Scratch

Travis Müller

            The sun had been struggling to go down for hours when Martin called me from his home office, breathing heavily into receiver: “did you…finish… …thebook….yet?” He was no state of mind to hear that I spent my extension twiddling my thumbs and taking joyrides on the highway. But then again, he probably deserved the news. I mean, it’s not as if he attempted to hide the fact that he was boning another one of his secretaries.

            “Did you seriously just call me after sex?”

            “How do…youknow…Iwas…ha—“

            “Something about the woman’s voice I hear in the background is giving you away. You must really love if you left her on the couch. What’s so wrong with your desk?”

            “I’m having it buffed.” His voice was back. “Now, answer my question. Did you finish it or what?”

            “If by finished you mean ‘sort of, not really,’ then yes.”

            “Ohh, Jesus, Phil. What’re ya doing? Do you think it’s okay to waste my time like this?” Whenever he decided to talk to me, it was the way a policeman talked to a speeder or a pre-school teacher to student who continually pulls his trousers down in front of the other children. Condescending and passive.

            “Yes. I think it’s marvelous. Give me another week?”

            “You’re kidding, right?” I could smell the cologne reeking through the phone. “You must be joking. You must be joking because I know that you are a professional who doesn’t keep people waiting like this. People who have put an unbelievable amount of time into you. I know you wouldn’t do that. Nope, never you.”

            “Oops?” Great. He had reduced me to a five year-old in fifteen seconds. “You are to be in my office tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. And if you are more one second over, your ass will hit the pavement when I toss you out my twenty story window. Capisce?”

            “I thought you were had plans with that brunette in your office at ten. You know, the one who gets you coffee, types your memos, and sucks you off.”

            “Ten o’clock, Phil. I mean it.”

            “Fine. So, can we switch out of boss mode and into friend mode?”

            “Don’t call me your friend. You know how much I hate that word. But yes.”

            “How was the sex?”

            “Incredible.”

            I don’t what it is about John, but whenever he decides to “stick it to me,” I usually get something done. But this time, I wasn’t so lucky. Maybe it was because I expected it. After about ten minutes of small talk while his secretary was in the shower, I ran gleefully off to my bedroom and decided that I was going to bang out four more pages. Maybe even get to the end of the chapter. But, taking things for granted never gets me anywhere, and because I learned that fact the hard way, I sat at my typewriter keys, playing Boggle with them. I made the words saw, was, wed, and weds before noticing that I had left my cat outside and well-knowing that if I got up to let him in, I’d never sit back down.

            “Come on in, Scratch.”

I spent the next morning half-assing another three pages, hoping to get on John's good side. It was a far-cry, yes, but it was definitely worth a shot. My right hand was writing down a stream of well-scribbled, oddly placed dialogue as my left hand was used for coffee, occasionally setting itself down on the steering wheel to change lanes. Luckily for me and hands, traffic was less intense than usual. I didn't need to flip anybody off, tailgate grandma, or slam on my brakes before the dare-devil school skipper who decided it would be fun to jump across the freeway.

Watching the traffic pass my line was always good for a laugh, but I guess that actually arriving to my meeting on time is better than a cheap laugh at the woman who attempts to put on mascara (and ends up looking like she boffed a clown) or the angry businessman who never curses more than inside his car. I got to Sun Publishers ten minutes before I needed to be there, so I spent the time flipping through the myriad of well-established, high-quality, grammar-free periodicals. I learned that some celebrity blacked out and woke up in a jail cell for shaving a cow in the middle of the countryside. I also learned that her husband was having a baby with her step-daughter, and that he was fleeing the country to avoid consequence. I must say, well, it made me want to finish my book. And I thought to myself, Sun really does provide the motivation and environment that I need to finish. Look at those remarkable coffee stains on the rug and the Xerox machine that was falling apart. High class all the way.

But, in its defense, it’s better than nothing. I only came to Sun after John became C.E.O. What he does exactly is beyond me, but I think it has something to do with the new red-headed secretary. I think he only wanted the job for the lockable door.

“Phil! Get the hell in here!”

Uh-oh! I was in trouble, now. The world was about to rip at the seams, and my life would be over in about ten minutes. Or at least, that’s what went on in his mind. The truth about John is that he’s a little boy in a big man’s body. He tries to come off as the big-man on campus, but we all know that that is just not the truth. A new man on campus does not, by nature, cry during sex, pop speed to get his workload finished, and doesn’t fire his cleaning woman because he needed a “pick-me-up.”

“Oh, mighty master, what hath I done to have forsaken you?”

“Phil, shut the hell up. I’ve been waiting on you for a year.”

“11 months,” I corrected, drawing out a cigarette from my inside pocket.

“Excuse me?”

“Shouldn’t I just get the twelfth free? You know, like a buyer’s discount…or passing Go?”

“Phil, what makes you think you deserve the next month? I haven’t seen a page!”

“That is most certainly not true. You read that manuscript I sent you back in May.”

“It was only one chapter!” he screamed, pacing the room like Ralph or Ricky, my two boys from the land of late-night T.V. He began taking and motioning to the wall, meaning that he was either preparing his next statement, or he was blowing off steam. This sort of thing could go on for hours, not really caring that he was two feet away from the couch I was sitting. A couch that was calmly and reeked on dried sperm.  He turned away from his Hamlet-esque soliloquy and exhaled a hot breath before saying, “Pack your bags.”

“Pack my bags?”

“Yes, pack your bags.”

“Where in the hell do you think I’m going?”

“Remember that old joke about sending your ass to South-East Asia if you didn’t finish this within the time givin’ to you?”

“Oh, fuck you! You can’t do that!”

“Didn’t you bother reading that contract? It’ll all be payed for, don’t worry But yo--.”

“I only speak English!”

“Didn’t you grow up speaking Gaelic?”

“I don’t think that’ll help me!” I put my head in my hands and rubbed my eyes.

“Mr. Everwood, Murphy’s on the line.”

“I’m in a meeting!” he shouted through the glass walls, not taking his eyes off of me.

“And how was it with her?”

“Amazing.”