Woven Webs

These are the beginnings of a story. More to come...

He walked out into the rain. Got mugged. Came back inside. His nose bled. Profusely. All over his waterproof Columbia jacket, which wasn’t blood proof. There were three of them. He thought they were black. They were actually Hispanic. Just darker, since they’d just sat outside at Golden Gardens or Alki. He wanted to cry but couldn’t find tears. Instead, he started watching an old Benny Hill episode and laughed until he cried. Then he felt better, though whether because he laughed or cried or both he couldn’t tell. He fell asleep in his blood-stained coat, hugging the giant panda his parents had given him for his eighth birthday.

The next morning, he woke at 6:32 a.m. He always wakes at 6:32 a.m. Unless he’s tired. And then it’s 6:42 a.m. Because that’s how the snooze on his alarm clock works. He disrobes, chucking the bloody jacket to a corner. He’s already given up on it. He won’t wash it; instead it will become another artifact that tells the story of his sad existence. He noticed a few bruises strewn about his body. Nothing to which he wasn’t accustomed, for various reasons. Apart from doubling for a famous reindeer, he proved no worse for the wear. Work beckoned.

His cubicle lay in virtual ruins. Saran wrap and aluminum foil stuck to every possible surface. Even the chair. Since it wasn’t even close to his birthday, he could think of only one culprit. The devious – and very fat – Emma Makowski, aka Emma Emm. He approached her sneakily, carefully. But she still knew. A bit wrapped up, I’m guessing, she said. He wanted to strike her but remember a line from Man of La Mancha. Whether the pitcher hits the stone or the stone, the pitcher, it’s going to be bad for the pitcher.