Projects, Inc

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A satire of the white-collar worker.
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It was a morning. Not the early morning of beautiful sunrises peeking at you from above the tops of mountains; not the kind you read about in romance novels. The kind of morning with just that certain gloom to it, what with the creepy, seemingly-blue fog and all, that just puts a damper in your day. Just another morning.

This is how the first day of the rest of my life began. My life had become routine after routine after routine, constantly repeating itself in such a fashion that let's you know then and there that your life is not a T.V. program in some alternate universe: no one wants to watch the utter mundanity you call life, which, by the way, is too short to spend your time moping about, feeling sorry for yourself. That morning, I realized all of this, and with that epiphany, I started my day fresh and my life anew.

Walking outside, I could see that the dew from the night had not yet even begun to go to wherever that place is that morning-dew goes. Trudging through the jungle of grass and minor shrubbery between my house and what I would like to call a car (but would be more accurately described as a rusty, broken-down, formerly-recognizable-as-some-sort-of-automobile-but-now-just-a-huge-chunk-of-metal) I glanced out of the front screen (past the huge shattering from where some of the kids in the neighborhood decided it would be a good idea to throw rocks at) and thought to myself, "It truly is a great day to be alive."

* * *

I used to work at a place called Projects, Inc. Quite inconspicuous. A company called Projects, Inc. could manufacture just about any thing. In this case, we produce twist-ties. Yes... the annoying little bastards you tend to lose after opening an already-stale loaf of bread. We make those. Shoot me now. But that is not the only thing we produce, oh no... we also make toothbrushes, razor-handles, cheap Burger-King toys that your children make you spend a fortune on just to get the right one, just about anything you can think of that requires plastic and a minimal amount of metal. High aspirations, eh?

Well this was to be the end of that. The new, hopefully-improved Me refused to allow himself to aim for such low standards. The new Me realizes that he is the master of his own destiny (even despite the nagging little voice in the back of his head reminding him of the time he spent nearly an hour lying in bed trying to trick himself into opening his eyes, pondering if it was Fate deciding it was time or if it truly was his own free will -- in the end Fate seemed to hold out since the phone rang, and trying to find it with your eyes closed is quite hazardous to your health).

"Hi, Boss. I quit."

"Oh. That's nice, Kid. By the way, I need these delivered to Management. Could you see that they get there, please?"

"But, sir..."

"Thanks, you're a doll." And that with a wink and a stern look that said quite plainly, Get out of my office before I throw you out bodily.

So much for Master of my own destiny. I delivered the paperwork to the correct party and spend the next, oh, perhaps thirty seconds wondering what I should do then. I opted to walk out of the place, and, what are they going to do to me for it? Fire me? So I turned on my heel and walked out the door.

...Or, I would have if Tom, my co-worker, hadn't spilt coffee all over himself (clumsy fool), and, after uttering a rather appropriate explicative, asked me to go get something to clean it off with. Not bothering to express my annoyance at his horrible timing, I walked over to the bathroom to get some paper towels to clean it up with. On the way, the boss saw me again and called me to his office.

"Have you delivered the papers yet, Son?"

Don't call me 'Son', you senile old crackpot. "Yes, I have, sir."

"Very good. What are you doing out wandering the halls then?"

"Well, you see, Tom..."

"That's good, Slick. Could you go fetch my secretary, for me? I think she has wandered off the premises again. Something about quitting... don't worry, Son, she does this about once a week, and hasn't quit yet. In fact, every time this happens she seems to get more enthusiastic about working under me, if you know what I mean." The old cook even had the audacity to give me a knowing wink and a grin that he must have thought passed for reassuring but I just found creepy.

"Yes, sir. I'll go find her, sir."

I hate my life.

* * *

When I finally managed to track down the young broad that the boss had hired several months ago, it was by sheer chance that I recognized her (or found her for that matter -- I was coming out of the rest room for Tom, he still hadn't gotten any help cleaning that mess up) -- her hair was all tangled and blocking her face. I didn't want to know why.

"The old fart wants you."

"Again?"

"Yeah, something about your enthusiasm levels at work."

"Oh," and she must have known what I was talking about because her face was suddenly split in a grin.

"You look sad. Want me to help cheer you up?" winking.

