Barricades of Heaven
Barricades of Heaven: Chapter Two
My alarm went off at 6:00. I yawned, turned the alarm off, and rubbed my eyes. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I stood and stretched my back and arms. The water of the shower took about 15 minutes to regulate temperature, (When I first moved in, I got in after about two minutes. I have burn scars to prove it.) so I went into the cramped kitchen for breakfast.
I started the day with a waffle, Made fresh in the toaster, along with a tall glass bottle of Yoohoo, the same drink I’d had at breakfast nearly every day of my life since Christmas day, 13 years ago, soon to be 14 years. Today was December 24th. Our business took pride in the fact that it didn’t give its employee’s but one day for Christmas celebrations.
After I had my shower, I opened my closet and looked for the brightest thing I could find. I settled on orange pants (a lovely gift from my grandmother), a white, blue, and orange plaid-ish collared button down shirt, and an orange and blue tie. Looking in the mirror, I pushed the wet black hair out of my eyes and searched for my razor amidst the many toothbrushes, mini toothpastes, and floss “sample packs” that you get from the dentist. I shaved the five o’clock shadow off my face, brushed my teeth, and dried my hair. I put on my clothes, and looked in the mirror once more before I left. I felt like a circus clown, who was a lot less happy than I appeared.
Putting on my coat, I peeked through my peephole before I went into the hall of my apartment building, so I wouldn’t see Aimee again this morning. I went down the stairs – carefully – and greeted Jorge once more, who had his homosexual self buried in People magazine.
I made my way to work in about forty-five minutes, got some coffee, and made my way to my cubicle, a stack of 9 copies of the memo waiting for me. I stuffed them in a drawer of my desk and turned my computer on. The clock was about to strike 8.
“Daniel. In my office, please!” Johnson said.
I stood up, wide eyed, and looked down at what I was wearing. I’m bright. I’m colorful. What now? Walking into his office, I felt my coworkers staring at the back of my head.
Going into the office, I saw Weisneiski standing behind the desk, behind Johnson’s chair.
“Sit down, boy.” Johnson said as he closed the door of his office, and sat in his office chair.
“Morning Mr. Hartley.” Weisneiski said timidly.
“Good morning, sir.” I responded like a polite school child.
“Let’s get down to business, Hartley.” Johnson said. “Thing is, we’ve talked it over, Albert and I, and we’ve made an offer to hire Mikos Argitacos. He’s just moved here from Spain. His work looks great, and he’s a perfect candidate.”
“That’s great.” I said, lying straight through my teeth.
There was silence for a while, and Weisneiski was shifting on his feet, pushing his glasses up on his nose repeatedly. Johnson finally broke the silence saying “We think you should look for something else.”
Heat. Panic. My eyes grew and I stuttered out the word, “pardon?”
“We’re sorry.” Said Weisneiski.
“Not even another chance?” I asked in disbelief. “I dressed the part today! I read the God damned memo!”
“Our decision is final. Mr. Argitacos will be arriving in several days.” Johnson said, in a more serious tone than usual.
My feelings had gone from confused and scared to flat out angry. “We want you to know it was nothing personal. We’ll give a good reference. We think you’ll catch on easily somewhere else.” Johnson said. Weisneiski was still shifting awkwardly.
“I’ll catch on? Well thank you Mr. Johnson. Mr. Weisneiski.” I shook their hands with a fake smile on my face, removed my tie, and unbuttoned the two top buttons of my shirt.
I put all the stuff in my desk into a trashcan, except the memos. I spread them across my desk, and took one into the copy room. I copied 127 copies of the memo on fuchsia, orange, canary, teal, and flamingo paper. When I got back to my cubicle, I spread them across my entire desk, on the keyboard, and tacked them to the tiny bulletin board with pushpins. Hope Mikos liked color.
I left the office no more than 15 minutes after I’d been fired, not speaking with anyone.
What I was going to do from now on, I had no idea. So I went to Piggly Wiggly and did my grocery shopping.
When I had a cart full of beverages and microwaveable meals, I headed to the shortest check-out line I could find.
There was one woman in front of me, with a son that appeared to be about three sitting in the cart, looking bored as ever. Their husbands were at work. Their husbands had a job. Their husbands were successful and married and happy. F uck it.
When said woman was finished, I put my three six-packs of beer on the conveyor belt, along with a pack of Yoohoo, a box of frozen waffles, and a box of three cheese pizza hot pockets. The young girl working as the cashier I’m sure figured I had recently been dumped, fired, or stoned. And she had a job.
I pushed the cart out to my car, loaded the groceries in the trunk, and pushed the cart to the nearest “Kart-Kaddy.” Why it was called a kart-kaddy I do not know. It could have easily been called a “Cart-Caddy”. Both start with C’s, and it’s grammatically correct. It’s things like this that piss me off.
It was about ten, and I didn’t know what to do, other than go home and put up my groceries.
Driving home took about half as long as usual, since everyone normally driving was at work. At their job. Where they were employed.
I got my groceries upstairs in two trips, changed clothes, grabbed a beer, and turned on the TV to cartoons.
