Black Cat Weekly #71

Chapter 5-1

byBrad dropped his jacket on the floor and flopped into his recliner. It had been that kind of day. He closed his eyes and leaned, pressing back against the pillowy headrest. He’d lost most of the furniture with the divorce, but at least he’d hung onto his favorite chair. Mia didn’t fight him for it. Brad assumed that John didn’t like the feel of the recliner against his perky a*s.

But Brad did. He liked how the leather enveloped him when he sank into it. The chair felt like a hug. Not the hug he dreamed about, but a guy couldn’t have everything.

The ceiling fan spun lazily above Brad’s head. A small click marked each revolution of the blades. Something had gotten slightly out of line. When he’d moved in, the management company promised to fix it. The landlord hadn’t followed through. Brad didn’t care. The sound didn’t bother him. It wasn’t an annoying squeak but a tiny scrape, two parts rubbing as they passed. It reminded Brad of the second hand on a watch he used to own.

He bent to pick up his jacket. He didn’t want the suit to wrinkle. Brad stopped. The hell with it. He wore a coat and tie to make his boss, Mr. Jones, happy. And Robert Jones could never be happy. He was physically incapable of happiness. That part of his soul had been surgically removed at birth, like his umbilical cord and foreskin. Brad might wear the wrinkled suit tomorrow just to see what his supervisor said or did. He paused. He was only fooling himself. He needed the job more than the job needed him. It was his bit of rock in a life built on sand. And the job gave him the chance to see Mollee.

Brad stood, this time swooping to pick up his jacket along the way. Pressing the shoulders together, he ran his hand down the sides, smoothing the coat. Carefully, he laid it over the back of the chair, then studied his effort. Satisfied that he’d massaged out most of the wrinkles, he walked to the refrigerator and grabbed a Budweiser.

He emptied the can into a tall pilsner. Mia had convinced him that beer looked better in a glass. Appearances had always been important to her. That explained why she’d taken up with a guy she met at a health club. Brad twisted at the wedding ring he still wore. Even though he didn’t have to answer to Mia, he had gotten used to the routine of pouring his beer and watching the bubbles. He carried his drink back to the chair. Emptying his pockets, he deposited his keys and phone on the side table. The chair softly exhaled as it absorbed him.

Brad sipped and considered why the day had been so miserable. He had organized a little party for Mollee. Today was her birthday. Mollee worked out of a cubicle in the finance department just down the hall. As someone born on February 29th, Leap Day, she only got to celebrate her actual birthday once every four years. Brad thought she deserved a party. He’d decorated the breakroom and arranged eight cupcakes on a tray. He put one candle in each.

Things had gone well. The rest of the team had distracted Mollee. Brad lit the candles. They’d sung “Happy Birthday.” She’d smiled. Her sky-blue eyes sparkled when she’d looked at him. It seemed the perfect moment to ask if she wanted to celebrate over dinner.

Then Mr. Jones entered the breakroom. Nine people looked at eight cupcakes.

Jones scowled.

His eyes fixed on Brad. “Do you know what time it is?”

Brad felt for his phone. He’d left it on his desk. “No, sir.”

He turned to Mollee. “I need those reports for today’s meeting.”

“Your meeting is this afternoon.”

“Then you won’t mind working through lunch.” His eyes again scanned the table. “It seems you’ve already eaten.”

“It’s Mollee’s birthday,” Brad said. “She’s a leapling. She only gets one every four years.” He looked at her and smiled. “We’re celebrating her eighth birthday.”

“That explains why she acts like a child.” Mr. Jones stomped out of the break room.

No one spoke. Mollee blushed, then her eyes moistened. Brad shuffled his feet, uncertain what to say. The party died. Everyone drifted back to their desks.

Brad sat up in his recliner. The day’s scene continued to play in his mind. Before she left the breakroom, Mollee had offered a weak thank you. Her voice cracked, and she sniffled. Brad felt both angry and ashamed. He hadn’t the nerve to ask about dinner.

Outside, the wind rattled the windows of his apartment. A storm approached. He stood and took a step toward the kitchen. He had a rule about beer drinking. The second one usually left him feeling sluggish at work the next day. More importantly, he’d read about men who slid into alcohol following divorce. He twisted his ring. John had stolen Mia. Brad had always been vigilant not to sacrifice another piece of himself.

He sat back down, pressed his head against the chair, and closed his eyes.

Brad awoke with a start. Morning light streamed through the window. Glancing at his phone, he saw that he’d overslept. If he didn’t hurry, he’d be late for work. He scooped up his keys and phone and snatched his suit coat off the back of the chair. Brad rechecked the time. His phone said February 30th. The screen’s message registered in his brain.

“Damn software glitch.” Maybe he wasn’t late. He should start wearing a watch. He rebooted his phone as he headed out the door.

Brad’s stomach growled. He studied his phone as he entered the drive-through line. He ordered a breakfast quesadilla and a cup of coffee, likely the only meal Mr. Jones would let him eat today.