"No, thanks. I've got to get these towels to Tom. Poor guy spilled coffee all over his pants again."

At that point the door to the Lady's room opened and, lo and behold, there was Tom, all red-faced and excited to get back to work shifting paper clips and avoiding warm beverages.

"I, uh, already helped him. Seems he burned his legs pretty badly.

"Well, that's good," I tell them, not really caring. "I was just on my way out, anyways. I quit this job. I'm going on a trip. Going to see the world."

Famous last words.

* * *

I made it to my car. Finally. People are bothersome creatures, you know that? Doesn't matter now though. On the road again... all that jazz.

...

Not really. Not quite as exciting as I thought it would be. No hard rock playing in the background to inspire the protagonist (that would be me) to keep on going; no voice in the back of my mind pointing out that the wind from my smashed window is in my face as I fly down the road at eighty miles per hour in my Dodge(r) Viper(tm) with a hot babe screaming in the passenger's seat for me to go faster. In reality, my stereo was on the fritz; the piece of garbage I was driving only thought it was a viper; and the stack of porno in the passenger's seat didn't have a hot babe in the bunch of them... well, the third one from the top wasn't so bad if you looked at her side-ways with your eyes squinted....

Eyes back on the road before this rusted piece of metal decides to try and become a tin-can, fusing with one of many cars ahead of me. But I made a note to myself to drop by the first car-dealership I find and buy a car that can move faster than 40mph without stuttering to a dead-halt.

Speak of the devil, there's a place that looks promising. Big Al's Autimo-beels. Okay. Wrong place. Thank you for your time.

Just driving in circles at this point -- and wanting a car that wouldn't explode with me in it before I drove onto the freeway -- there were a few dealerships around but none that caught my eye. Except one. Beautiful foliage surrounding the place and the SUV's out front actually shine in the sunlight. Amazing.

I stepped out of the car and this drop-dead gorgeous blonde chick comes up to me, and says with more syrup in her voice than you could squeeze out of half a dozen bottles of Aunt Jemima's. "Is there any thing in particular you are looking for," she paused for dramatic effect it seemed, as she gave me a measuring look and tossed her hair. "Or are you just looking around?" We made some idle chit-chat, looked at a few cars, all of which I declined. After awhile she looked at me curiously and asked me how much money I was looking to pay for a car. When I told her, she walked -- no, more like sauntered -- off and started to help another customer. I let myself out.

Third try's the charm. Shortly after, I saw another promising dealership. Had a decent looking lot, and the guy that ran the joint didn't smell too bad. Another plus was the fact that the sign advertising their shop actually spelled 'automobiles' correctly.

I walked into the store; a guy comes up to me and asks if I want to see a car. I tell him how much I was looking to pay; he says he has the perfect thing. Not a bad-looking car; I take it. "Badda-boom, badda-bing, the deal is done," as he put it, his voice dripping with a Bronxian accent so thick you could lean against it.

The car was a 2001 Miata, not perfect condition but it would hit VG condition on most standards. $13,000, not that many miles on it. A bargain. Guy even dropped a grand of the price since I gave him the old hunk of metal I was driving. Said he could make that much from selling it for scrap. So we're talking $12k total. I'm impressed. Drive it off the lot; he says he'll bill me the paper work. Badda-boom badda-bing.

Get this... the stereo works. Lucky bastard.

I crank it up and it starts spewing loud, semi-angry music at me (Creed, "Beautiful" for anyone that knows the song. It's at that bit where they are repeating [Beautiful] "Stripped me" several times with an awesome guitar rift in the background). Wow. Too loud, even for me, so I turned down the speakers. Took my eyes off the road for a second, trying to figure out which button does what. Big mistake. Some lady (at this point I had only received a glimpse of her) wearing jogging pants. That's all I could see behind the imaginary 'Tomorrow's News' with headlines saying "Sociopath rocking out to homicidal music kills Granny crossing the street." Just what I needed.

I even debated whether I should just keep on driving. To hell with her, I could remove most of the forensics with some ammonia and a re-paint. No one would miss little ol' Granny Yee-haw. But -- no. I couldn't bring myself to do it. Instead I stepped outside of the car, and lucky me that I did. It wasn't an old lady, as I had originally assumed by the simple fact she was out jogging at this time in the morning. In fact the woman was about 5'6, 5'7, with long, caramel-colored hair and the prettiest blue-green eyes you ever saw. $%&!. I wasn't sure if she was dead though, it looked like her chest was moving up and down slightly (and believe you me, I was definitely paying attention -- I had even considered C.P.R.). "Are you okay?" I nearly jumped out of my $%&!ing skin. She was asking me if I was okay as if she had run over me. Oi!

