"Ahem," I cleared my throat loudly after standing in the doorway of Mr. B's office for more than five seconds. Patience was not my forte.
"I'm busy Mel," Big Boss Brion mumbled at me, not once taking his nose away from the computer screen. No wonder it was always greasy looking, I thought shuddering. The guy seriously needed to think about adding another layer to those lenses. At this rate, he might as well strap a couple of magnifying glasses to his face.
"It's of the upmost importance," I said primly.
"Everything with you is important and I'm still busy."
"I'll wait." I dropped my butt into a folding chair next to his behemoth desk and started tapping out a little ditty on top of the three ring binder which held the rules and regulations of being a model Superpumper employee.
Soon, the beat overtook me and I started tapping my feet. Before I knew it, I was drumming like Peter Criss at his Hello Kittiest, rocking out and totally getting lost in the groove.
"Mel!!" Brion's blotchy red pace was right smack dab in front of mine. Ewww!
"What?" I cringed back, wiping the spittle off my face with the sleeve of my shirt.
He straightened up crossing his arms over his concave chest and glared at me. "what do you want? And who is watching the front?"
I looked out the door of the storeroom which had a very clear view of the front counter.
"It's right there," I said pointing out the door.
"You can't be leaving your post, anybody could walk in and rob us blind."
I snorted. "Nobody can walk in without us seeing it. First of all, there is the little bell that goes ding-a-ling every time the door opens and second, the storeroom is right behind the counter. I can see it from here."
"This is NOT the storeroom!" he huffed, slamming his thin frame into his rolling chair sending it careening into a precariously stacked pyramid of toilet paper. An avalanche of white cylinders rained down on him and his precious desk.
One came rolling across the floor towards me like a forlorn puppy. Scooping it up, I handed it over to Mr. B whose face was an unnatural shade of puce.
"What the hell do you want Mel!" His voice sounded like ground glass.
I returned his glower with a sunny smile in hopes of improving his disposition.
"You really need to work on your communication skills, Mr. B," I lifted my eyebrows. "I came here to discuss employee policy so that I can better my abilities to serve the Superpumper family."
He rolled his eyes, brushing the dozen or so rolls of toilet paper off his desk. "The day you worry about becoming a model employee is the day I marry Felicia Day."
"Felix who?"
"Felicia Day!" he rasped, staring at me as if I had grown a second head. "She plays Vi on Buffy the Vampire Slayer." I shrugged my shoulders, still clueless to who he was talking about. "She's a World of Warcraft Goddess!"
I frowned. "Is that a movie?"
"Forget it. What do you want?" He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. I imagined it felt like rubbing your fingers over braille. His forehead's desperate message for Proactiv.
I flopped the Blue Bible on his desk and flipped to the page where I'd been keeping my finger. "I want to confer with you about this." I said tapping my finger on the paragraph I'd ferreted out earlier.
Wheeling his chair closer, Brion bent over and plopped his nose on the page. Again...ewww! I needed to invest in some wet wipes, because I sure as hell wasn't touching that again without one.
"You have a problem with washing your hands after you use the restroom?" he asked, looking at me with faint disgust.
"NO!" I pulled the Bible out from under his nose and repositioned it so it was pointing at the correct clause. Ewww factor overload. "This one."
"Every employee is allowed one hour for lunch," he read out loud.
"Exactly! I've worked here for six months now and I have never been allowed a lunch break." I pounded my fist into my palm, warming up to my topic. "Six months, times four days a week equals...," I fizzled out. Damn math! "Well...it's a lot of lunch hours Superpumper owes me!"
"Are you done," Brion asked, pulling his grimy glasses off and huffing on the lenses before cleaning them on his shirt. Cleaning was a relative term, smearing would be more accurate.
Was I? Quickly I tried to recalculate the numbers, but ended up getting a brain freeze, so I nodded my head sagely.
"If you had bothered to continue to read the rest, you have seen lunch breaks are not required, but up to the discretion of the employee. In other words," he placed his glasses back on his nose pushing them up, "if you don't take the break that's completely your fault. Superpumper owes you nothing. And if we did, it still would be a wash or do I need to add up all the times you have been late or called in sick?"
