Inanimate Object

Caroline kicked the file cabinet when I told her Glen left. The dent she left on the right side matched the one on the left, when Glen heard I was pulled over for a log book violation up north. That day, they also got me for expired health card and missing placards. He didn't talk to me for two days. The opinion she sought for a report she had written would have to wait until tomorrow.

I shrugged and went back to my paperwork. I had to complete my log book, finish the route manifest, file the invoices, and, because I crossed state lines to get where I was going, complete my interstate commerce sheets. Keeping up with everything was a chore in and of itself, and it only got worse when I spilled my coffee all over everything on the way back. I could only imagine what Glen would say if I turned it in like that, so I had to do it all over. It would take me almost an hour to write it all up.

I began to moan. Had I known of all the paperwork involved with driving, I would have pursued a career in telemarketing. All the paperwork was giving me a headache. I set my pen down and groaned. “I haaaaaate this,” I said out loud to no one. “I have the worst life ever.”

“Hey, I hear ya, buddy,” said someone behind me. He sounded sort of like Bullwinkle Moose, Kermit the Frog, and Mr. Lolich, my old Economics teacher from high school. It was sort of a goofy, high-pitched yet deep voice. It sounded like a cartoon character to be named later.

I turned to where the voice came from, and saw no one. I figured it had to be Jimmy, the sales rep. He was always sneaking up on people, looking to catch you in a rare mood. Some people are like that in that they always seem to find you talking to yourself, or scratching your behind, or picking your nose. Jimmy was one of those types. It’s sort of like he kept record of all your candid moments, saving them for the day when you decide to run for public office or get married.

I shook my head and went back to work. The voice started up again. “Hey pal,” it said. “Can you get me something to drink? I’ve been holding up this damn fax machine for months now, and my frame is tired.”

I continued on with the log sheet, trying to remember where I was after 11 AM. “Mm-hmm,” I mumbled. “Hey Jimmy, what time did you usually leave Century City when you did this run? I think I finished up around one, but I also ate at Taco Bell, so I was there until two, I think. I don’t remember. Help me out, will you?”

“Well,” said the voice. “Jimmy left around 11 to allegedly following up on a lead, but I think he was running over to Holiday Square to “check up” on things, namely the receptionist. According to your sheets from the past, you are usually headed to Blackberry Lake at noon. What took so long?”

I rolled my eyes. “I had an, uh, emergency to attend to.” Broccoli casserole and cheap beer may be my favorite meal, but it leads to other things, like loose bowel movements and numerous trips to rest stops along the way.

“Whatever,” said the voice. “At least you’re not making a fool of yourself in front of the office staff. Jimmy really needs a woman in his life.”

“Really,” I replied in mock interest. Jimmy’s love life meant nothing to me. I was more interested in drawing a straight line from 4:30 to midnight. Then, I had to fill in the cities I visited. It was sort of backwards, but it was the way I trained myself to do this.

Then, something hit me. Jimmy was too shallow to rip on himself. I began to lose focus on my log sheet and began to wonder who was talking to me. No one else in the office make silly voices like that. Paul the accountant was up to his armpits with statements, too wrapped up in his work to mess with me. Our office supervisor, Dean, was too business-like to pull a prank, especially on the hourly guys. Who was talking to me?

“So, how about that drink?”

I turned to look. All I saw was the file cabinet and the fax machine. Caroline was down the hall, on the phone with her husband. Dean was writing up a report on the computer at his desk. Other than us and Paul, there was no one else in the office, unless someone had let himself-or herself-in. I sat and stared at the general location from where the voice came from.

“Yeah, pretty-boy,” said the file cabinet. “Over here. I’m parched.”

I rubbed my eyes. The file card in front of the drawer had split horizontally, giving it two sets of lips. The filing cabinet was talking to me!

I began to wonder if the Cherry Coke I had drank on the way back wasn’t spiked with something. The filing cabinet was talking to me, and not in a metaphorical way. It had lips and a voice, and was trying to carry on a conversation. This simply could not be happening. Something had to be wrong with me.

“Uh, what’s your poison?” I asked, sure there had to be a plausible explanation for this. If Jimmy was behind this, he was sure to blow his cover shortly. If indeed he was responsible, it would be his best prank by far.

It responded. “Sprite,” it said. “ I can't handle caffeine this late at night. And hey, while you’re up, I could go for some Motrin. That kick got me in a sensitive area. Yep, right in the personnel files.”

With a pocket full of loose change, I got up from my desk and walked down the hall. Passing Paul's office, I reset the situation. I was walking down to the vending machine at the end of the hall to purchase a Sprite, then make a trip to the first aid kit next to the water cooler for Motrin tablets. All this, because the file cabinet told me to.

Fred's bachelor party came to my mind as I approached the vending machine. It was the only time I was ever out-of-control drunk. My actions seemed reasonable compared to now. I was doing what conventional logic might have told me not to do. What if I’d simply left the office? What would I think of all this six months from now? Would I regret not obeying the commands of an inanimate object?

I returned to the office, pill tablets in one hand and a Sprite in the other. The file cabinet smiled. “You have no idea how many people simply ignore me, or leave,” it said. “You’re the second person in the last year to help me out. Thanks.”

I was intrigued. “Who was the other?” I asked.

“Remember Dan, the warehouse guy?” it replied. “We used to sit back here and talk for hours. You wanna know why they fired him? He used to go into Dean’s office after hours and wear women’s clothing. He got a thrill out of pretending to be a woman in power.”

I set my pen down. “Are you kidding me?” I gasped. We all thought Dan the Alpha Male was let go because of a drug violation. “Did he talk to you about this, or did you observe it all?”