"Yeah, I'm fine. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, the car missed me, but even so, I jumped out of the way. I think I scraped my arm but it'll be fine."

"Oh. I've a first-aid kit. I'll bandage that for you. It's a nasty little cut isn't it?"

"I've done worse shaving my legs. Honestly, you don't have--" She cut off as I rubbed some lotion on her (and, sadly, it was not the kind that did not sting when applied) scrape and applied the bandage. She just watched me work, her eyes flickering between my hands on her arm and my face. "Thanks."

"No problem. So where're you heading? The least I could do is give you a ride after an attempted murder."

"Well, I'm headed to Austin, but if you could drop me off whenever it becomes out of the way, I'd appreciate the help."

"Ha! I'm headed to wherever you're headed."

"I'm not too sure if you're supposed to be hitting on me or if you're trying to tell me you're a stalker." She gave me this lopsided look, her head tilted but her eyes perfectly centered.

"Neither, actually. It's just, I'm not headed anywhere particularly, and in the end one place is as good as another. I owe it to you, anyways. And I might have lied."

"What about?"

"I'm only hitting on you if you want me to be."

"I think I'd like that," she finally said. The breath that I had not realized I'd been holding burst from my lungs like a hydrogen bomb bursting.

"It's settled then. I'm hitting on you."

... Awkward Silence ...

"So, where're your bags? We should probably get this show on the road, y'know?" She seemed slightly disappointed that I didn't ravage her body like a feeding beast, but nonetheless, she grinned wryly at me and pointed. At first I saw nothing, but that was the point. All of her possessions had spilled out of her bags and into a ravine on the side of the highway. $%&!. I guess they were my responsibility. "Oh."

"Yeah. There is a mall a few miles up ahead, if you'd drop me by there, I could pick up a few things. I have a little money left."

"No, no. I ruined your clothes, I'm going to have to replace them." She just grinned. Good, she had no illusions of pride or grandeur; she knew when it wasn't her place to argue a lost cause. It really was my fault, we both knew it and were both willing to accept as such.

I walked over to the passenger's side and opened the door, motioning for her to enter. She climbed in and I shut the door behind her. Walked over to my side of the car and, in the process, realized I'd forgotten to even find out my would-be victim's name.

"I'm Melissa." A mind-reader.

"Samson. Nathan Samson. My friends just called me Samson." That's a bold-faced lie. First thing is, that wasn't even my name. Not even close, honestly. I don't know why I lied but I did. Second thing is, I don't have friends that could call me $%&! much less any thing else. Oh well, she didn't need to know that.

"Alright then Sammy. We're off on a brand new adventure!" I could hear the excitement in her voice as she stood up and allowed the breeze to blow her hair back in her face. I'm glad she was having a good time; nothing like being in the presence of a happy woman.

* * *

Eventually she calmed down and gathered herself back into the car, but there wasn't much to say. Apparently, despite previous evidence to the contrary, this was the type of chick you could comfortably share a silence with. I let it ride out, for awhile, but then I needed a distraction from constant driving, so I share my thoughts on the subject with her. This seemed to get a big grin out of her and she reached out for my hand. I let her have it but I didn't put any pressure onto it or anything, more or less pretended I didn't even notice it was there. She didn't make a deal of it, her hand didn't go dead as most females' seem to, nor did she make any effort to keep moving her hands, one thing I have noticed time and time again women love to do and it drives me crazy!

Back to silence. $%&! it. So I broke the hand-holding for a second, and flipped on my stereo... I still couldn't get over the fact that it actually worked. Megadeth was playing. I returned my hand to hers on the way back down, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw her smile again -- God, I could live on one of her smiles.

Oh, $%&!. Did I say that? What is it with women... if they do something so small as smile pretty, a man falls half in love with her. "I could live on one of her smiles?" Yeah. Right.

