Fiction

The many faces of Mr. Stupid

By Eric Burbridge


Photo by Freddie Collins on Unsplash

“You been with us for–”
“Two years, never been late or took a sick or personal day. Do you believe me or what?”
He sighed and slammed the folder shut. “It doesn’t matter business has slowed. Your seniority says I lay you off. I’m sorry.” He reopened the folder. “But your record gets you this.” He handed me an envelope. “Don’t open it now, it’s a month’s severance pay. And, don’t thank me either–”
“Just leave now, right?” The cut-off got me an arched eyebrow with smart ass written all over it. I slipped the envelope in my pocket and saw a couple of coworkers stocking a section of cognac by the rare and collectible beverage room turn their heads not quick enough. Nosy bastards, if I was supposed to be embarrassed, I wasn’t. But, what would a forklift driver scorned do?
Drop a hint about a bottle here and there being opened and resealed or glitches with the
inventory scanner? He might know already. I stood quickly and Tanke’s eyes bucked, now he was in defense mode. “You know, Tanke, thanks for the opportunity to work here.” I extended my hand; he stood surprised at the gesture. We shook. Why burn down a bridge, I’d probably need a reference.
“Ok, Amos, good luck.”
Now I was Amos again. It was a tight fit in that space that’s when I got a whiff of Mr. Stupid on his breath. It smelled like wine or cognac. Was he an undercover drunk or what? He held out his hand. “Oh, I forgot my locker key and ID badge. My locker’s empty.” I should ask for a bottle of what he’s drinking, but instead I stepped out of the cubicle and walked past the liqueur section, the least rotated stock in the building. That garbage didn’t sell why they kept it was anybody’s guess. Several couples crowded the locally brewed beer aisles that led to the warehouse and the dock. Several coworkers got on their phones. My guess, they called Sammy to warn him I’m headed that way.
There was only one trailer being unloaded. Sammy backed out of it driving my fork. He turned it and avoided eye contact. “Hey Sammy.” He pretended not to hear and drove the load in the opposite direction. And there went my so-called friend another lesson learned in my forty years of life. No great loss, true friends are few and far between, old people told me that one. I waved at the guys on the dock and made a beeline to my car. It hesitated when I turned the key, now I know where part of that check was headed. My cell vibrated, email. Great!! A job interview that called for a celebration.
*
The temptation to visit my favorite watering hole overwhelmed my annual ritual to stay sober for six months a year. But, several more good job offers got me sitting at the bar watching my favorite barmaid pour a shot of my favorite concoction, rum with a Miller on the side.
“Leslie, what happened to your knuckles?” She shrugged with a look of disgust. “Sorry.” I felt bad; I spoke before I thought.
“That’s ok, I need to dump on somebody and you’re the lucky guy. Me and my man had been partying and got into a heated stupid argument. He grabbed me. I over reacted and my MMA training kicked in.” She was a small woman very attractive and almost in tears. “I don’t mean to cry in your beer, but I don’t know what to do.”
Mr. Stupid strikes again.
“I know the feeling.” What do you say? I had my own problems, at least she was working. “Pray about it, if you’re into that.”
“That’s sweet, be right back.” She hurried to serve another customer at the end of the bar.
Who would’ve thought she had mixed martial arts experience. Brutal sport for such an attractive woman. I turned my beer several times. Did I want it? Yes and no. Leslie returned with a concerned expression on her pretty face. “What’s on your mind?”
“Got fired a few weeks ago, got a few job offers too.”
“That’s good, right?” She smiled. “Congrats,” and downed my shot of rum and poured another. “That’s how it’s done, Amos.”
“I guess, but—” I looked at all the different sizes and shapes of the bottles of alcohol that lined the wall. Most people who drank didn’t need to. It created more problems then it solved.
“But what?”
“Never mind.” My phone sounded off…an email. I couldn’t believe it. Solomon Tanke asked would I be interested in reinstatement, if so; report Monday at the usual time. Sounds good, but what made the owner get involved, he spent most of his time abroad?
Don’t let your imagination runaway with you, Amos. If and when you walk in the door you’ll a feel of what’s going on. Whose there and who isn’t will say a lot.
I’ll put the other interviews on hold, if possible. “Sorry, Leslie, don’t mean to be rude.” I peeled off a twenty. “Got to go.”
Good bye, Mr. Stupid, but not today.

The End

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Categories: Fiction

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