Chair by Craig J. Clark

It was like that one Volkswagen commercial. You know, the one that reintroduced Trio’s “Da Da Da” to a nation that had forgotten a group called Trio ever existed. There were differences, of course. (If there hadn’t been, I would have said, “It was that one Volkswagen commercial” and been done with it.) For one thing, I was alone, so I had no one to react to (or to react to me). For another, I was on foot, so I didn’t have a car to tool around in. And do I have to mention that my misadventure was not scored by any '80s music whatsoever? (Well, I suppose I could have had a boom box or a Walkman or whatever portable device people use to listen to music nowadays, but I didn’t, so now I have cleared that up.)

So there I was, walking along. (I can’t say I was minding my own business because I wasn’t. I was looking around at everything while I walked.) I was in a semi-commercial area, with a mixture of businesses and houses, so I wasn’t too surprised when I started coming across people’s garbage, which had been set out by the curb. (It was early enough in the morning that the sanitation crews hadn’t taken it away yet.) What did surprise me was the intact computer chair I found beside the dumpster of one of the businesses.

(Okay, I admit I had to go around back to find it, but it wasn’t like I was trespassing or anything. I didn’t have to jump a fence or sneak in anywhere. And the chair was being thrown out. It even had a handmade sign taped to the back of it that said, “TRASH.” Anyway…)

Remembering the Volkswagen commercial all too well, I decided the best course of action was to find out what was wrong with the chair before I did anything else. I carefully sat down in it to make sure it wouldn’t collapse. I moved it to a level part of the blacktop to make sure its legs weren’t uneven. (Another difference: the legs on my chair had wheels.) Finally I performed the all-important smell check, which the chair passed with flying colors (and believe me, I was most thorough when it come to this part).

Removing the “TRASH” sign and tossing it into the dumpster (I’m no litterbug), I decided to take the chair home and make it my own. Not that I had a computer, mind you, but one can never have enough chairs. (This, incidentally, is where my story and that of the Volkswagen commercial diverge, never to re-verge. In fact, I may have oversold the whole Volkswagen connection and for that I humbly apologize.)

Striking out for home, I used the chair’s wheels to their best advantage and pushed it ahead of me. This was fine as long as there was a sidewalk (I was on a busy road that was approaching rush hour, so I was wary of going out onto the shoulder), but when I came to a lawn that was all grass, I had to lift the chair up over my head like I was portaging a canoe. Those were the times when I most wished I had a companion to share the load. We could have even taken turns.

From time to time I got tired enough to take a break and was glad to have the chair to sit on. It was during one of these stops that an extraordinary thing happened. A man pulled up in a car, got out and approached me. At that moment I was sitting in front of a vacant lot and I half-expected the man to tell me to clear off. Instead he stopped about four feet away from me and held out a piece of paper.

“Here’s that form you were looking for, sir,” he said and let the paper drop to the ground. Without saying another word he returned to his car and drove off. Fortunately there was no wind, so the paper didn’t blow away. I bent down to pick it up and saw that it was, in fact, some kind of form (although I must confess I had no idea what it was for).

As I attempted to puzzle it out, a second car pulled up and this time a young woman got out. I saw that she was carrying a mug of some sort. I was immediately apprehensive.

“Morning, sir,” she chirped as she got closer. “I made it just the way you like it: one cream, two sugars and piping hot.” She started to set it down on a desk that she apparently thought was between us.

Acting quickly in defense of my crotch, I cried out, “Thank you, I’ll take that!” and grabbed the mug out of her hand. This didn’t seem to phase the woman, who merely asked if that would be all and, since I didn’t say anything, left of her own accord.

My third and fourth visitors were a pair of policemen who pulled up in their squad car. I briefly considered dumping the coffee and making a break for it, but figured that would only make me look guilty. Besides, I still wanted the chair and knew I wouldn’t be able to flee with it.

In a misguided attempt to act casual, I tried putting my feet up on the nonexistent desk, but that didn’t work out too well. The policemen kept a little bit of distance at first. Perhaps they were worried that I was planning on using my coffee as a weapon. (This didn’t occur to me at the time, only in retrospect.) I wondered if they were going to play a “good cop, bad cop” routine or whether they were going to let one of them do all of the talking. They went with the latter.

“How are we this morning, sir?” the cop asked.

“Oh, I’m fine,” I said. “Just sitting here, enjoying my coffee.” I took a sip. It was good coffee.

“That’s good. You’re not having any problems, are you?”

“Oh, no. Not at all, officer. I have no complaints.”

“That’s good, sir. May we ask…” He looked to his partner, who seemed older, for guidance. Apparently I was dealing with a rookie who was being shown the ropes. The second cop nodded at the first, who looked back at me. “May we ask where you got that chair?”

“You certainly may, officer. I found it.”

“Found it? So you mean it’s not yours?”

“Oh, no. It’s mine. I found it in the trash, so I’m taking it home.”

“Doesn’t look like you’re taking it anywhere, sir.”

