Lester's Desk

Lester’s Desk

         By Chook B.

         Lester kept trying to explain to his client that he was a professional. He had an appointment later that night, so he needed to get the job done on time.

         “Look, I know what I need to do,” he said, “You don’t need to say any more.”

          However, the nervous man in the desk wasn’t listening, and continued to talk as if Lester hadn’t said anything. He wasn’t even looking in Lester’s face. He was looking towards his own hands, which waved about with wild and varied signals to supplement what he was saying. He wasn’t seeing his hands though. He was seeing only what was coming out of his mouth: his words in the form of bubbles, colored streaks, and ripples in the air. Magical, important words. They flew around and performed acrobatics to him before fading away.

         Behind the desk, the man -whose name was Arnold Dodgson- was completely engrossed in his colorful speech as his hands did something very loosely related.

          The desk was his stage. It was littered with documents of all kinds –memos, maps, charts, ID photos, schedules. Everything that was official, either for Lester’s briefing or for Dodgson’s own job. Framing these important items were three personal objects: a standing portrait facing Arnold, a coffee mug decorated with a liquid happy face, and a translucent blue substance clumped together in the corner. People with desks always kept them populated.

          It was on top of this clutter that Arnold’s hands did their dance. One hand would twirl about while the other pointed to a map or photo. Then both hands would fold together, twist, separate, rise in the air, point back at another prop. One hand would flick in Lester’s direction, the other grasping a coffee cup for a few resting moments, before abruptly making up some new hand signal, or swooping to some other object on the desk playground. This nervous dance would continue, building in intensity as the hands shook and sporadically jumped to different locations faster and faster.

         After building up to an outrageous spectacle, Dodgson’s hands would seemingly stop in place, embarrassed, before retreating to the blue clump of goo waiting off to the side. The hands would wrap around the substance, squishing it between them, massaging them together slowly and comfortably. The effect of this goo therapy calmed Dodgson’s entire body, putting him at peace for a few moments. Of course, he continued to talk throughout this, and he never let his hands relax for too long. Soon enough, they would be right back to their exhausting performance on the desk, continuing the cycle.

         This cycle had been going on since the minute Lester got here. He’d been watching the hands perform all across the desk, every so often taking breaks in the goo. So entertaining was this unusual hand game that Lester got lost in it, forgetting about whatever it was that his client was communicating. He could only watch the desk dance.

          The mahogany desk was what separated the two men, Lester and his client. While they were only feet apart, anything Lester could say or do was ineffectual: Lester was on the other side of the desk. Over this desk, the owner could selectively filter out anything he wanted to. The owner was inclined only to focus on the work laid out on top of it. Surrounded by the desk and its contents, the desk-sitter was protected from any foreign dangers. Desks were not just for shelter though. They were prisons of stress. Prisons made comfortable only by the few personal items living amongst the heavy, stress-inducing buildup of work. In this case, it was piles and piles of charts and memos and lists, along with the maps and schedules he was presenting to Lester. It was easy to see that Dodgson, but for the few moments he indulged in squishing the goo, was an extremely stressed-out man.

         Lester himself would never be in a desk of his own. He hated sitting down and doing nothing, which -as far as he could tell- was what desks were for. His destiny was to forever be a desk visitor, always subject to the judgment of the desk owner. Lester was there to do things for the desk owners -occasional odd jobs for large amounts of money. Lester referred to himself as a ‘freelance freelancer’. He wasn’t a writer or anything: he just liked the way the two repeated words fit together. It made him happy. Regardless of what he called himself, Lester didn’t get much respect from any of the men behind the desks.

          Arnold continued to open and close his mouth, going over the plan. He then went over the backup plan. And the target pursuit relief plan. And he continued with a plan for each possible circumstance that could arise. Lester attempted to listen for a moment, but soon regretted it after hearing “If the stairs are blocked then you can use the garbage disposal chute, where-”, this fragment once again proving to Lester how pointless this meeting was. In the time that Arnold had wasted with this briefing, Lester could already have been done with the job and –say- watching a movie right now.

          In a small notebook in his pocket, Lester had scribbled down the eight things he thought were important for this particular job: “Pincharro. Courtyard. Balcony. Dog. Goo. Tuna. 8:45. Identity.” That was all he needed –for the job anyways. What Lester needed before the job was for Arnold to finish talking and hand him a stack of money.