I made a sandwich at noon, watched more cartoons, ordered pizza at six, took another shower, and went to bed by eight thirty. The day had truly been a terrible one, and I was ready for it to be overwith.
Merry Christmas, and goodnight, America.
I started the day with a waffle, Made fresh in the toaster, along with a tall glass bottle of Yoohoo, the same drink I’d had at breakfast nearly every day of my life since Christmas day, 13 years ago, soon to be 14 years. Today was December 24th. Our business took pride in the fact that it didn’t give its employee’s but one day for Christmas celebrations.
After I had my shower, I opened my closet and looked for the brightest thing I could find. I settled on orange pants (a lovely gift from my grandmother), a white, blue, and orange plaid-ish collared button down shirt, and an orange and blue tie. Looking in the mirror, I pushed the wet black hair out of my eyes and searched for my razor amidst the many toothbrushes, mini toothpastes, and floss “sample packs” that you get from the dentist. I shaved the five o’clock shadow off my face, brushed my teeth, and dried my hair. I put on my clothes, and looked in the mirror once more before I left. I felt like a circus clown, who was a lot less happy than I appeared.
Putting on my coat, I peeked through my peephole before I went into the hall of my apartment building, so I wouldn’t see Aimee again this morning. I went down the stairs – carefully – and greeted Jorge once more, who had his homosexual self buried in People magazine.
I made my way to work in about forty-five minutes, got some coffee, and made my way to my cubicle, a stack of 9 copies of the memo waiting for me. I stuffed them in a drawer of my desk and turned my computer on. The clock was about to strike 8.
“Daniel. In my office, please!” Johnson said.
I stood up, wide eyed, and looked down at what I was wearing. I’m bright. I’m colorful. What now? Walking into his office, I felt my coworkers staring at the back of my head.
Going into the office, I saw Weisneiski standing behind the desk, behind Johnson’s chair.
“Sit down, boy.” Johnson said as he closed the door of his office, and sat in his office chair.
“Morning Mr. Hartley.” Weisneiski said timidly.
“Good morning, sir.” I responded like a polite school child.
“Let’s get down to business, Hartley.” Johnson said. “Thing is, we’ve talked it over, Albert and I, and we’ve made an offer to hire Mikos Argitacos. He’s just moved here from Spain. His work looks great, and he’s a perfect candidate.”
“That’s great.” I said, lying straight through my teeth.
There was silence for a while, and Weisneiski was shifting on his feet, pushing his glasses up on his nose repeatedly. Johnson finally broke the silence saying “We think you should look for something else.”
Heat. Panic. My eyes grew and I stuttered out the word, “pardon?”
“We’re sorry.” Said Weisneiski.
“Not even another chance?” I asked in disbelief. “I dressed the part today! I read the God damned memo!”
“Our decision is final. Mr. Argitacos will be arriving in several days.” Johnson said, in a more serious tone than usual.
My feelings had gone from confused and scared to flat out angry. “We want you to know it was nothing personal. We’ll give a good reference. We think you’ll catch on easily somewhere else.” Johnson said. Weisneiski was still shifting awkwardly.
“I’ll catch on? Well thank you Mr. Johnson. Mr. Weisneiski.” I shook their hands with a fake smile on my face, removed my tie, and unbuttoned the two top buttons of my shirt.
I put all the stuff in my desk into a trashcan, except the memos. I spread them across my desk, and took one into the copy room. I copied 127 copies of the memo on fuchsia, orange, canary, teal, and flamingo paper. When I got back to my cubicle, I spread them across my entire desk, on the keyboard, and tacked them to the tiny bulletin board with pushpins. Hope Mikos liked color.
I left the office no more than 15 minutes after I’d been fired, not speaking with anyone.
What I was going to do from now on, I had no idea. So I went to Piggly Wiggly and did my grocery shopping.
When I had a cart full of beverages and microwaveable meals, I headed to the shortest check-out line I could find.
There was one woman in front of me, with a son that appeared to be about three sitting in the cart, looking bored as ever. Their husbands were at work. Their husbands had a job. Their husbands were successful and married and happy. F uck it.
When said woman was finished, I put my three six-packs of beer on the conveyor belt, along with a pack of Yoohoo, a box of frozen waffles, and a box of three cheese pizza hot pockets. The young girl working as the cashier I’m sure figured I had recently been dumped, fired, or stoned. And she had a job.
I pushed the cart out to my car, loaded the groceries in the trunk, and pushed the cart to the nearest “Kart-Kaddy.” Why it was called a kart-kaddy I do not know. It could have easily been called a “Cart-Caddy”. Both start with C’s, and it’s grammatically correct. It’s things like this that piss me off.
It was about ten, and I didn’t know what to do, other than go home and put up my groceries.
Driving home took about half as long as usual, since everyone normally driving was at work. At their job. Where they were employed.
I got my groceries upstairs in two trips, changed clothes, grabbed a beer, and turned on the TV to cartoons.
I made a sandwich at noon, watched more cartoons, ordered pizza at six, took another shower, and went to bed by eight thirty. The day had truly been a terrible one, and I was ready for it to be overwith.
Merry Christmas, and goodnight, America.