“You’re late again, Brunswick,” barked Barry O’Neil, his boss. “You’re walking on thin ice here, boy. One more slip up and you’ll be gone.” Craig just looked on; his boss made threats like this every other week. Nobody had been fired yet.
Barry stared him down from behind sunken eyes and thin low set eyebrows. Barry had a harsh, sallow face which was not complimented in the least by his yellow collared shirt. After he felt that Craig had been sufficiently intimidated he went back to leafing over official looking documents. And with that minimal interaction Craig walked a few feet over to his cubicle, powered up his computer, opened minesweeper, and proceeded on with his workday while absentmindedly picking at the eroded cork board next to his computer.
“That damn bum is still sitting outside the front of the building” he heard Craig complain through the walls. “I told him if he wanted to sit there and stink up the place he could shine my shoes and I’d pay him five bucks.”
“Mm hmm. And what did he say?” a feminine voice replied.
“Nothing! He just sat there and looked right through me like I wasn’t there.”
“Your sympathy for the less fortunate aside, these documents pertaining to the Cambridge account need your signature. You probably should read them as well.” There was a rustle of papers as the files were arranged on Barry’s desk.
“I really should call the police. It just isn’t right.” He had called the police though, at least a half dozen times over the past week. Each time they said they agreed with Barry, that it was a significant problem, and each time they didn’t show up. Barry didn’t like being ignored that way, so each time he pretended it was the first time he called.
March Rothsman walked out of Barry’s office and past Craig’s hidden cubicle. She was the brains of the building more than anything. If you asked Craig what the company did he wouldn’t be able to give you an answer. He’d just blankly stare and say he though it had something to do with logging, though he couldn’t be sure. Even Barry would struggle with the question, though he’d pass it off and jumble something together about brokerage accounts and mechanized consulting. In reality, he just signed the papers that middle aged March Rothsman, in her bright red sweater, handed to him.
Craig checked his inbox – spam, spam, a notice about the menu change in the cafeteria, and nothing. It was presumable that his job position had once held some importance, but the title ‘Senior Assistant to IT Manager’ lost all relevance when the actual IT manager was laid off and the position outsourced to another department during a merger five years ago. Somehow his position was neglected to be erased from the files and when his job application was put in front of the toady boss, it was signed without much of a second thought.
Not that it mattered much. GreenwichCO, the parent company, was a massive conglomerate, especially compared to the measly office space that Craig’s location held on the seventeenth and eighteenth floors of a slightly neglected office building in the city – indistinguishable from any of the others next to it. Craig sipped a cup of stale coffee and went back to playing minesweeper.
***
“Excuse me sir, could you spare a dollar or two?” The man who said that was none other than the bum outside the building, talking to Craig as he walked out the door on his way home.
“Hunh?” Craig was a bit startled by the encounter. The bum had not so much as looked at him in the past week that he had been staying there.
“I asked if you could spare some change, brother,” the old man croaked in a weathered voice. “I find you can tell a bit about a person whenever they’re in the act of giving.”
“Ok,” said Craig as he handed the man five dollars. “What can you tell about me?”
“That you’re more generous than that skinny toad-man in the yellow shirt!” the bum laughed.
“You mean Barry?”
“Is that his name? Never mentioned it. Just told me to ‘move my bum ass off of his building!’” The bum gesticulated in mockery of the shaky way Barry waved his fist when he wanted to make a point. “Ridiculous!”
“Well, you have been sitting here for a week.”
“Oh no, I stand too. And every now and then I walk as well.”
“That still makes you a bum, doesn't it?”
“I’m not a bum! I’m Arnold Kepler, pleased to make your acquaintance.” The bum held out a scarred hand covered in a glove with the fingers cut off.
“Craig Brunswick.”
“A man of few words, I see. Don’t worry, I have enough to go around for the both of us!” The man laughed as he said this. Craig looked him over again. He had a long graying beard that began to twist into his molted scarf. He wore a scratched and torn retro leather jacket and a pair of dirty jeans. He looked to be in his 60s.
Just then a pigeon landed next to him to peck at a stale loaf of bread. “Ah, hello again, Charlie!”
“Is that your pet?” Craig asked.
“More of a friend really. We both share the same cage!” He laughed at his own wit, then paused for a second. “The stars are beautiful tonight, would you like to hear your horoscope?”
“Sure.”
“Alright let me just...” Arnold rummaged around in his bag. “Ah! Here it is!” He exclaimed as he pulled out a newspaper. “Well, let’s see here... ‘Opportunity is right around the corner but you run the risk of missing if! Try to live freer and be wary of falling into a rut and something wonderful will happen.’ Sound accurate?”