          While he continued to talk, Arnold’s hand dance slowed down and, quivering, the hands moved quickly to the portrait standing on the desk’s corner. Arnold stared at this portrait and his face turned into something squished and red, and he suddenly exploded a burst of sentiment about his feelings. To him, the words came out of his mouth in spirals, but soon changed to more squiggly, sad shapes. These were pulled downward by gravity, and squirmed futilely on the floor. This sight even amplified Arnold’s emotions. His eyes soon filled with tears.

          “She was my best friend... And... And... BASTARD. Cretin. Pincharro... he stole her from me, and during our picnic and now –” Arnold interrupted himself:

          “He could have anyone he wanted! Why her? And for -” He interrupted himself again: “I never did anything to him, and movie man has his big tree and so I need to...” Arnold looked at Lester for the first time in a half hour. Lester’s presence at the other side of the desk finished Arnold’s train of thought.

          Arnold collected himself and put down the portrait, which revealed to be that of a puppy dog. He cleared his throat, and his left hand darted for the blue gob of goo. He took the entire mass into his fist and squeezed. His hands took a long break from bouncing around the desk, finding solace in the blue substance. Arnold relaxed and watched the rainbow colored bubbles emerge once again from his rapidly moving mouth:

         “Once you disarm the security system,” Arnold continued.

         Lester, no longer able to watch the hands perform on the desk nor listen to the ridiculous briefing, started thinking about the job.

          Pincharro. Fulgencio Pincharro was his full name. One of the most recognizable names in recent years. He was a hotshot rich movie mogul. He had the image. And he had the credit. He produced such box-office smashes as Hot Summer 2 and Killer Identity. He put up money for movies, and he promoted them himself. He was always starting new looks and eating new food and doing new aerobic exercises. In fact, he’d hired a team of talented individuals to keep himself in the spotlight. Pincharro Team invented new fads for the country and premiered them through Pincharro. Nearly all of the styles caught on, for at least a small period of time. However, he required a whole staff of people working eight hours a day to sustain his image –which was all he had.

          Lester heard Arnold say ‘blast radius’.

          The reason Arnold was so worked up was because his dog, he said, had been kidnapped by the dastardly Pincharro. Lester had trouble believing this, but he had long ago given up sorting out the affairs of his clients. He served only one expensive purpose. Arnold’s dog Missy, a useless but expensive Pomeranian, had disappeared on a routine walk and picnic three days ago. Arnold saw a picture of Pincharro in The Daily Fancier cradling what he believed to be his missing Missy in his arms. Arnold connected the dots and came to the conclusion that Pincharro, jealous of Arnold’s perfect puppy and only true love, became spiteful and hired somebody to kidnap her. Also, as Arnold had laboriously explained this morning to Lester, a large group of celebrities (Including Pammy Wenstein and Guy Tedkins, stars of the recently-released Killer Identity) had been out to get him for a long time, and this was only their first move in a series designed to bring Arnold down. They were not human like us, Arnold had repeated.

          Arnold, incidentally, was the CEO of Monster Goo Incorporated. He had made his fortune by introducing Monster Yack and the entire successful Monster Goo ‘gross toys’ product line. While sales had dwindled in the past couple of years, Arnold had held his fortune by buying out more legitimate toy companies at the height of Monster Goo’s success. It was a Monster Goo product that Arnold’s hands were busily squishing throughout the briefing.

          After the kidnapping, Arnold had asked around and got in touch with Lester. This meeting happened because Arnold had a lot of money, and Lester wanted it.

          So here Lester was, twiddling his thumbs as Arnold again explained the ventilation system of Pincharro’s mansion, the access routes, and the possible links to the sewers. It should be stated, at this point, that Lester was somewhat intimidated by all of this information –the maps, the schedules, the escape routes. While Lester knew he did not need this information, he was impressed by Arnold. Either Arnold had really studied up on the place, or he was a pure lunatic just making absurd plans off the top of his head and pointing at supplements to the Action Kim Military Missions Playset. Or something like that, thought Lester.

          “So are you ready?” asked Arnold, seemingly stopping midsentence.

          Relieved by the sudden silence, Lester nodded and reached one hand down to emphasize the bag of equipment he had been given earlier. Arnold then let go of the goo and reached in his desk drawer for the envelope. In the envelope was twenty thousand dollars. Lester stuffed this in his coat pocket, shook his client’s hand, and set off for his car.

          On the way, Lester noted a small, funny-looking dog chained to the parking lot fence. The dog, named Missy, was eating out of an open cooler that had been left there with her three days ago.