"I never saw him,” it replied. “He never did that sort of thing in here. I knew he went in there, but I never knew why, and he wouldn't tell me. Jimmy went in there one night while Dan was in drag, and he thought Dan was actually a woman. He hit on Dan! From the back, you probably couldn’t tell, what with Dan’s hair and all. Jimmy's response was priceless.

“It caused a ruckus in the office,” It continued. “Caroline was also in her office, talking with Dean about future projects. They both ran in, and Dan looked at them both and accused Jimmy of sexual harassment. Dean fired Dan on the spot, and it is never spoken of anymore. It's all moot now, because now you will get me a soda if I ask for one, right?”

I sat there in amazement. It was way more information about Dan than I could have ever asked for, and in a way it made all the sense in the world. He always carried that duffel bag into work every day, and no one ever thought to ask about its contents. Now, I knew what was inside, and why it went wherever he went. It also explained Jimmy’s temporary depression. He moped around the office for days.

I placed the can in the top drawer, then stopped. I had forgot to open the can. Before I could reach for it, the drawer shut and I heard a muffled, “Ksht-Tock!” from within. A few seconds went by, then, “Ahh, that hit the spot. Hey thanks, Kid. I really needed it.”

I shrugged my shoulders and went back to my log sheet. As I finished the log sheet, I turned to it. “So tell me,” I asked. “Who else have you spoken to here since Dan? Are there others who will come to my defense when I have that breakdown and get carted off to the mental ward?”

“Uh, nobody that will admit to it,” it replied. “I understand that file cabinets simply aren’t supposed to talk to people. I do, and it freaks people out. Remember when Dean took that unannounced vacation last year, in the middle of inventory? He didn’t go to Tahiti. He went to treatment. He thought the booze had finally caught up to him and ate a hole in his brain. They convinced him he was working too hard and released him. He doesn’t drink at all anymore because of me. Say, are those hours added up right this time? DOT is coming for a compliance check Monday, and Glen really would appreciate one less log sheet to correct.”

I looked back at my sheet. “Seems OK to me,” I replied. “I double-check my sheets every time. Why would Glen get have to correct them?”

“You always forget the 15 minutes it takes to inspect the load when you get out on the road,” it responded. “You are doing that every trip, aren’t you?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure I do,” I lied. Where the hell was I going to stop in the first 15 minutes, anyway? “Tell me, do you talk to other office furniture around here? I bet the files in accounting have some tales to tell.”

“No,” it said. “I mean, I have conversations from time to time with the water cooler, but that’s about it. Most of the stuff around here came from Corporate Financial. They’re pretty stuck-up.”

“Where did you come from?” I asked. I was beginning to get into this conversation.

“I was left here when RayRay’s Dairy moved,” it recalled. “When Glen moved into this office, he saw me and immediately filled me up with personnel records, thinking I was his all along. RayRay's came back for me a year later, but by then, I was touched up with green paint and dented on the left side.

“Enough about me,” it said with finality. “What’s your story? Why did you leave the printing company? Were you really seeking a challenging career with a new company?”

I smiled. “No,” I said. “I left because I wanted normal hours. The deal with that place was, they’d get these orders that had to be filled for distribution at the newspaper. Well, the orders had to be delivered at 7, but by the time they were finished it was almost 9By the time I'd get there, they'd act as if I went to the bar before stopping there. So, I left there, and now I have all this.”

“So, what am I to make of the goal listed on your resume?” it asked. I was beginning to get annoyed with his sanctimonious attitude. He reminded me of John, the warehouse flunky at the old printing place. He seemed to have all the answers regarding logistics, which was remarkable given his inability to aspire past order-filling. I found it hard to take him seriously, especially when OSHA came down on him personally for the eight safety violations they found.

“I prefer to let the Powers-That-Be around here judge me for what I bring every day, not pretty words on a piece of paper,” I said. As I said that, my mind flashed back to last October 16th, when Glen pointed out to me what a blown seal looked like. What made that day so bad was that he had been waiting for me to say something to him about it for two weeks. A pre-trip should have noticed it, but I was too busy in a routine to check it. I honestly thought the rims were just wet from driving through the puddle in front of the dock.

“Mm-Hmm,” it replied. “Interesting philosophy, but it doesn’t explain why there’s this invoice for a new engine from last summer, when anti-freeze mysteriously vanished. That philosophy also doesn't explain the accident report from last February, either.

“Look kid,” it replied. “Take my advice. If you want to be as good to everyone else as you are in your head, you’re going to have to turn it up a notch. Otherwise, you’re going to be gone from here within five years. Sooner or later, someone in the office is going to realize you get paid too much to do what you do, and in no time there will be this mad drive to piss you off enough to leave, so they can replace you at the going rate. How do you think you got here?”

I stopped my paperwork long enough to reflect on the printing place, where I got away with a lot more than I should have. After my last review, it became apparent that someone in the office hated me, and wanted me out. I agreed, and within six weeks, I was here and some old guy wearing a white v-neck t-shirt and brown sweat pants was driving my old truck. I laughed at the image, but found the sight of that yellow truck being driven by someone else to be rather awkward, like seeing an old flame after time with a new mate.

After thinking, I went back to my paperwork, taking more of an interest in doing it right. When it was finished, I stood up from the desk and set the pages in Glen’s In File Basket. I turned to leave, but stopped to ask one more question.

“Tell me,” I asked. “Are you going to want that dent popped loose? I mean, does it hurt?”

“Eh,” it said. “It’ll work itself out soon enough. It strains me up and down the side, but I usually wait for the night janitor to come in and empty the wastebasket. It never fails to crack me up when he jumps like someone hit him with a belt. I’ll be all right.”

I nodded. “Fair enough. Good-night.”

I turned and left, trying to process how serving up a can of pop to a file cabinet led to great career advice. I clocked out and went home, ready to come back the next day with a different outlook on things.