“That’s because I’m resting. I’ll be on my way in a minute, officer. Right after I finish my coffee.” I took another sip. I suddenly realized how odd this must have looked to them. Surely they didn’t think I had stolen the chair, but how could I prove that I hadn’t? Thankfully, before I had to worry too much about that, the young woman drove up again and sprinted over to bail me out.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said, walking around the invisible desk to stand at my side, “but Mr. Coffey is an extremely busy man. If you wish to speak with him, you’ll need to make an appointment.”

The two policemen conferred and then the older one spoke. “Very well, we will. You have a good day, Mr. Coffey.”

And with that, they left. The young woman, who I suppose thought she was my secretary, stayed behind and was extremely contrite.

“I’m very sorry about that, sir. They must have barged in while I was down in the mail room. It won’t happen again.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I don’t think they’ll be back. Do you have my mail?”

“Oh, I left it on my desk. I was just sorting it when I heard voices in here. I’ll bring it right in.”

“Thank you,” I said and watched as she got in her car and drove off again.

I waited until she was completely out of sight and carefully set the coffee mug down on the ground (it was a perfectly good mug, so I saw no reason to break it) and, taking my place behind the chair, I took off like a shot. I got off the main road as quickly as I could and stuck to the side roads all the way home. By the time I got in, The Price is Right was on, so I rolled the chair into place in front of the TV and collapsed into it. I barely had time to catch my breath before my roommate – who was sprawled on the couch behind me – spoke up.

“Hey,” he said, “I’m watching that.”

I mumbled an apology and rolled out of his line of sight. We watched the show until after the first Showcase Showdown, at which point he muted the TV and looked at me.

“Hey,” he said. I looked back at him. “That’s a nice chair.”

“Thank you.”

“How much did it cost?”

“Less than you would expect,” I replied.

Posted by Craig at 8:50 AM Comments (4)

Office Ours by Craig J. Clark

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment when the decision was made to take over the office building through bloody insurrection, but once taken it was hard to go back on it.

The proverbial First Shot Fired on Fort Sumter, as it were, was not an actual gunshot, per se, but its reverberations were just as epochal to us. It happened during the lunch hour. The support staff was gathered at the long table in the break room, as was our wont, when one of the senior staff – I don’t even remember which one it was – came in and imperiously declared that we needed to eat somewhere else because they were expecting guests. Now, we in the support staff understand the importance of impressing visiting dignitaries and potential clients, but the lunch hour is the lunch hour. Disturb that sacred ritual at your peril – and that’s exactly what the senior staff was in for. The only question was how much of it and when would it be provoked.

We reconvened in my office area because it had the most desk space. Normally we would have dispersed to our own departments and eaten separately, but wasn’t a normal situation. There was a proper protocol for handling these kinds of situations and the senior staff had blatantly disregarded them. At first we ate in sullen silence, but eventually the ice was broken and the grousing began in earnest.

(Quick aside: We had stopped having support staff meetings because they almost invariably morphed into gripe sessions. Turned out we the overworked and underpaid administrative assistants, accountants and secretaries had a lot of gripes. We also stopped when the office manager started attending the meetings, purporting to be acting as “the bridge between senior staff and the support staff.” She reported directly to the boss and we were almost certain that she had been sent to spy on us. When the revolution came, she was sure to be the one of first up against the wall. Once the ball started rolling, it quickly became apparent that that would be happening that afternoon.)

“How dare they?” said Steve from Accounting. It was a rhetorical question, but one that resonated with those assembled.

“How dare they, indeed? It’s unconscionable. We shouldn’t have to stand for it,” we muttered.

“Do they not know that the lunch hour to us is sacred?” said Peter from Marketing.

“No, they don’t. They have no clue. No regard for other people’s feeling,” we muttered.

“How long do they expect us to put up with this ill-treatment?” said Kathy from Receiving.

“It’s most distressing. I’m at my wit’s end. I don’t know how long I can stay silent,” we muttered.

“As long as you expect to keep your jobs with this company,” said a voice that rose above the rabble.

“Huh?” came the confused reply.

There, framed in the doorway, was Barbara the Office Manager, Barbara the Spy, Barbara the Soon-to-Be Target.

“I thought I might find you huddled together in some dark corner like rats.”

“Hey, you can’t say that about my office!” I cried.

Barbara fixed her attention on me. I did not enjoy being on the receiving end of it.

“Oh, this is your office, is it? Do you pay the rent on it? Do you pay for the utilities? What about this office equipment, this desk, that chair upon which you’re resting your flabby behind? Did you pay for them out of your own pocket? How exactly is this your office?”

As she spoke, she strode into the room, walking straight up to me. I suppose she intended to put me in my place, but all she really did was leave herself vulnerable with all her exits blocked. She would soon come to regret this power play.

I won’t bore you with a blow-by-blow account of how we subdued the hated Barbara, ran amok in the building, took out any and all senior staff members we came across (although some managed to escape our wrath) and established a perimeter that even a SWAT team couldn’t breach. For one thing, I wasn’t witness to most of these events since I was the first of our number to sustain an injury in battle and thus was relegated to planning and strategy. For another, I don’t believe in glorifying violence, no matter how personally satisfying it is to mete out or richly deserved it can be. And let me tell you, Barbara deserved everything she got.

