Cheer Up, Jimmy: 3 Melancholy Short Stories Page 7

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  Sneak Peak: Shift Chapter 1: Wake Up

  1

  The warehouse was empty when the man woke up but he could have sworn he’d heard the voice of a woman, angry by the sounds of it, trying to rouse him. He blinked at the ceiling. He was flat on his back in what seemed like ten years’ worth of rusty dust. Fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling on long rusty chains. They swayed gently with the whistling breeze blowing in through broken windows. Light shined in too, in long, sheer beams projected from wherever time or vandals had destroyed the glass. All around him shipping containers formed angular mountains between the irregular pools of sunshine. They were all in muted hues, dead reds, rotten greens, and a horrible teal colour that made him think of a dirty, stagnant pond he’d once smelled, though when or where he couldn’t quite recall. He sat up and patted the dust off of his shoulders then stepped out of the dust devil he’d created. He checked his wrist and found it bare. The poor quality of light put the time around dawn or dusk, and so he closed his eyes and listened. Birds chirped a chorus in answer to his silent question, and he smiled, impressed with himself and his problem solving skills. Apparently, he liked puzzles.

  “Now,” he said to the gloomy room, “who the hell am I?”

  2

  Sandy Gauss walked quietly into her boss’ office just in time to watch him top off an old fashioned full of chipped ice. Scotch splashed out onto his fingers with bits of slushy, alcohol infused snow before he could ease up– his usual measure. He toasted the air, sloshing more liquor onto his pants as his fingers rubbed his left temple, and downed the drink in a way that could have promoted pledge to brother in a single night. A mammoth belch later he slammed the glass down onto the desk and looked up in time to see her frowning at him. He sighed, and cued her to begin by motioning to the overstuffed leather chair facing his desk. She stood there, not quite looking at him and clutching a report they both knew would be the end of them, of all of it.

  “Mark, it’s 10:30. A.M.,” she stated. She fidgeted slightly as she undoubtedly judged him, rolling onto her left ankle. It was a bad habit that made him cringe. It meant she was annoyed and she knew it annoyed him back. She rocked, a subtle left-to right jerk, somehow keeping her head straight and level. Her dark hair barely bounced. Feet just weren’t supposed to know that angle. He sighed, pushed the glass to the side, and twirled his hand slowly: out with it, that gesture said.

  “Mark, you know what I’m going to say.”

  “Why do they always send you, Sandy? Every time there’s a problem, I see your pretty little face. “

  He was still rubbing his temple and resting on that elbow, but the motion had become less desperate, slower and lighter. His eyes had also begun to gloss over. If there was one thing you could say about Mark Rowe, it was that he was thorough, even when (or maybe especially when) it came to his liquor. His eyelids drooped and quivered as he looked her up and down, taking her in and letting the warm, soothing rush of the alcohol lull him and carry away his anxiety. There was a dense smell of bergamot on his breath as he sighed at her. She rolled her eyes and nearly tossed the report at him. The spiral binding produced a high-pitched metallic whine as it slid against the stainless steel of the desk. He dragged it the rest of way, exaggerating the sound on purpose and leering at her sardonically. His belly was ablaze with the perfectly aged scotch, but already the warmth was leaving him. Soon he’d be left with the clumsy artefacts of drink – the numbness, the slurred speech, the inability to give a shit.

  She folded her arms across her chest, refusing to meet his gaze. “Just read the report. Ignore the numbers. They don’t matter. It’s not like the general will look at them. Last three pages are the final figures, results, conclusion.”

  “Yes, Sandy. It’s a lab report. Sit down and cool your jets.” He flipped to the last three pages and skimmed through, frowning as he went. He mopped the hand that had been rubbing his temple across his forehead, rubbing the middle until it turned bright red. The skin there flaked off and fell to the metal desk like snow. As he read, he dug in, rubbing and picking at the ever harassed skin. He felt prickles in his armpits and between his thighs as he perused the final figures. His skin itched and throbbed almost painfully with his quickening heartbeat. His tongue ached for the sweet burn of liquor as he nervously slid the tip against the ridges on the roof of his mouth.

  “It’s over if we lose another one,” she said when he put his hand down limply on the desk. His eyes were pointed at the report but he was a million miles away, calculating, parsing this information. He’d known it was bad, but not a 100% failure rate sort of bad. A salvageable bad, maybe. He reached for the tumbler and his matching crystal flagon. The set had been a gift from the board – congratulations on the first successful shift.

  “So what’s changed between then and now, Sandy? That’s what we need to be looking for. Why has it stopped working?” The tumbler was full again, the flagon nearly empty. The chipped ice floated lazily in the diluted scotch, clinking like delicate wind chimes. Rowe was a nervous drinker but it seemed like the report was going to dry him out. She shrugged and collapsed into the chair. She’d never felt so defeated.

  “You’re doing the pre-shift, you’re screening the candidates? It’s all you, right? Nobody else?” he asked, bringing the glass to his lips, eyes still on the final numbers. She nodded and rested her chin in the palm of her hand. They sat there, the two of them invested in this ailing project, looking exactly past each other, making an effort not to see each other. “So what could have changed,” he quietly asked the room.

  “Goddammit! You know what’s changed! You’ve shortened the leash. How am I supposed to diagnose a problem I’m not allowed to see? Please Mark!” she blurted. Rowe only shifted his eyes to her for a moment before draining the tumbler.

  “No.”

  “Unless that intern has been messing with the equipment, everything is exactly the same. You know what the problem is. We all do. We’re all being fed on this and you’re going to let us all starve for some fucked up carnal desire? You know who I am, Mark. You know how it’ll go.” She was breathing hard and had leaned forward in the chair, planting both hands firmly on the stainless steel desk between them. He would not look at her. He wondered how two people could see each other every day and still manage to never to actually look at one another. He lifted his glass to his lips, then, realising it was empty again, lowered it onto the wet spot in his lap and sat like a scolded child. Her face was red but calm. She seemed more out of breath than anything. Sandy was not accustomed to talking much. “The problem, it’s got to be there, in the past. None of the subjects know enough to see anything wrong. But I’d know, Mark. If you’d just let me go. I could fix it.”

  Finally he spoke. He was staring into the bottom of his glass as though it had wronged him. “And I guess you’re determined. Sandy, do you ever not get your way?”

  She sat back immediately, composed as normal, face cooling. “I can do this. I pioneered this. I do the best. I last the longest. But that shouldn’t even matter because I know what to look for. Please, Mark. Just for long enough to see where they’re all going.”

  She looked down at the desk intently, regarding her own reflection, talking to herself more than anything now. “We track them all to this one spot, but our maps of the time are iffy and the area has long since been gentrified. We can’t go ripping up people’s basements, least of all when they’re the spoiled-brat kids of the guys funding us.”

  He nodded, and began to reach for the scotch but thought better of it and instead, handed her back the report. “I don’t want this.” Whether he meant the report, the scotch, or the impending trip she’d be making, she couldn’t tell.

  About The Author

  Dania wrote her first book at the tender age of three. The hilariously titled Wold Boy followed a young boy who literally had the Earth for a head. With the world on his shoulders, he was perpetually sad and disadvantaged since he was too big to reall
y hang out with anybody. Since then she’s branched out into various media and can be found singing, drawing, writing, and even knitting. If it’s creative, you can bet she’s tried it!

  She is an avid reader, but has a special place in her heart for horror writer Stephen King. Horror books are her guilty pleasure, and she’s always glad to have something to sink her teeth into.

  When she isn’t doing freelance work or writing, she loves to cook, game, and waste whole days online like any other twenty-something. You can connect with her on her blog, twitter, or LinkedIn.