Eight of Pentacles

My Office—NOON

My hatred for Spike erupts when he, barges into My Office and tries to sit down for lunch with me in the break room. My nemesis tries to talk to me like old times. Like things are water under the bridge. Things have changed, but not much. I demean him in a snide, clever way.

“Fuck you, Spike.”

And excuse myself. He chases after me in near faux tears.

“Why do you hate me, Frank?”

I take pity. After all, perhaps all he has in life is tormenting me. Perhaps, I feel some responsibility to this nemesis-victim relationship. A Stockholm syndrome of sorts.

“It’s nothing. Just fucking with you, Spike.” But he persists.

“I have always been a friend to you even when you falsely accused me of harassing Andrea.”

“Harassing her? You fucked her!" I am furious. Why would he ever bring that up? Now I really do hate him.

As I storm off I can hear him telling others that I am childish and must have been brooding over Andrea for ten years.

So I skip the next lunch meeting. And use the time to browse the newsstand in the lobby, which has grown immensely. If there are some good books I can expense them out at work.

At length, I grudgingly take the elevator back up to our offices. No one is there. Perhaps they all ran in terror from the intruding Spike. Or perhaps Spike killed and ate everybody. Perhaps everyone is avoiding me. These are all equal possibilities.

I head back to my office and flip on the computer and get back to work on designing marketing materials for our work in the Village. I decide to put photos of some of the participants with balloon quotes as headers on some pages. This was one of Andrea’s suggestions I recall and am dragged out into misery again.

But my grief is disturbed by the crew who are dribbling in from fieldwork and nagging me incessantly. They want to see an early report of mine, and I insist I do not have it saved on this computer or any of the CDs I am holding.

“If you guys aren’t going to help,” I finally bellow, “Then I am going home to work. I am serious.” I grab what I desperately need and stuff it into my pockets, and clip my CD player on my belt. The Boss stops me in the doorway as I try to go.

“I am sorry the company is losing you again.”

“Not yet. But I am at the end of my rope,” I tell her, “I think a government job will suit me well.”

"You just want an easy ride, huh?”

“Unlike some,” I indicate the lazy Sailor Lou dozing in his cubicle, “I appreciate a day’s work for a day’s pay.”

I march out of the office and down the back stairs. The terrain out back of our building is very hilly and I cannot keep the CD player snapped on and shut or the stuff from riding out of my pockets.

As I trudge around to the parking deck, I spot Spike following me again. He must have been terrified being left to his own devices since I blew him off at lunch.

“Frank, Frank!” Spike is calling after soon, “Slow down so I can catch up! I need a ride!”

I keep on walking largely ignoring him. They are paving the parking garage and there are some kids having more fun sliding downhill on the slick new asphalt of the entrance ramp. Of course, I can do it much better, skiing with my smooth soled Chuck Taylor’s. I zip into the garage.

Spike yells, “Listen jack, we’re doing crack off the back of an axe!”