The Cubicle Next Door (13 page)

Well, everyone else had.

Even I had fallen under the spell of Joe.

That night, I made the rounds of message boards. Posted a message on one of them about people like Estelle. Got a flurry of responses.

I pulled up the traffic statistics on my blog. Viewership was up. Return visits were up. People were hanging out on the blog longer. Probably reading back through the archives.

I posted a blog and then checked my e-mails. Received notification that my blog had received Reviewers Top Five status from the Weblog Review. Cool. I was now on both the Readers and the Reviewers Top Five lists.

I deleted it.

Moved on to the next e-mail.

THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG

I’ve got your back

John Smith doesn’t know this, but I’ve got his back. He thinks I work just as long as he does, but I don’t. Not really. I just stay until he goes home. In spite of considering himself the expert at everything, he doesn’t know anything about the women here. Has no idea how many of them have paused at the cubicle and then kept on walking when they’ve seen me sitting at my desk.

He’s too nice. Too patient.

And he doesn’t need any drummed up sexual harassment charges just because it would be their word against his word.

He won’t have to worry about that because I’ll always be around just as long as they are.

Posted on August 8 in
The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink

Comments

An interesting phrase, “I’ve got your back.” Its origins may be lost in history, but it definitely has military roots. Similar to “I’ve got you covered,” but more desperate. A pledge between two comrades to remain loyal. Even until death.

Posted by:
NozAll | August 8 at 11:18 PM

Very kind of you. Especially considering how much you dislike him.

Posted by:
philosophie | August 9 at 06:57 AM

Sounds like you’ve won the cubicle mate lottery…or maybe he has.

Posted by:
justluvmyjob | August 9 at 01:40 PM

Thirteen

T
he next week, it was back to work on the test-taking program. The accompanying sound effects had been officially deemed inappropriate. The colonel had wanted some standard reports added: average score and minimum and maximum scores. I’d thought of a few others, such as average score per period. I thought it might be an interesting statistic, even if I were the only one who ever knew—or cared—whether cadets scored better before or after lunch. In general, I preferred to build extraneous options into my programs rather than to try to add features after the fact. I also added a report for average score per instructor. Rumors were always floating around that some instructors liked to “teach the test.”

I’d taken the test about 30 times to build a database of five fictional sections with six students each. Ran the reports.

Huh. Look at that. Maj NozAll appeared to be a very poor instructor. A programmer’s revenge for having strayed too close to the truth on my last blog entry. I had tried hard not to leave any clues about my identity, including my place of work. Guess I hadn’t tried hard enough.

Ms. Philosophie’s sections had achieved the best scores. Well done!

Justluvmyjob’s? Average.

Joe’s voice recalled me from my fantasy world. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor…what are you doing?”

I minimized the window and then swiveled my chair to find him standing at the edge of the cubicle wall. “Nothing. What?”

“I’m doing the Pikes Peak Ascent on Saturday. Would you be able to meet me at the top?”

“Of the mountain?”

“Yeah. I could give you a change of clothes to carry for me.”

“I work on Saturdays.”

“Your grandmother told me. She said she’d work this one for you.”

“You already have it arranged?”

“Can you?”

I looked up into his eyes. Then sighed. If they already had it figured out, there was no point in saying no. “Yes.”

“Great!” He smiled before disappearing into his cubicle.

He brought a backpack over on Friday evening.

Grandmother made him sit in the kitchen with us and encouraged him to help himself to our dinner.

I passed him a plate of chicken breasts. His second serving. “What time will you be done?”

“I don’t know. Ten? Ten thirty?”

“At the very latest or earliest?”

“Yes. And yes. I don’t know.”

I’d have to leave at 8:00 then, just in case he finished early. It wouldn’t be any earlier than I was normally up on Saturdays.

The next morning I had to backtrack a half-dozen times before I was able to drive out of Manitou Springs. They had roads blocked off for the Ascent. I drove up Highway 24 and then turned off onto the Pikes Peak Highway. Paid my toll. Began the climb.