“Yeah, sure. But I don’t really put too much weight in those things.”
“Really? What’s your sign?”
“Scorpio.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I read you the one for Sagittarius. Guess it’s not for you then!”
“What’s your sign?”
“Don’t remember! I just read the ones I like best!”
It might be worth noting that, especially in this section of the city, it was impossible to see any stars.
***
Back to work, back through the commute, through the glass revolving door, up the elevator, past the front desk, and across the ugly carpet; Craig returned to his cubicle like every other day. He preemptively opened minesweeper and went to check his email. Ultimately is was nothing more than the useless drivel that managed to worm it’s way into his inbox. At least he thought so until he read his way to the last unopened message. It was from his boss – marked urgent. It read, “At 12:00 today, before lunch-break, meet me in my office.”
Odd enough, it could very well be ignored. Craig could delete it and go on his lunch break as usual and Barry would probably not say a word otherwise. ‘It’s nothing,’ he resolved and proceeded to play minesweeper.
***
“I would like to thank you for agreeing to meet me at such short notice, Mr. Brunswick,” Barry said from behind his particleboard desk, drumming his fingers against the laminate. March Rothsman sat on a chair in the corner of the room next to the door, passive aggressively checking her phone every now and then.
Barry, stared intensely at the bandage covering Craig’s thumb. “How did you get that?”
“Peeling a potato.”
“What do you mean ‘peeling a potato?’ That’s a big bandage for a small mishap.”
Craig, sat and considered for a moment. “Ever get so mad at something that you just lash out, even though what you do has no bearing on the outcome?”
“I can make you a list longer than a yard of things that fit the bill.”
“Odd, what causes those outbursts really. Last night I just happened to be peeling a potato at the time.”
Barry gave him an odd look before averting his gaze. “Do you know what your job is?”
“Senior Assistant to IT Manager.”
“And do you know what that means?
“That he gets to play solitaire professionally,” March chimed in, looking up from her phone.
“Minesweeper actually,” corrected Craig.
“Shut up!” interjected Barry, more than a little peeved at being spoken over. “Look, it’s probably no surprise that our days here are numbered. The ole’ mothership is still working out the kinks from its most recent merger, but as soon as they realize that this wing is extraneous they’ll cut us off and leave us to die. I’m proposing that we take what we can before that happens. Remember, they are the ones doing this to us – we have a right to what we’re owed. Of course, we’ll need your help though. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”
Craig just stared on in blank bewilderment until March clarified “He’s talking about breaking the law – embezzlement to be specific. We create a few extra employees in the record books and replace a few that we lay off. With a few tweaks with allotted expenses we can have a lot of money flowing to people who don’t exist. We pocket the money and fudge the records so nobody can tell. Then we get laid off and pretend it never happened.”
“I assume it’s my job, being the sole remaining IT guy to create the ‘ghost’ employees?”
“There ya go!” exclaimed Craig, trying to beat March to the punch. “Rothsman here will send you the details of what needs to be done tomorrow. Get it into the system and you’ll get a twenty percent cut. For now, take the rest of the day off.” With that he leaned back, put a cigar in his mouth, and tried several times to light it unsuccessfully.
***
Arnold Kepler was still siting there beside the front of the building when Craig came out, feeding another pigeon “Good afternoon Mr. Brunswick,” he said.
“Mr. Kepler,” acknowledged Craig. “What’s that pigeon’s same?”
“Why this is Charlie!”
“That isn’t the same pigeon as yesterday, though.”
“Why of course not! But you can’t expect me to tell apart each and every pigeon in the city, can you? I just treat them all as my friends so I don’t embarrass myself in case I’ve forgotten meeting one.”
“Well, that’s noble of you.”
“I read in the paper that Venus and Jupiter will be visible tonight. I’m really excited to watch.”
“Is that so? I’m not much of a stargazer myself.”
“That’s sad. I can’t imagine life without the stars.”
***
Craig’s hands sweated as he opened up the employee database. The directions were clear, all he had to do was follow them. “Thomas Johnson: Age 34...” He continued to copy the information down from March’s files creating a new person each time he hit enter. Suddenly a voice startled him from his seat.
“You look nervous Brunswick.” It was Barry, though in reality he looked more nervous than Craig. “Don’t worry, I have this operation running smoothly. There won’t be any slip ups now, will there?” He stared at Craig, doing his best to look more intimidating than his grave face would allow.
“Nope.” Craig went back to work, attempting to digest the pit forming in his stomach. It was almost too easy. There weren't any mishaps, nobody telling him to stop. There was no officer in his face saying, “No, you cant do that.” No officiator of the universe saying, “No, you’re not some accomplice to a ridiculous crime or stupid adventure. You’re just Craig, the man who eats too much ramen and lives with his cat in a cheap apartment.”