Drat! "I didn't read that part." I pouted, leaning back in the chair.
"Obviously," Brion said quickly, turning back to his computer screen. "If there's nothing else, I have work to do and so do you," he said dismissing me and nuzzling the monitor.
I chewed the inside of my cheek, my brain churning over it like one of those stupid word problems they assaulted you with in school. The mall was 15 minutes away. If Mel drove following the designated posted speed limit of 35 mph, how long would it take for her to arrive, fulfill her BOGO needs and make it back to work?
I snorted, as if I ever followed designated speed limits. It's a well-documented fact I drove like a maniac, Jeff Gordon had nothing on me when there was a sale involved.
"Weren't you leaving?" Butter-faced Brion asked, arching a bushy eyebrow at me. They looked like two caterpillars crawled up on top of his brow and died.
"Yes, I was." I smiled sweetly, getting up out of my chair and brushing a piece of fuzz off my black SpongeBob designer pants. "I'm going to lunch."
I turned on my heel and hoofed it out of Mr. B's broom closet, grabbing my purse and keys out from under the counter in one swift motion. I was a woman on a mission and I didn't have a moment to spare.
Just as I was punching open the door, I heard Brion's warning chasing after me, nipping at my heels like an annoying poodle.
"You better not be late!"
"You better not be late," I mimicked in a high pitched squeak, rolling my eyes as I opened the door to my "seen better days" 1973 AMC Gremlin. She was lime green, with a minty stripe. She also had an oddly long hood with a front overhang which reminded me of an overbite and a backend that looked like somebody whacked it off with a cleaver, but it was all mine, right down to its shiny saucer hubcaps.
I affectionately call her Gizmo. After all, you can't have a Gremlin and not actually name it after a gremlin. That would be ridiculous. I received Gizmo from my last set of foster parents on my eighteenth birthday. Kind of a "here, we bought you a car and really don't mind if you drive off and we never see you again" sort of deal.
I tossed my purse into the passenger seat and plopped down behind the wheel. Giving Gizmo an affectionate pat on the dashboard, I cranked her up. Revving the engine a few times to get her going, I pressed the clutch and threw her into gear, leaving a trail of smoke and a year's worth of tire tread behind.
Screeching into the parking lot of the mall a mere seven minutes and 32 seconds later, I found a perfect parking spot and slipped into it, the fates were on my side. I made great time. It would have been better if I hadn't had to wait for the little old lady to cross the street. Seriously, where was a Boy Scout when you needed one?
Turning the review mirror, I caught a quick look at my reflection and recoiled at the sight of the Superpumper get up. Oh well, I thought, grabbing my gloss and swiping my lips. Maybe the sales lady will give me an extra pity discount when she gets a gander at what I was wearing. Smacking my lips a couple of times, I clambered out of Gizmo and gave her another pat on the roof, promising her a full tank of the good stuff when we got back.
People who claim shopping is secretly compensating for depression, loneliness, anger or used as a tool to replace love and bolster self-esteem, never found the perfect fitting pair of black skinny jeans, matching waist-length leather jacket and a pair of open-toed red heels so cute they make you squee like a fangirl at a Justin Bieber concert.
Giggling with glee at my incredible finds, I headed towards the Orange Panda in the food court for some much deserved Kung Pao chicken, noodles, pot stickers, maybe an egg-roll or two and a Diet Coke. It was my lunch break after all and I still had...I glanced at my phone...15 minutes.
I was happily slurping the last of my noodles and reading a bit about a man in Florida who was arrested for domestic battery for allegedly pelting his mother with potato salad during a confrontation over the last piece of friend chicken in their home at Sunday dinner on my phone, when all hell broke loose.
A disheveled man in a wrinkled long white coat, complete with pocket-protector jammed full of pens, came rushing into my table, knocking my phone out of my hand and scattering empty Chinese food containers across the mall floor like confetti.
"Oh! I am so sorry," he panted, eyes bulging behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He looked a bit like an older version of Harry Potter, minus the lightening scar. He kept trying to pick up the little boxes but instead, ended up kicking them in his rush just out of reach.
