Reason to Live

There seemed to be no doubt that I was in for a shitty day. Traffic was insane and to top things off, I missed the bus to work. By the time I lifelessly dragged myself through the glass doors of the office level of the building I worked in, I was forty minutes late.

“Where have you been?” my boss Tracey asked in a grouchy voice.

“Sorry. Traffic was hectic,” I explained, taking my seat at the desk.
Next to the typewriter was a framed picture of Debbie and I posing on the bonnet of a random Chevy parked at a seven-eleven. The owner of the car chased us two and a half blocks, threatening to beat us up. It was a very funny day.
I turned the picture aside, not wanting to think about Debbie and what she had said. I was so furious at her. Sure, what she said may had been true, but the truth hurts. I didn’t like that she was ok with hurting me with a weapon as powerful as the truth.

“You have three sales reports due by 5pm this afternoon, Audrey, so there will be no wasting time,” Tracey lectured me.
She was a fragile, bitter woman with long, frizzy, red hair. Her clothes were too tight and her makeup was too much – even by 1980’s standards.

Then the bitch dumped four, full folders as equally thick as three telephone books each, on the desk in front of me.
“What are these?” I asked.

“Invoices. You will file them as “paid” and “awaiting payment.”

“But, how will I know which have and have not been paid? I’m not authorized access to that information,” I explained.

“Sharon doesn’t have a problem filing invoices. So why would you?” she smirked, like the shoulder-pad freak she is.

“Yes, but I’m pretty sure Sharon’s sleeping with your accountant,” I replied, equally as smart-arsed.

“Then maybe, if you value your position here, you should sleep with him too,” she said, walking off with her nose in the air.

“Right,” I sighed, staring at the mass of work before me. There may have been a chance that I could have had it all done on time, had it not been for idiot customers calling every five minutes.

“King’s office supplies. Audrey speaking, how may I help you?” I asked, with artificial cheer the first twenty so times.
Five hours later, and half way through my first report, the phone rang again. “King’s office supplies. Can I help you?” I muttered, no longer giving a shit about good customer service. They could’ve all taken their broken fax machines and empty boxes of business cards with them to hell for all I cared. I heard familiar laughter on the line, but let it slip my mind quickly.

“I think maybe I can help you more than you can help me,” the mystery man replied.

“What is wrong with you? Photocopier jam? Out of ink perhaps?” I asked, really becoming frustrated.

“Out of people with talent maybe.”

“People with talent?” I asked confused. “You’ve got the wrong number. Good bye,” I said, slamming down the phone.
It instantly began to ring again. “Oh my god!” I screamed, tugging at my hair a little. “What?” I asked, knowing it was that same guy calling back again.

“Before you hang up, I have a proposition for you Audrey. A stiff proposition actually, but I shouldn’t be telling you that,” he began.

“Gene?” I asked, shocked.

“Yes, Gene Simmons. I’d ask how you are today, but that’s rather obvious.”

“Shit. I just hung up on Gene Simmons,” I whispered, totally shocked.

“Sorry, what was that?” he asked.

“Oh, I just said that I am really sorry Gene, I didn’t know..”

“Know that someone who isn’t a complete moron would call? I don’t blame you. It’s pretty obvious you want to get out of the nine to five rat race, so here’s the deal. I was at that little club you play at last night with a guy I know that happens to manage various bands. As a side project I have my own record label that you may be familiar with. We’ve been looking for an all female act that has guts and glory, and there’s no doubt in my mind that “Crypteia” is it.

“My band?” I asked embarrassed. “You saw my band last night?”

“Yes. You all have a unique quality that makes you stand out. Your singer has an amazing voice, and you are quite the guitar player. Mr Bruce “I went to music school” Kulick seems to agree.”

I laughed awkwardly. “You’ve gotta be kidding,” I said in disbelief.

“When it comes to business, I never am kidding,” Gene said seriously.

“Ok, so what do I have to do?” I asked, clueless.

He chuckled. “All you have to do is show up at my party in L.A that I’m having this weekend. I’ll introduce you and your band to the right people, and by the end of the night have you signed to a label. I have your number, so I’ll call again tonight to confirm the details.”

“Thank you so much Gene!” I almost screamed.

“Alright, I have to go now. Talk to you soon,” and with that, the god of thunder and rock and roll hung up.

I collapsed onto the floor, lost in disbelief. I sat there with the phone hanging off the hook, just trying to make sense of it all. First Bruce Kulick wanted to make out with me, then all of a sudden Gene Simmons had the desire to make me famous. I was still unsure if it was real or if I really had lost the plot. Either way I was sure about one thing.
I was quitting my stupid job.

I threw the invoices across the room, smiling insanely as little pieces of paper floated to the floor like snowflakes. Stepping over the mess I made, I ran down the corridor and screamed “Tracey! I fucking quit!”