          Her master had given up searching for her almost immediately after he lost sight of her. He had needed to formulate a plan of revenge, and quickly. Fortunately, she would be found and adopted from the parking lot long before finishing off the five pounds of chunk tuna in the cooler.

         

         *****

         

         Driving to his destination, Lester took a minute to review the consequences of the job.

          Pincharro was a big man. He had a large circle of influence, from his rich peers all the way down to the nation’s bottom-rung television junkies. He had full control of the entire American public.

         One of the best examples of this was when Pincharro had encouraged the whole country to take up meditation. It was more than that though. The great invention Pincharro had made was his own ‘Sitting Meditation’, also known as Desk Meditation or Couch Meditation. He appeared on his own television special informing the world that they no longer had to sacrifice their legs or significant portions of their day for enlightenment. Nirvana could be reached without getting up. Here was the meditation you could do while you were doing other stuff. A nation of desk-sitters took this new information to heart. Everywhere, middle class workers were imagining themselves to be making deep spiritual bounds: during their lunch breaks, on the bus -even while relaxing and watching the tube. Sitting Meditation spread through the American populace like the plague. Housewives got in a good sit every so often, for good measure. Children attempted to do it during class. Everyone did it while watching TV, and as a result, record TV ratings broke during the second week of Couch Meditation (they were watching Pincharro’s newest show). Everyone mentioned it to their neighbors, their coworkers, their classmates. They spread the word that anyone could achieve spiritual enlightenment, and that anyone could take the higher path usually reserved for the more patient -And they could take this path even while they were doing more important things.

         Six months after Pincharro’s introduction, sitting meditation was still going strong. Technique supplements, on VHS, DVD, CD, and in full color photo books continued to sell well. People still talked about it to their neighbors and their kids. Office workers still used it to clear their minds at their desks as they typed away. Sitting meditation was just one example of the kind of impact Pincharro made regularly.

         Therefore, the impact of Lester’s ammunition was going to make a comparable effect on the public -in addition to the impact it would make on Pincharro’s delicate face.

         

         *****

         

         Senor Pincharro himself sat on his balcony. It overlooked the courtyard of his donut-shaped home (Pincharro was quoted as saying once that “the circle is the only truly perfect symbol”). The courtyard, in the donut-hole, had a wondrous exotic garden. In the center, as a flagship for the garden, stood a humongous tree. It had been flown in and implanted a few years previously in a campaign to promote the environment. ‘Adopt-a-tree’. This adopted tree’s name was Willy. The surrounding garden was staffed full-time by a crew of twenty people. This was just a handful of the people Pincharro employed in his home.

         All throughout the building, offices were fully staffed for the exclusive purpose of improving Pincharro. Not just the man, but the culture. Pincharro Team was one of the highest paid groups of fashion engineers in the world. With numerous divisions, the team occupied nearly all of Pincharro’s donut house.

          While Pincharro sat staring into space waiting for his lunch, just down the hall three men in the odor division were in an intense debate about the official fragrance of Pincharro: Too sweet or not sweet enough?

         And wouldn’t you know: Senor Pincharro had a desk out on his balcony right on the edge, connected to the guardrail, overlooking his courtyard garden. Pincharro’s desk was populated by a number of exotic items: a turntable with Pincharro’s likeness printed on it, a coffee cup bearing an upside-down peace sign, a bronze statue of a scarab, and no less than three vases full of exotic flowers. Mounted to the front of the desk was an empty sword sheath with the words ‘My Soul’ inscribed on it. However, the oddest thing was that Pincharro had a nameplate on his desk: “Senor M. Pincharro” it read, directly facing a drop of forty feet.

         Why would Pincharro have such a thing on his desk, sitting at the edge of the balcony? Who was expected to read this nameplate if there was nothing beyond it but a backbreaking fall into the garden?

          As it happened, on this particular day Pincharro did have a visitor at his desk. Lester was at the other end of the donut, with a sniper rifle set up out of the facing open window. He watched as Pincharro sat at the desk impatiently, playing with the plants and his turntable. Pincharro had had a long morning of physical training and cosmetic sessions. Pincharro said a few things to himself, then watched as his words sprouted wings and flew away.

          A servant came in and left a tuna sandwich at Pincharro’s desk, then quickly left. Pincharro’s usual plan was to eat lunch and get in some sitting meditation before facing the press. This was important, because he held daily press briefings out of his home, and he needed to be in top spiritual shape. Today he needed to promote the soon-to-be released movie The Cutting Edge, an action thriller starring Kenny Cholmes.

