like gazpacho.”
Parker finished
the article and closed it. He’d read it again later, he told
himself. He took his notebook and a pencil, and, turning
to a blank page, began to draw. He drew a square first, then
some crisscrossing lines, then started to lightly shade in
some of the smaller squares the lines had formed. He worked
on this piece for perhaps a minute, then turned to a new
page and began another. He completed four in this manner
and was about to begin a fifth, but he stopped drawing and
put away his notebook. He sat motionless for a few moments,
staring at the image on his desktop background. He reopened
the internet browser and searched for “Piet Mondrian” again.
He clicked on the Wikipedia article and began to read it
again, from the beginning.
It’s
warm and delicious, isn’t it? Yes, warm and delicious. Blood
is getting everywhere. I’ll need to clean this up before
I leave. I don’t want it seeping in between the floorboards,
dripping down through the crevices and leaving a red stain
on my neighbors ceiling, although, on second thought, maybe
he deserves it, the way he’s always complaining that my bass
is too loud. He came up—when was it?—two or three days ago
and asked, not very politely I remember, for me to turn my
FUCKING music down. I looked him dead in the eye, with deserved
aplomb, and told him that I wasn’t playing any music. He
looked like he wanted to punch me. I would have liked that
if he did.
Okay,
okay, I need a bowl or a pot or something to put
all this in. It’s too goopey for a bag, although,
I do have…nah, it’ll have to be a bowl. Here, here’s
a decent sized one. I should cover it with Saran
Wrap or something. It’s too warm still! It’s fogging
up the Saran Wrap and making it bulge. I should
poke holes in it.
I have
my warm gazpacho, my briefcase, my bag of potato
chips, my coat hanger, and my pens. I’m ready for
work. But, I forgot about that damn receptionist!
I have to walk right past her! She’s going to know
I was late and she’ll tell Mr. Doyle, and he’ll
call me in his office and rip me a new asshole.
Mr. Doyle is such a dick. He uses his speakerphone
all the time and forgets people’s names. I think
he called me Jerry for the first year I was with
the company. I hope today’s the day I have an excuse
to ram my coathanger down his dickhole and twist
it around. I hope.
Luckily—luckily!—I’m
able to sneak past that she-beast of a receptionist.
My friend Parker said she reminded him of Gossamer
from those old Bugs Bunny cartoons, the guy that’s
all red hair but he has two eyes and two white
sneakers. Actually, I’m assuming it’s a guy, there’s
really no telling what Gossamer is. That’s an odd
situation, not being able to tell someone’s sex.
I can’t imagine that ever happening to me.
I can
hear Parker getting in. He’s my best friend in
the office. I wonder if he likes gazpacho. I’d
share it with him if he wanted. I might not tell
him that it’s my dog, but he’s smart, I’m sure
he could figure it out if I drop enough hints.
He just sneezed. He’s so cute when he sneezes.
He reminds me of a little dog. He’s such a big
guy and he sneezes like a little girl, it’s funny.
“Bless
you,” I tell him.
He says, “Thanks.”
I read
somewhere that people get colds more in the winter
not because it’s cold, but because in the winter
people are inside more often, in closer quarters
with each other.
“You
sick?” I ask him. I’m polite to Parker, but for
some reason I think he doesn’t like me very much.
I have a feeling that our best-friendship is one-sided.
He tells
me, “Nah, just allergies.”
He still
sounds sick, but no matter. Parker doesn’t seem
like a liar to me, a little strange perhaps, but
not a liar. He has some weird obsession with this
painter from the ‘50s. Pete something. I don’t
know, I don’t really get it, all the paintings
he’s shown me are just red and yellow squares.
It seems foolish.
Shit,
I can hear Mr. Doyle coming. He rumbles when he
walks. It’s like when you’re listening to a song
and the levels have been mixed all wrong, the bass
and the treble are too low and the mids are too
high. Something’s just off about the way he moves.
“PACKER!”
That’s
him, the dumb shit. He probably scared Parker,
too. I don’t know why Parker doesn’t correct him.
I corrected him every time he called me the wrong
name and it took him almost two years to finally
get it right. Parker doesn’t even try. That’s something
that bothers me about him; Parker, I mean. He’s
just too apathetic. Someone like Mr. Doyle deserves
to, I don’t know, have his balls smashed with an
apple corer or his ears sliced off, but Parker
just lets him walk all over him. One day he’s gonna
snap. It’s not normal for people to act like that.
“Hehe,
just checking!”
That
idiotic line he uses all the time. Checking what?
He never has a reason, or even a thing to
check. He should just do nothing but sit at his
huge desk, then on Fridays cash his huge paychecks.
God, he makes me sick. My resolve to shove my coathanger
down his dickhole strengthens.
“Parker?” I’m
always careful when I talk to him. He’s fragile,
like a flower, or like a—what are those things?—a
Jing Vase. It’s funny, I think to pronounce it “vaahhz.” It
gives it an air of sophistication.