***
Apparently it wan’t too easy, because after only a few weeks of attempting to ‘stick it to the man’ they got their first angry letter.
“You took it too far.” Barry was glowering from his swivel chair. The three were sitting in his office sipping on the profane brew that the office temp had called coffee. Barry kept repeating that line, “too far, too far.”
“In all seriousness sir, you did supersede my advice to not expand after last week,” March pointed out.
“That doesn't matter! So I screwed up, what we need to know is what do we do about this!” ‘This’ referred to the notice from GreenwichCO that, paraphrased, politely and forcefully asked for them to stop hiring so many damn people.
“Why do anything?” Craig asked. “I’m assuming that since they’ve taken the time to send us this letter they would’ve looked into our division and via extension of that, know that, as a whole, we accomplish jack.”
“And your point?” glowered Barry.
“My point is, they know we’re useless but can’t do anything about it for the time being. Through some sort of legal web we’re safe for the moment and nothing we do will change their final decision to axe us. So we do nothing. We sit on the ghosts we have for now and don’t hire more so as to not prompt a real financial investigation”
Barry kneaded his forehead, evidently still displeased. He sighed in acceptance. March continued to fiddle with her phone.
***
“Hello again, Arnold,” said Craig, as he addressed the old man.
“Oh, hi there Craig!”
“How was Jupiter?”
“Hmm?” “A few weeks ago you said something about being able to see Jupiter. I never asked how it was.”
“Oh, that! Yes, it was lovely. Actually tonight, Mercury should be in good position. I think it’ll be a good night to watch.” It was overcast at the moment. “You don’t look so good. Are you alright?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Just drank some bad coffee.” He paused before blurting out, “Have you ever stolen something?”
The old man pondered for a moment. “Just the heart of my high school lover!” He laughed and winked his creased, weathered eye.
“I meant more like physical possessions.”
“Hard to say, I remember taking things that weren’t mine by the conventional standards, but I was a different person back then. And I’ll be a different person tomorrow I suppose!” He smiled until he saw the serious weight on Craig’s face. “I don’t suppose your question is allegorical?”
“In a sense.”
“What did ya take?”
“Money.”
“Oh, well that’s not so bad. But between you and me I’m not the best with financial matters. Never quite got the concept.” Another Charlie landed by Arnold and he began to feed it some stale bread.
A moment passed before Craig asked, “Would you call yourself a religious man?”
“Yes, I guess you could say that. But I’m not a Christian though. I’m a Jainist.”
“What’s that religion like?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea! A man once told me I should be a Jainist. He seemed nice, enough so I said OK – and here I am!”
***
For the next few months life continued on like this. All Craig would have to do was update the database records every now and then. March did most of the work, but she had managed to force Barry into agreeing to her fifty percent cut. And until the second letter, it was physically bland in spite of some emotional or moral instability.
The second letter wasn’t from GreenwichCO though. In spite of March’s caution, the IRS has managed to smell some of the siphoned money, and were looking for their cut.
“I thought you said that your records were flawless!” Barry angrily stated. The three once again in conference at his office.
“I said they were good. I said they were better than good, but I never said there was no risk,” rebutted March.
“You–” Barry stopped himself before he raised his voice too much. Through clenched teeth he then spat out, “Your job was to make sure this doesn't happen!”
“So I screwed up,” she responded sarcastically.
Barry then went on to pin the blame on whatever he could make a reasonable connection to, including the weather and ‘the bum outside the door.’ They continued to argue over what they should do, and how they could cover it up, without noticing Craig sink lower and lower into his chair, incredulous about the inevitable future.
Oh, they tried desperately to throw off the IRS. They all worked overtime brainstorming ways to throw them off their scent. Craig saw less and less of Arnold, until his commute to work returned to the sleep deprived reenactment of a zombie film it once was. March grew more and more biting with her passive aggressive comments, and Barry all but lost it, binge drinking whiskey in spite of his intolerance for alcohol, sleeping at the office, and generally doing what he perceived a movie hero would do in his position.
And yet, week after week a new letter arrived, each one less polite than the last until the final one came. It was as acidly uniform as the rest, until the very final line. It said simply, “This is your final notice.” And of course, they didn’t have anything to respond with. Craig walked home, locked the door, powered up his computer, opened minesweeper, and proceeded to do his best to forget he was anything more than Craig, the man who eats too much ramen and lives with his cat in a cheap apartment.
When the police arrived with an arrest warrant they found him standing in his kitchen making dinner – peeling a potato.