Anyway, some time passed and anything failed to happen. We just drove, keeping up a thin layer of small-talk between silences. The afternoon slowly turned into dusk, and finally into night, and I began looking for some place to stay. Saw a hotel a few miles outside of Nowherestown, Nowhere. Didn't seem like too bad of a place, looked okay, smelt okay. A little bit more high-class then I might have stayed at alone, but I was traveling with a lady I didn't mind impressing. It was no Hilton, but it was what was available. I'd be asleep in my car if it was up to me.

"Just the one room?" the lady at the counter asked, her voice practically oozing contempt. She had a bit of a southern accent, but nothing registered when I tried to place it. She was wearing way too much makeup, and the red halter-top she wore was pathetic... nothing appealing about it at all, just an emphasis on the fact that she had absolutely nothing to offer aesthetically.

"Uh, actual--" I began.

"Yeah, that'll be fine, thanks," Melissa cut me off with a wink.

"One bed, or two," was the question I expected next, and I braced myself to catch her before Melissa, but apparently Mizz Haltertop caught the wink and didn't bother asking. She handed Melissa the key, and me the bill. "Sorry, sir. Hotel policy, you pay before you sleep."

* * *

Melissa had already taken her things into the room (not that there was much to carry) and was in the process of changing her clothes when I entered the room -- her top was off, and her bra lying beside it on the floor. Embarrassed, I tried to leave but she just turned around, moving her arm to cover the main portions of either breast, while pulling the sheets down in the only bed in the room. She climbed into the bed, and a few seconds later she threw her jeans across the room at me.

"Can I look now?" I asked.

"As if you weren't already."

Laughing, I walked into the bathroom, took off my jeans, and laid my shirt beside the sink. Brushed my teeth with a small hygiene pack I keep in the glove compartment of the car, put on some deodorant, shaved. Walked out of the bathroom, looked in the closet for some sheets or something so I could make a pallet on the floor. Nothing. "Don't worry about it, I won't bite, Sam. Unless you want me to."

I couldn't suppress a laugh climbing into bed. Feeling none too gracefully, I turned towards her and tried to sleep, but the uncomfortable pillows this hotel provided did not do any thing for me. So I chunked it across the room, heard it impact with a satisfyingthud! and used my arm as support. A few hours later, I wake up, and find my arm had somehow tangled itself around Melissa.

"Hello there handsome. Sleep well?"

"The pillow kinda screwed up on me in the middle of the night, my arm has a thousand pinpricks all over it, and this bed couldn't be much softer than a concrete block, so yeah, how do you think I slept?" I ended it with a wink though.

Proceeding with the events of that morning would be dull and boring -- I brushed my teeth, showered, all the things people do in the mornings. Hell, for the next day or two, we just rode in each other's company, telling stories of our lives (embellished, on my part, as my life was never that interesting to begin with... that's how I came to be in this situation to begin with!). We continued sleeping the same bed, she insisted -- "it's cheaper: you've done too much already."

And then we arrived. Austin Texas. Wow. A strange place. The deep south... always thought it'd be filled with cowboys and dust and ghost towns and all that crap. Not really. Like any other city I'd ever been in.

There was a bank somewhere near our hotel (quite the nice place... could barely fit some of the towels into my suitcase they were so large... and don't even get me started on the soap!). Yeah, it got robbed. We were there. We helped do it.

Now, don't think of me as a bad guy or any thing. The guys had a gun to our head. We had walked in to get her checking account set up, new city and all. The place was in the midst of being robbed: kinda awkward if you think about it; "Hey guys, what's going on?"

"Oh, nothing. We're just in the middle of robbing this here establishment. Could you please come over here?" Nice, polite fellows actually. Then he put the gun to my head and made me some form of hostage. Used me as leverage over the tellers behind the counter who, contrary to what they are supposed to do, were giving the guys resistance. The bank got robbed, and the guys robbing the place brought me and Melissa with them. Gave us some money, said not to say a word to any one about who they were (they were originally from Georgia, believe it or not. As I said, real polite guys, even put the guns away when we were inside the van).

Back at our hotel, Melissa was terrified. I still don't understand why -- after all, Sean (the crook with the gun) only pointed the barrel at my head. But when she saw the money the guys had given us, she was just stunned.

"Twenty-thousand dollars. Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod..." and so on -- she wouldn't shut up!

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