“Mmm?” He
must be looking at one of his paintings. I think
he’s sexually attracted to that artist. I don’t
know why, it’s just the way he looks at him. Like
he longs for him.
“Why
do you let him talk to you like that?” I ask him.
“I don’t
know, Jesse, I couldn’t tell you.” Parker’s really
good at deflecting my questions.
He defends
Mr. Doyle’s arrogance sometimes. I forget when
it was, maybe last year sometime, Parker and I
were talking about it during lunch. Parker had
a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and I had a
thermos full of some hobo’s vomit that I gotten
the night before. I asked, off handedly, if he
ever thought about killing Mr. Doyle. He said to
me, “I don’t know, Jesse, some people are just
like that.” I couldn’t believe it! How could he
justify something like that? It was inexcusable.
I remember having some bad thoughts about Parker,
the only time I ever did. I imagined that he and
Mr. Doyle were actually in cahoots, and their sole
mission was to fuck with me. That night I bought
a cat at a pet store down the street from my house
and I fucked it then killed it and ate it, imagining
it was Parker.
The
next morning, I realized I had been acting silly.
I like
being sophisticated. Parker inspired me to get
involved in art. One time, when I asked him what
was so special about the paintings he looked at
all day, he said, “They’re simple and they don’t
change. I need something like that.” I was kind
of offended, I mean, I’m simple and I don’t change.
Of all the people I know, I’m probably the most
normal. Why didn’t Parker think of me like that?
I decided to try it out. I went to an art store
in the mall that sold replicas of famous paintings,
and the kid behind the counter, this pretentious
little shit, asked me what I was interested in,
so I told him, “I want something simple that doesn’t
change,” and he immediately pointed me to this
painting of a kid blowing flames in a backyard
while his dad barbeques and his mom and sister
are in a pool, naked and smiling. I didn’t really
get it, but for some reason I wanted this kid to
think I “got” it, so I said “It’s perfect!” with
feigned enthusiasm. I bought it and took it home
and hung it over my bed. It’s still there, despite
almost being torn down numerous times.
I hear
Mr. Doyle rumbling again, and my first thought
is what I want to do to him. I ask Parker all the
time if he wants me to kill him, but he always
declines. One day, I’ll wear him down, and he and
I can go out back by the dumpster and Parker can
watch me cut him up. I’ll have gazpacho for a week!
“Parker?” I
ask.
“Yes,
Jesse?”
“I could
kill him for you, if you wanted?” Maybe today was
the day. I hope.
“Yes,
Jesse, I know you could, but I don’t think so.” Looks
like I’ll have to try again tomorrow.
Parker
doesn’t think I’m weird. I know this because he
told me. Some people are taken aback if I tell
them how I mutilate animals and eat them, and then
they go and have a cheeseburger. If you ask me,
they’re the strange ones. I just cut out the middle
man. And I save money. Sounds sensible. But tell
someone you eat dog liver or you like to fuck ferrets,
and they look at you like you have ten heads. People
are fucked.
But
it’s the way of the world, I suppose. People would
rather live with their heads up their asses, so
I only kill animals in my house and I call my food
gazpacho.
Parker
knows though. He came over my house one time and
saw a dead cat in my sink. He didn’t mention it,
but I know he saw it. And I’m pretty sure when
I opened my refrigerator, he peeked and saw the
parrots I had put on skewers for dinner that night.
“I was
late this morning,” I tell him.
“Is
that right?” He has that detached tone, like he
does when he’s looking at his paintings, which
is pretty much all the time.
“Yeah.
I cut my dog open and I had to clean it up, that’s
why I was late. I snuck right past Jackie. She
didn’t even see me.”
“That’s
great, Jesse.” He’s definitely into one of his
paintings. No matter.
It’s
only 9:30, but I’m already bored. Whenever I get
bored, I start to think about lunch. It really
is the only high point of my day, and I usually
bring my gazpacho. I’m not even really sure what
gazpacho is supposed to be really. I think it’s
tomato soup served cold. If that’s all it is, then “gazpacho” is
a pretty fancy name. I’d just call it “cold tomato
soup,” but then, that’s why I’m not a famous food
critic.
Parker
usually brings a peanut butter and jelly sandwich
because he’s boring. Plus, I think he’s a vegetarian.
“What
did you bring for lunch today?” I ask him, knowing
full well the answer.
“I don’t
know, um, peanut butter and jelly.” Surprise, surprise.
“That’s
it?” I don’t really know why I’m continuing this
conversation; we have it everyday.
“And
a bag of chips.”
“I brought
some gazpacho I made this morning. It’s in the
fridge, cooling down.”
“Nice.
I don’t like gazpacho.”
That’s
probably all the conversation I’ll get out of him
all day. He’s too involved with that artist. I’ll
just sit and wait until lunch, then sit and wait
until I can go home and be with my animals.
Lunch
time is almost here. It’s going to be cold and
delicious, yes, cold and delicious.