I couldn’t say for sure, but as far as the senior staff was concerned, I expect the Shot Heard Round the World came when we launched Barbara – bound and gagged, but I hasten to stress unviolated in any other way – out my second-floor window to the courtyard below. It’s a very lovely courtyard with flowering trees and shrubs that can be seen from the break room window. It always makes a good impression on visitors.

Posted by Craig at 7:39 AM Comments (3)

Unhappy Returns by Craig J. Clark

Christa knew she was going to have a problem the moment she reached the counter. Of course, the fact that she was being called to the counter at all meant there was some sort of problem, but she knew how to handle them. That was her job, after all. For an extra 50 cents an hour, she got to bear the brunt of the irate customers. Some were just bruntier than others. This one looked like he had taken a course in bruntiness.

The customer stood before her, fuming, holding an opened CD in one hand and crumpled receipt in the other. He looked like he was used to getting his way, and was openly contemptuous of anybody who contradicted him. This was not idle speculation on Christa’s part; this was based on three years of handling returns from customers just like him. She steeled herself. She had the impression she was going to need all the steeling she could get.

“Hello, sir. How can I help you?” she asked.

“Are you the supervisor?” the customer sneered. (Yes, sneered, just like an Imperial officer in a Star Wars novelization.)

“Yes, I am. You have a CD to exchange?”

“Not exchange, return. I want my goddamn money back. I explained that to your clerk, but I guess she didn’t tell you.”

“Let me see the product, please.”

The customer seemed reluctant to hand it over, like it was a trump card that he wasn’t ready to surrender so early in the game.

“Your clerk already looked at the CD. Why did she do that if you were just going to do it again?”

“Please, sir. I just need to see the CD and the receipt.”

“Oh, now you need to see the receipt, too?”

“If you’d like me to do anything for you, yes, I do.”

The customer sighed theatrically and handed over the CD and the receipt. Christa looked at the latter first. It was dated for three months earlier. Christa had to suppress a groan. Surely he wasn’t serious about getting money back on something he had bought an entire season ago. She decided to try reasoning with him. This almost never worked, but she figured it was worth a shot.

“Sir, were you aware that this receipt is dated three months ago?”

“Yes, I was. I can read. I’m not a moron.”

“I didn’t say you were, sir, but printed right here on the receipt it says all returns must be made within 14 days.”

The customer snatched the receipt back. “Where does it say that?” He angrily scanned the receipt. “I can’t read this, it’s all crumpled.”

Christa rolled her eyes. And whose fault was that?

“Regardless, that is the return policy. However, since you have your receipt, I can make an exception in your case.”

“So you’ll give me my money back?”

“Unfortunately, I can’t make that much of an exception. Once a CD has been opened, the only thing we can do is exchange it for the same item, if it’s defective.”

“But what if I don’t want the same item?”

“I’m very sorry, but our return policy is very clear on the subject.”

“You can’t tell me that’s on the receipt.”

“No, but our full return policy is posted on the wall right behind me.” She gestured to it. It was, in fact, very large and hard to miss.

“Do you expect people to read all that? All I want to do is return this CD.”

“And all I can do for you, sir, is exchange it for the same item, if it’s defective. It is defective, right?”

“Umm, I guess. But what if you don’t have another copy?”

Christa was already scanning the bar code.

“We have three. Excuse me for a moment while I get one off the rack.”

Christa found the CD with ease and returned to the counter, where the customer was glowering.

“Before you go any further, are you seriously telling me the only thing you can is exchange this CD – which I don’t want – for the same CD – which I also don’t want?”

“That is the only thing I can do.”

“But what if I don’t like the CD?”

Ah, now the truth comes out.

“That I’m afraid I can’t help you with, but I can give you a new copy of it.”

The customer groaned. “I guess that’s better than nothing.”

Christa completed the transaction, noting the return on the original receipt and printing out a new one. The customer tried to grab the unopened CD, but Christa held it back.

“Just one more thing, sir.”

She started taking the plastic off the CD, at which point the customer exploded.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m carrying out store policy, sir. All defective CDs that are exchanged must be opened in the store.”

“Bullshit! You just made that up! Where is that written?”

“It isn’t, sir, but that’s how I was trained.”

“Trained? Well, I’m not surprised since you’re being such a bitch.”

If this had been in a movie, all music, conversation and transactions would have ceased and everyone in the store would have turned to face them. (Furthermore, the music probably would have been taken off with a wacky record scratch sound effect despite the fact that almost nobody listened to records anymore.) As it was, only one or two people heard the remark, but out of embarrassment they pretended not to.

Calmly, Christa finished unwrapping the CD and removed the security strip. Placing the CD in a new bag along with both receipts, she handed it to the customer.

“There you are, sir. Now take your CD and go.”

“And do what with it?”

Christa told him.

Posted by Craig at 9:34 AM Comments (3)