I wasn't worried about littering as much as I was worried about my phone, which thankfully was undamaged. I mean, my WHOLE life was in that phone...music, books...the RetailMeNot app. Not to mention, I stopped memorizing phone numbers when I was 12. I couldn't even remember my own phone number anymore due to smartphone technology making me stupid.
The man was still scuttling around on the floor chasing paper napkins and tossing furtive glances over his shoulder.
"Hey, mister? It's okay, don't worry about it." I walked over to him, tapping him on the shoulder causing him to jump as if I'd goosed him. He was as white as Casper and breathing like Brion during his hay fever period. "Do you need to sit down?" I asked, feeling sorry for him. He was kind of cute in a mad scientist sort of way with his hair sticking out at every imaginable angle.
He only looked at me with his mouth gaped open, so I escorted him to an empty chair and manipulated him like I use to do with my Ken dolls, until he was sitting. I handed over the half empty Styrofoam cup and watched as he greedily guzzled the rest. Who needs a Boy Scout? I deserved a badge for my selfless act in assisting a stranger, even though he wasn't old. Old people smelled funny anyway.
"Thank you," he gasped after his last gulp, arching his neck and looking over the balcony of the food court down to the mall floor below. He sure was a twitchy fellow. I watched a show on the Discovery Channel once, when I couldn't find batteries for the remote, about meerkats and his behavior reminded me of them popping up and looking for danger.
"You're welcome." I smiled at him. He stared at me. Time passed...slowly. Can anyone say awkward? What's the appropriate amount of time you are supposed to spend with someone after rendering aid? My fingers twitched to Google it. I wonder which would come up with the better answer...Yahoo, Google or Bing? Maybe I should Google that first.
Suddenly the man shot up out of his chair as if he'd been electrocuted, grabbing me and dragging me up with him. He crushed me against his chest backing us to an obscure dark corner over by the restrooms and pushed me up against the wall, his pocket full of pens jamming into my boobs. I opened my mouth about to scream stranger danger at the top of my lungs, when he slapped his hand over it, silencing me. Oh great! This is what I get for trying to be a nice person, I thought as I started to struggle. He was surprisingly stronger than I anticipated, at least his hand smelled nice.
"I'm really sorry about this, but I am out of time," he mumbled in my ear as he dug around in his immense lab coat, keeping his hand over my mouth. I renewed my struggles, worried about what exactly he was going to pull out and hoping like hell he wasn't reaching for a zipper.
A sharp sting pierced my right butt cheek and I let out a muffled howl behind his palm. Holy Moses on a pogo stick that burned! My hands which had been trying to push him off instinctively went and grabbed my ass, knocking something protruding from it on to the floor. The slight tinkling sound of glass hitting the tile reached my ears, before it rolled away. What the hell did he do?
"I gave you eternal life. If you survive, you will be the first and you must protect yourself." He looked over his shoulder quickly before turning burning eyes back to me. "Do you understand?" He shook me a little until I focused on him instead of trying to see what was on the floor. "It's imperative you remain hidden. The secret is within your blood and you must protect it at all costs!"
I nodded my head, trying to appease the kook who sounded like the man over by the bowling alley who wore a sandwich board and screamed about the end of the world being upon us. But, if you gave him a ham and cheese sandwich, he will give you a two for one coupon for Cosmic bowling night.
He leaned his clammy forehead against mine and I rolled my eyes thinking I was going to need to bath in hand sanitizer after this.
"I pray eternity is not unbearable and it ends with you, nobody should have the power over God." He looked at me one last time, his bleak eyes searching before releasing me and running off. His coat flapping like a sheet in the wind behind him.
What the hell was that all about, I absently rubbed my sore butt as I watched him disappear. I took a step forward and my Croc accidentally sent something sliding across the floor in front of me. It rolled over to my bags and I scurried after it.
Bending down, I picked up a small glass...syringe?
What was in that vial? Will Mel make it back to work on time? Stay tuned for the next installment of FANGED to find out.
Hey everyone! I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I have enjoyed writing it. If you liked it please give it a vote and comments are always appreciated. If you don't see any updates here...check out my other two stories Bending Steele or When Roses Collide.