Level Zero by Dan McDowell (debian ebook reader .txt) 📗

a round middle on a gal. I’m just going to bag the excess and take it to storage. Make yourself at home, because you won’t be going anywhere soon.”

Joe grinned as he stutter-stepped away into the darkness, toting a sack of Nancy’s blood.

I feel like I’m going to faint.

The tunnel brightened up and an eleven year old Nancy appeared in her childhood backyard, lying short of breath in her sandbox. Her mother sat on the porch sipping on a glass of spiked lemonade while she crocheted.

“Walk like a crab, kid. We’ve got to burn some more calories. The damn sun sure ain’t cooking them off your big behind.”

“Momma, I can’t do anymore. I just can’t.”

“I don’t want to hear that. Get your lazy butt up now, before I make you eat more sand.”

Nancy began to cry.

Bobbie Helbens stood up from her chair, chunking her glass against the brick wall of the house. “Stop that. You took too long!” She walked toward Nancy, cocking her fist back. Bobbie’s face morphed into Creeper Joe’s while her voice remained. He waved his hands side to side mimicking patty cakes.

“Nancy, Nancy. You’re so fancy. Get it together so you can fit your pantsy!”

Her world went black.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Passing on Ebony Ivory for a promotion seemed the logical solution to CHRIS WILKERSON.

Too nosey and self-centered. I don’t need any more of that. I’m just about running a charity for her anyway. Self-righteous and self-assured. No room for that in my management team. If Creepy Nights is a field of baseball players, she plays soccer — skilled in her own way, but not up to my expectations for Campy Corny.

He prepped to close out the interview in the small conference room behind the reception area, lighting a cigarette, and taking a drag. Looking away from Ebony for a moment, he puffed smoke in the air before turning back to conclude. He straightened her hand written résumé on the desk under his interview notes.

“Ebony, I want to say thanks again for your time today. It was an interesting interview. We’ll be in touch as we make a formal decision on the manager role. I’ll continue interviewing in the coming weeks and let you know… should we elect to offer you the job. I’ve always held my Level Seven staff in such high esteem. I really don’t know what would attract you to a management role on Level Five. You are fundamentally doing the same thing already.”

“For a fraction of the cost… Mr. Wilkerson,” she said. “Is this your diplomatic way of telling me you’re still weighing out your options and saying I don’t measure up?”

“Ebony, that’s not a fair question to ask. I’ve already gotten you off the street and given you a chance to get your life in order. Don’t put me in an uncomfortable position.”

“So, you’re telling me someone else will get the job?”

Chris’s face reddened. “No, I’m telling you to give me some time.”

“Okay, well, I hope the candidate you find works out, then. Have a nice day.”

Chris dropped his pen on the desk in front of him, slapping a hand on top of it.

Stupid little b…rat.

“Ebony, you’re still under consideration. I take these decisions seriously. I don’t know why you continue to be so combative.”

She challenged Chris, leaning in closer toward him as she whispered. “I know how the business world works. I didn’t fall off of the turnip truck yesterday. I’ve hired people before.”

Stop talking now before I can your sorry ass.

Chris rubbed his eyebrows and sighed. ”Ebony, this is a unique environment that requires a variety of talent pools and experiences. I wouldn’t sell yourself short or make any hasty assumptions about what you don’t know or understand.”

Ebony shook her head. ”I just sense it. You’re going with someone else.”

Chris inhaled as the embers on the tip of his cigarette glowed. He dismissed Ebony, blowing smoke in her direction. “Okay, then. Don’t listen to me, and by the way, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

“Useless hag,” he muttered as she walked out of the room.

FALL 1983

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The clock buzzed.

Is it morning already? I’ve got to get myself to bed earlier.

TODD ADAMS slapped the noisy timekeeper from his nightstand onto the floor. Fumbling for his pills and the stale mug of lukewarm coffee, he twisted the lithium medication capsule in half and poured the contents into his drink.

Ah… that’s the ticket.

He dragged his feet through the apartment, passing by a growing wall of lawn equipment partnered with some autographed Boston vinyls. He dug through his laundry basket, looking for his least wrinkled shirt. Upon dressing, he grabbed a bagel from the kitchen and pulled out his day planner.

Employee Assessment Meeting with Dave Rigson, Oak Hollow Country Club, 9AM

“Forgot about that… ugh… Guess I’ll dress for the green today.”

He stumbled into the bathroom, still neglectful of the stubble spread across the marble countertop left over from his previous week’s touch up. Clumps of deodorant stuck to the floor just beneath as toothpaste crust lined the base of the mirror. One of the two bulbs above the smudged self-reflector illuminated as he studied his veneered appearance — a testament to masking his troubled past. He kept a manicured, but well-past five o’clock shadow, plastic-framed glasses, and a shapeless and poreless hairline purchased from a mail-order catalog in Beverly Hills. Despite maintaining a pretty boy image to match his career in finance, Todd Adams lived like a bum. He could afford more and do better. He just didn’t anymore.

.     .     .     .     .

He and Dave Rigson stood on the green of the ninth hole as the sun beat down on them in an uncommon October heat.

“Adams, I hope you have a better week soon. We all have our slow times. The thing is, your recent performance is crap. I don’t remember it being this bad for a long while. Probably since Gerald Ford was still president and Creensteen was passive-aggressively jabbing our asses away to