The first part of the drive was pretty. A typical mountain road, it wound through stands of thick trees, opening out now and then into a meadow or crossing a lake. Then the pavement stopped. Became dirt. The trees were sparser here. Thinner. The road swerved out occasionally into a hairpin, providing views back out over the valley and the broad plain east of Colorado Springs.

I could hear my motor strain. My little car didn’t like the altitude, but it kept chugging up the mountain. I thought of turning off at the Timberline Café, but decided a stop would just make it harder on the car.

The trees petered out and revealed the mountain to be a jumble of rocks and barren earth. A landscape doused in shades of brown. I rounded a corner and was directed onto a flat plateau. I parked the car, grabbed Joe’s backpack, and waited for the race shuttle to take me to the top of the mountain.

I didn’t have to wait long, which was good. The wind below had been filled with warmth, but the wind here had ice in its gusts. I fastened the top toggle of my coat, pulled the hood over my head, and sunk my hands into its deep pockets. I wished I’d thought to bring gloves.

I boarded the shuttle, sat next to a window, and enjoyed a series of thrills as my stomach tried to fall out of my body. The road clung to the mountain only through sheer force of will. And there were no guardrails.

Up at the top, I walked across the parking lot and into Summit House. I tried to walk past the donut vendor, but I couldn’t resist buying one.

It was the altitude.

I wandered through racks of T-shirts, coffee mugs, and other souvenirs. Watched the Cog Railway train steam up the track and disgorge passengers.

I glanced at my watch. It was time to go outside. I bought a donut for Joe before I left. I wrapped it into a napkin and put it in my pocket.

The wind wasn’t any warmer and the number of people at the top of the mountain had doubled since I’d been inside.

I walked back through the parking lot, around the Katherine Bates memorial, and over into the rocks. The finish line was at the end of a nearly invisible switchback trail that wound over and around large boulders.

Music was blaring from a monster-sized sound system. An announcer called out the runners’ names as their numbers became visible. I couldn’t see where they were coming from, so I picked my way over the finish line, in between runners, and clambered out toward the edge of the peak.

Far below me, a line of runners curved around the bottom of the mountain’s face. Then they began to crawl up the contours of the mountain like ants.

Retreating from the edge, I picked a sturdy boulder and sat on top of it. Gazed in wonder at the view around me. An almost 360-degree view of the mountain range. Below me, the peaks of the surrounding mountains popped up from the horizon. Nestled in their valleys were sparkling alpine lakes. A thin strand of clouds was beginning to wrap around the farthest peaks and send exploratory fingers further east.

This was how life was meant to be lived. In appreciation of the earth.

After a dearth of runners, a new group pushed around the corner and into my view. They were halfway into their climb when I heard Joe’s name over the loudspeaker.

I slid off the rock and scrambled over toward the finish line.

The heads of the group bobbed into view, disappeared behind a rock, surged forward into view again. Joe was in the lead, his number stuck on the front of his shirt. His yellow shorts were glaring against the rocks.

“Go, Joe!”

He didn’t look up toward me, didn’t look anywhere but straight ahead.

I pushed my hood away from my head and cupped hands to my mouth. “Joe! Go, Joe!”

He followed the trail, climbing vertically away from me until it switched back, sending him in my direction.

I took my hands from my mouth. Waved them over my head. “Joe!”

He looked up and started to grin. Stumbled. His face was flushed. His mouth hung open, gulping air. He pushed on, crossed the finish line, and grabbed my hand, pulling me past the crowd. Then he collapsed on the ground, knees up, and hung his head between them.

“I have a donut for you.”

“If I eat a donut now, I’ll throw up.”

“Really?” If he were nauseous, it could mean he was suffering from altitude sickness. It was not uncommon, especially when you were above 14,000 feet. There was only one cure: Lose altitude. Fast.

“Could you get my water out of the backpack?”

I let the backpack slide from my shoulders, retrieved a water bottle, and passed it down to him.