         Lester pulled the trigger and shot Senor Pincharro dead-on right through the branches of Willy. Pincharro recoiled from the blast before falling face-first onto his desk.

         And Lester had leisurely made his way out of the building before Pincharro was found, face down on his personal turntable with a puppy slumped over his arm. The puppy, a Pomeranian named Mr. Coodles, was helping himself to his master’s lunch.

         

          *****

         

         Lester stretched his arms as he got out of his car, twenty miles away. Another job executed. All in all, not very exciting.

         The plan he had for that evening was to catch the 8:45 showing of Killer Identity, which was a cool flick. It was about a man who killed people.

         

         *****

         

          Pincharro himself was still very much alive. He had suffered the attack of a blue goo projectile. It had startled him so much that he fainted, and had remained unconscious until the press arrived.

          Pincharro conducted the entire press meeting with a gob of blue jelly splattered all over his left ear. He made no mention of it –and it caught on like wildfire.

          Across the country, everyone scrambled to the local stores to find Pincharro’s mysterious new fashion item. Just like they always did. However, Pincharro’s inadvertent trend became even more popular than any of his previous ones.

         Pincharro Team was quick to send a fax to Monster Goo Inc. outlining a deal involving cross-promotional campaigns, production of newly designed PincharGoo kits, and options on all variations of the Goo fashion theme.

          Arnold Dodgson responded immediately to the fax with a letter written in his own handwriting, stating that he was unconditionally surrendering to Pincharro and his entire race. Dodgson complimented Pincharro on being able to develop an immunity to his 'only biological weakness', and he told Pincharro that he could keep Missy because he never liked her anyways.

         That day, Mr. Dodgson also resigned and checked himself into the best mental institution in town, where they gave him his own desk where he could put on performances with his hands and talk loudly to himself. He did so while watching his spent words turn into striped insects and reptiles and mud creatures that crawled out of the barred windows. They were assaulting the world.

         When his mouth got tired, Dodgson would simply cradle his personal pile of goo in his hands and relax.

         

         *****

         

          Dodgson’s successor made quick work of the Pincharro deal, shipping the new products in days. Children and adults of all ages across the country wore their new multicolored gobs of goo with pride –on their faces, on their arms, or on their legs. Everyone slapped the stuff on, for some reason. Squishy stuff that gently stuck to the skin -it was just as ridiculous as piercings and tattoos, but goo styles could be changed and recreated in a second.

         The goo culture found a home with every type of person. Nontoxic edible goo was available for the toddlers. Glow in the dark goo and wild fruit goo colors were available for the teen crowd. More conservative goos: black and white, polka dot and striped, were available to fit the stricter dress codes. Beyond the different colors and styles of goo were the many adapted applications of the goo. Of note were the rebellious teens who wore it not only on their more visible features, but also hid it in surprising places. Fraternity pranksters started ‘goo run’ traditions, running through campus wearing nothing but shiny gobs over their unmentionables. The goo trend stayed popular, and advancements were continually being made in goo fashion.

         One highly overlooked use of the goo took place behind the scenes. A lot of people doing it wouldn’t even notice themselves. It was this that kept such a solid base for the goo users: everyone sitting at their desks -be they in their offices, at school, in their cubicles, or at home- everyone had some goo to play with. Since it had been lobbied into the dress codes of most major employers and school boards, the goo was easy enough to bring in. More often than not, it wasn’t consciously brought in like the other things on people’s desks to make them feel more like home. It just ended up there: behind the desks, in back pockets of janitors, between the toes of construction workers; everyone and everywhere.

         While working in the stress prisons, the desksitters, the workers, the students, took every opportunity -whether they knew it or not- to get their hands on a gob of goo. Their free hands would move of their own accord, snaking around to the desk drawer, or to their own cheek, or wherever excess goo was left untouched. Then they played with it. Some would experiment with the goo, mashing it onto their arms and faces in different ways, while others were content to keep the goo clenched in their exhausted hands, armpits, and elbows. The goo was escape.

         Of course, the drawback to the goo was that everyone stopped reminding each other about the sitting path to enlightenment (the one you could take while doing more important things). They were too busy secretly squishing.

         

         *****

         

          Lester, on the other hand, didn’t go for any of the goo culture. He didn’t even have a desk. Lester: the freelance freelancer -he was a professional, and was busy moving from job to job.

         He also spent his entire free time watching action movies. He thought The Cutting Edge was pretty good. Except for the boring parts, during which he caught himself reaching into his coat pocket for something to fiddle with.