The car thudded. Brad’s head snapped straight, his eyes peered through the windshield. He’d rear-ended the SUV in front of him.

“Damn.” A fender bender was the last thing he needed today. He shifted the car into park and steeled himself to be cussed out by the other driver.

The man glanced in the rearview mirror, smiled, then drove away.

Surprised, Brad watched him leave. The bump hadn’t been hard. Likely, there’d been no damage. Still, he expected the driver to check. Brad planned to apologize. “That guy must be even later than I am.” He shifted into gear and drove forward. His phone still showed February 30th. He handed the drive-through attendant a $10 bill. He glanced again at his phone, then showed it to the woman in the glass box. “That storm last night must have jacked up the cell grid.” As he spoke, Brad realized he’d handed the check-out clerk a single dollar.

She looked at the bill.

“Hey, I’m sorry…”

She handed him his coffee and paper sack. “Have a nice day, sir.”

Brad pulled forward and stopped. He should go inside and correct the mistake. Brad stopped here daily and didn’t want a reputation as “that guy.” But he needed to get to work. The server was probably too stoned to notice, he decided. He pulled the lid off his coffee to add creamer. Tearing open a packet, he poured it into his cup, stirred and replaced the top. He checked the rearview mirror. The guy behind him had paid and was waiting for Brad to leave. He didn’t honk his horn, pound the steering wheel, or swear. He just waited. The driver’s face wore an insipid smile.

Brad settled his coffee into the cupholder. He removed his breakfast from the sack. He arranged the napkin on his lap, then pulled back the wrapping on the quesadilla. He checked his mirror. The guy waited, still smiling, still trapped behind Brad’s car. Brad tucked the corners of the paper into his hand and took a bite. He glanced back. No change.

Clearly, he’s not in a hurry, Brad thought as he pulled onto the street.

Road construction frustrated his attempt to make up for the lost time. In desperation, he steered onto the shoulder and drove around the line of cars standing still. Most of the drivers glanced as he passed. No one blocked him, no one shot him the bird. At First National Bank, he checked the marquee. The bank’s time and temperature sign confirmed what he already knew. Brad would arrive to work late on March 1st. His phone, however, still showed February 30th. Again, he pressed his thumb against the power button.

At his parking space, Brad stood and brushed the crumbs from his lap. He wadded up the paper and threw it onto the passenger floorboard. He checked the front of his car. He let loose a satisfied belch. All things considered, it hadn’t been a bad morning. He should be arriving even later and have front-end damage to his car. A plaintiff’s attorney should be pursuing him, and a cop ought to have ticketed him for driving on the shoulder. None of those bad things had happened. No one had cared about anything he had done. Brad whistled a little tune as he entered the employee entrance.

He walked straight to Mr. Jones’s office, wondering if the boss would notice his suit. Brad puffed his cheeks and blew out an exhale. The sooner he got the boss’s a*s-chewing out of the way, the sooner he might find a little happiness in this place. Brad knew that meant wandering down to visit Mollee.

Robert Jones’s office door was open. The boss sat, bent over his desk. Brad took another deep breath and knocked on the doorframe.

Jones’s eyes surveyed him.

Brad waited, imagining the inventory from his day-old necktie to his wrinkled pants.

“Do you need something, Brad?”

“I thought you might, sir.”

Jones shook his head. He looked back down at the work spread across his desk.

Brad’s anger flared. He saw through Jones’s powerplay. The boss would let the tardiness dangle. He’d spring when the timing suited him, when he might inflict the greatest emotional toll. Likely, he’d wait until Mollee could witness his shaming.

“I do need something,” Brad said and stepped into the office.

Jones stood.

“I need to know why you’re such an overbearing pain in the a*s, Bob.” Brad threw a hard right cross, his hand connecting with the boss’s face. Jones’s head snapped back. He collapsed heavily into the desk chair, blood flowing freely from his nose.

“That’s for upsetting Mollee.” Brad spun and marched out of the door.

He decided on the spot not to tell Mollee what he’d done. When security wrestled him to the ground, he didn’t want her implicated. Instead, Brad walked to his own cubicle. He began to shake out his hand. He stopped. His hand didn’t hurt. His knuckles weren’t even red. His insides, however, felt tingly, and adrenaline coursed through him. It felt good to be bad.

He wouldn’t wait to get arrested or fired. Brad looked at Chris and Miles, the inhabitants of the desks nearest his. “When they come looking for me. Tell ’em I’ve gone day-drinking. HR can mail me my notice.” He stripped off his suit jacket. Wadding it up like the quesadilla wrapper, he slam-dunked it onto the seat of his desk chair. Brad looked at the guys. They sat, stock-still and open-mouthed. “Bring you back a beer?”

Neither spoke.

Miles had a desktop planner. Chris had his phone displayed. Both calendars showed March. Brad again checked his phone. All the random occurrences of the morning began to come together into a single explanation. He smirked before walking out the door. “It’s called freedom, boys.”