He set it on the ground beside him and left it there for a minute before he lifted his head and had a drink.

“Are you okay?”

“I will be. Just give me a few minutes.”

“Are you cold?”

“Yeah. But I don’t want to change here.” He held out a hand toward me. “Help me up?”

I grabbed his hand and tugged. Nothing happened. How was I supposed to get him down off the mountain when I couldn’t even help him up? His face was still red and I could see rivulets of sweat beading up on his eyebrows, but he had to be getting cold. I could see my breath and he was still wearing a short-sleeve shirt and shorts. He could pass out and freeze to death before I’d be able to rally help for him.

“Joe! Come on!” I wrapped both my hands around his and began to pull hard. His fingers folded around mine as he pushed off the ground with his other hand.

He stood up straight while I put the water bottle in the backpack. He hobbled a few steps. Stopped. “I have to stretch.” He placed one leg in front of the other. Bent down toward the ground.

“Can’t you do that after you change?”

He turned his head away from the ground and looked up at me. “Why? You aren’t worried about me, are you?”

“No.”

“Just a minute. Let me stretch the other leg.” He stood up. Shook out his legs. Crossed them the other way. And bent down again.

I counted to ten in my head and then grabbed him by the elbow. “Let’s go.”

“All right, all right.”

“Do you still feel nauseous? Do you have a headache? Are you tired?”

“Yes. Yes. And yes.”

“We have to get off the mountain. You could have altitude sickness.”

“What are you going to do? Push me off? I could be nauseous because my stomach’s been bouncing around for the last three hours. And I could have a headache because I’m dehydrated. And I could be tired because I just finished running thirteen miles straight up into the air. I’m okay. Trust me.”

I paced in front of the restroom while he went in to change.

He came out, dressed in sweats. Still not warm enough for the weather, but warmer than what he had been wearing.

He smiled. “About that donut…?”

I could have hugged him. He was fine.

The next Saturday Joe came into the store. Leaned against the counter and propped his chin in his hand. “Hi.”

“Can I help you?”

“I don’t know. It’s my birthday tomorrow. I was thinking of buying some skis.”

“Thinking about it? Or wanting to do it?”

“Wanting to do it.”

“What kind?”

“Partial metal, a little on the wide side.”

“Waxless?”

“No.”

“Sidecut?”

“Not too much.”

I talked skis with Joe for the next hour before he finally settled on a pair. “You didn’t bring your bindings with you, did you?”

He showed me his dimples before plopping his backpack on the counter. He unzipped it, brought out a bag, and spilled the contents onto the counter. The bindings.

“Great. I’ll put them on for you.”

I rung up his sale and gave him his credit card as he signed the receipt.

He turned away from the counter toward the door. Then he turned back. “Hey, about tomorrow? Help me celebrate.”

“Happy birthday. If I had a horn, I’d toot it.”

“I was thinking we could do something.”

“What?”

“Whatever I wanted.”

“When haven’t we done what you wanted?”

“Well…fine. Since it’s my birthday, and I’ll be the Birthday King, we’ll do whatever you want to do.”

“Whatever
I
want to do?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. Whatever you do for fun.”

“You can’t back out.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise?”

“I guarantee it.”

The next day, two hours after attending yet another disappointing church service, we were dressed in bright colors and working our way down the grassy shoulders of I-25, picking up litter and putting it into large paper grocery bags. I wished I’d put my hair into ponytails. The wind was whipping it across my eyes.

I bent to pick up another cigarette butt.

Joe was bending part of a tire to fit it into the bag. “Why am I doing this again?”

“Because you said we could do whatever I wanted to do.”

“I said something fun. Whatever you do for fun.”

“This
is
fun.”

“This is not fun.”

“It’ll get more fun.”

“When?”

“When we look back on all the trash we’ve collected and see how clean it is back there.”

“Jackie, that’s not fun. That’s work. How far do we have to go?”

“As far as we can.”