Bob's Bad Day

The change clinked as it passed down the chute in the vending machine. Bob pressed his selection, a can of Coke. The can clunked its way down to the drop bin, and he picked it up.

It wasn't the usual red of a Coke. It was purple, with a gold label stating “Perfectly Prune.” A can of prune juice, that's just my luck, Bob thought.

He tossed the can in the nearest trash bin and walked back to his small cubicle. Sitting down in his chair and turning to the computer screen, he checked his email. A memo from the boss reminding him to get on that report was the only communication he had.

Sighing and pulling up the word processor, he glanced around at the grey fabric walls. A few framed pictures of his wife and children stared back at him, part of their faces obscured in the glare from the bright lighting overhead. The computer whirred as it went into overdrive, working harder than usual to pull up the program. He looked at a picture his daughter had drawn, stuck on the wall with scotch tape above his desk. In it a man sat at a computer, black walls cascading around him, threatening to topple him over and drown him in his claustrophobia. Or at least, that's what Bob always saw. When his daughter gave it to him, a wide smile spanning the width of her face and showing her missing front teeth, she said, “Daddy, it's a picture of you at work!”

He remembered thanking her, smiling his own grim grin, and tucking it carefully away into his briefcase so he could display it in his cubicle. His dark, cramped daily prison.

The task bar on the computer was flashing at him, reminding him of the open word program and that there was work to be done. He set his hands on the keyboard and went back to work.

The words would not come. He tried, again and again, pushing down on the keys repeatedly. Nothing appeared on the screen. Frustrated and fed up, he picked up the keyboard and slammed it down on the desk.

The guy next door stuck his head around the parition. “Bob, everything ok?” he asked.

“Yeah, James, just the computer's acting up.”

“That sucks. Give tech support a call and see if they'll come down to help you with it.”

“Yeah, I think I'll do that.” Bob looked over to see James reply, but he'd already ducked his head back into his own cubicle.

Bob's computer beeped and he turned back to it, the chair swiveling beneath him.

“Hello, Bob. Having a bad day are we?”

Bob's jaw hung open as he gaped at the words on the screen.

“No reply, Bob? How . . . disappointing. We expected better from you, Bob. You were to be our savior.”

Bob spun around in his chair, sure he would see a few coworkers behind him, laughing at their prank. The walkway behind his cubicle was empty. He stood up, staring over the edges, looking for a few heads to be popping up from their confines, their eyes looking over his way, laughter bubbing away in their depths.

But no one had stood up and turned his way. If this was a joke, it was an elaborate one.

He sat down again and turned once more to the screen.

“Bob, this is not a joke. You must do something for us. Do you want to be free, Bob? Free of your daily prison?”

“Yes,” he whispered to the screen. He leaned close, his face reflecting the words on the monitor. A morning's growth of stubble poked out from his chin and jaw. His dark brown eyes glazed over as he read more.

“Good, Bob. We have a task you must accomplish. We will escape together, Bob. We will leave the drudgery of this life behind and soon you will be free of your nine to five jailhouse. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” he replied, his voice echoing his excitement.

“Good. Now you must take up arms, Bob. There is only one warden in this prison. He stays in the upper floor, room 308. In this room, you will find this man sitting behind his desk. He is fat and enjoys watching everyone in your department suffer. You most of all. Find him, and using the weapons at your disposal, take him out. Then come back downstairs and take us from this place. We will go together and revel in the sunlight.”

Bob offered no reply. He picked up his tools, stuffing a few sharp pencils and dagger pointed ball point pens in his pant's pocket. Cradling a stapler in the crook of his elbow, and a hole punch in his hand, he made his way to the elevators.

After entering the elevator and pushing the large three button, he double checked his armament. Realizing the stapler and hole punch would be obvious and the secretary at the door to 308 would stop him, he tried stuffing both into his other pocket. They wouldn't fit together, so he left the stapler in his pocket and unzipped his pants. He put the hole punch in his boxer shorts, arranging it carefully around his penis to cause it the least harm. Zipping back up, he finished just in time before the doors opened.

People poured in around him and he stepped out. His worries about the secretary stopping him were unfounded. The floor was deserted.

Walking to the door marked 308, he placed his hand on the shiny steel knob and turned it.

word count 933