The Intern
Paul Rousseau
I am walking back to my Cube from the Atrium cutting through Copy Room
Four. My little time saver for when the foot traffic gets extra heavy.
Cube-mate Markus catches me on the way out. I produce a minor reactionary,
ope, trying to scoot by without raising alarm. He latches onto the crook of
my elbow asking if I've seen it yet. Seen what, I say, feeling my chest get
blotchy.
"Picture of Todd on the Network (O:) Drive," he says. "Asleep, total
close-up."
I try to hide how thankful I am that my shortcut to the part-time employee
fridge is still yet undiscovered by the masses.
"Hmm," I say, sort of sad about Todd.
"He really, ah, you know, this time. Ah, ha ha," Markus says.
"No kidding," I say, trying to side-step Markus. "See you around."
"Oh, you bet. I'll be in and out of the office all week. You know how it
goes, ah, working to, ah, working hard and ah, or. Ha. Looking forward to
this week's paycheck."
"You and me both, Markus," I say, smiling without showing teeth, lips like
two raw hotdogs pinched in the middle. "Sorry to hear about Todd."
***
I pass Janet Lundgren at her desk smashing a baby bird with a hammer.
"Have you seen it?" she asks, pausing briefly to flip the hammer over to the
clawed end.
"Hmm?" I tune.
"Picture of Todd in the (O:) Drive," she says, prying away some bone.
"Asleep?" I ask.
"I can't believe it," she says. "I honestly can't believe it."
"Haven't seen it yet," I say.
"I'll send you the link. Check your inbox."
***
Down the hall is Chloe Mair. We make eye contact over her laptop. I try to
beat her to it.
"No, I haven't seen the picture of Todd sleeping on the (O:) Drive," I
announce.
"Who's asking?" she says.
"Nobody," I say, relieved. "How is your Wednesday going?"
"I'm coding some malware to steal the routing number to Janet's joint
savings account," Chloe says. "Her husband's a foot surgeon. I have a
photocopy of his social security card."
"Right," I say, drawn out, nodding my head.
"I would so hate to be Todd right now though, speaking of," she says.
***
Picking up stride, I land on my seat and set out the lunch I initially went
to grab. Some fruit, baked beans, leftover pasta. I organize the items by
order of anticipated consumption across my desk.
Cube-mate Markus appears, drooping his arms over a prefabricated wall with
thumbtacks pierced and blotted, spread out all over like acne.
"Just ah, caught Todd in the little boy's room, ha ha," he says, "Totally
burned himself alive in the handicapped stall."
"Honestly?" I say.
"Yep. Managed to snap a quick, or, ah, got a little, got a sweet little, ah,
took a selfie with his dead body. Doesn't it resemble, ah, look just like,
ah, ha ha, turkey, or, beef jerky?"
Cube-mate Markus comes around and kneels next to my memory foam office chair
to show me the picture on his phone.
"I know what you're thinking," Markus says.
"You do?" I ask.
"Yea. And uh, ha, don't worry. I ah, took his wedding ring. The wife and
kids want a trip to Montana, they ah, ha ha, got one, or they'll, ah, have
one now. Stopping by Liberty Pawn on the way home," Markus says, palming the
plain golden band. Inscribed with, From Cathleen, with Love, across the
interior.
I look at the ring and then back at the picture. Markus holds it up to my
face for forty-five seconds before softly punching beneath my ribcage.
"Look at his neck. Just like, ah, bubble wrap right? Ha ha. Pop pop."
He softly punches beneath my ribcage a few more times before uploading the
new picture of Todd into the Network (O:) Drive.
"Wowzers," I say, holding a pear up to my forehead. I think about taking a
bite, but hesitate, wholly aware of the noise I tend to make while chewing.
Paul Rousseau is an emerging disabled writer. He's had work in Catapult.