Limbo 56 - Mike Morris (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📗

controls all the jobs here, even though he’s just an ignorant ironworker. I’m going to see her tonight, and this time I’ll really talk to her. I know when things are quiet, and I’ll just go up to her and engage in some easy banter, then maybe she’ll invite me upstairs to her room, and we can get all cuddly, like.

The young man with bad skin had barely passed the test to remain in Limbo. He intends never to return to the Netherworld, and he keeps reminding himself that he is a very nasty person, and that he is lucky to be where he is and not in the other place. Even so, he thinks that he wasn’t entirely to blame, about the old man, about his uncle and the flashy salesman, and Mary. Sometimes, in his mind, they merge with Gladys’ friends, and he thinks they are all against him.

That evening, he walked up to the bar and faced Gladys. “Beer,” he mumbled.

“Don’t you ever say please?” Gladys asked, but she half-smiled when she said that, and he knew she really liked him.

“I.. I’m sorry,” he said, and, to his horror he started to cry, big tears running silently down his face. He gulped and turned away quickly, but she grabbed his hand.

“What on Limbo is the matter?” she asked sharply. “You just got out of Hell; you should be dancing with joy.”

“I can’t dance,” he snuffled. “Not with Joy or anyone else,” he added with a pathetic attempt at humor.

“Hey Sadie”, Gladys said to a woman who was flirting with a customer. “Take the bar for a mo, will you? Just help me out for a couple of minutes.”

The woman sniffed but got up reluctantly. “You bein’ a social worker again,” she said as they walked to the dark table in the corner.

“Don’t mind her,” Gladys told him. “She barks worse than she bites.” They sat down. “You need to pull yourself together,” she said sternly, but he was overwhelmed with gratitude that she was taking an interest in him. “Tell Auntie Gladys what’s wrong,” she said flashing him a gypsy smile. “But don’t moan about your troubles. In here, we’ve all got troubles.”

“I’m a very bad man,” he heard himself tell her. He had never admitted that to anyone else. “A very bad man,” he repeated, and started to tell his story.

‘I had a headache that morning. I had to splash cold water on my face to wake up. I grabbed a piece of cheese out of the fridge and felt a bit better after a quick munch. Of course, rain was streaking down the windows and my old car was broke, and would probably stay that way. It was just the usual start to another lousy day.

Life is a bitch, as they say. Have a few beers at night, and you wake up with a hangover the next morning. My face was still sore from where the man in the bar hit me. Bastard caught me by surprise; that was what happened. I could have beat him up if he hadn’t jumped me. Tried to say I was pushing his dad around – bastard.

‘Next time I see him, I’ll show him,’ I thought. I felt the rage coming on again. I should get a gun. Equalizers, they used to call them. Then I calmed down. Funny, thinking about guns usually does that. The rage went away and I splashed some more water on my face. I thought about man and his son in the bar.

Try to have a bit of fun, and you always have to suffer for it. That's what my old lady used to say, making up her face in front of the kitchen mirror, while my old man nagged at her, wheezing and coughing in his armchair.

“I'm young," she used to say. "I need to go out and enjoy myself. I don't have to be tied to an old fart like you 24 hours a day."

And my old man couldn't do a damned thing about it, stuck in that chair. All he could manage was an occasional stagger to the bathroom and back bumping into tables and holding the wall until Mom was ready to yell and laugh at him and flounce out to the bar. He'd sit there; purple and trembling, and I swore I'd never be like him, pushed around by everybody.’

The young man stopped and gulped at his beer, grimacing. He seemed to think for a while. “You don’t want to listen to this, do you?” he said seriously. “I have to keep reminding myself that I’m a pathetic person, with a pathetic story. You’re just a kind person listening to a boring, ordinary little fool.” He half-smiled at Gladys. “I do this when I have a few beers.” He finished his drink. “I’m leaving now.”

“I know someone else who was boring and ordinary,” Gladys told the young man. “He improved a lot over time. I think you will too. Why don’t you just carry on with your story? You’re not boring me.”

He looked at her gratefully. “I just need to tell someone.” He looked into the distance, into a small, rainy town, a lot like Limbo56.

‘I was late for work again. Busses never run on time. I punched in and was sneaking towards my desk when old Mr. Clark caught me. Jesus, he must have little spy cameras all over the building.

"Can't you ever get in on time?" He snapped, drumming his fingers on Mary's desk, standing over me, all stiff and military like a Sergeant Major.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Clark," I blurted. "You know my car's broke, and the bus was late, and the traffic was slow because of the rain." He makes me feel like a little kid, especially when Mary is there. I just clam up and get all stupid when I'm around him. One day, I'll win the lottery, and then I'll push his face in and tell him where he can stick his job.

"Go easy on him, Fred," Mary laughed, "He's young. He has plenty of time to learn." She flashed a smile at me. Perfect teeth, blonde, long legs, and built ---. Many a time I stood in the company bathroom and mentally undressed her, groaning in frustration and desire. She was the only person in the office who called old Mr. Clark by his first name, and he loved it. Even the smarmy salesman, who Mary seemed to fancy for some reason, even he called our boss Mr. Clark, or sometimes even 'Sir', the brown-nosed rich kid bastard. One day I was going to punch him right in the face and show him I was just as good as he was.

"Ooh," Mary would say. "You shouldn't do that." But she'd get excited and breathe hard and maybe that afternoon it'd really be me and her in the bathroom, all close and hot.

I know women. I’d bring in a little bottle of whiskey, and she’d take a swig and get excited, then I could do whatever I wanted. I pictured her all weak and faint in the bathroom, and I could just do whatever I wanted, and she wouldn’t even know.’

The young acne scarred man paused and looked at Gladys again. “Of course, I don’t know anything about women. I’m shy and unattractive and not too bright.” He looked at the gypsy barmaid. “I tell this story to myself, and every time, it’s a bunch of excuses and lies. This is the first time I’ve told my story to anyone else. I didn’t say anything, not even at the trial.” He sniffed. “I’m telling you, and I need to correct myself. You’ll know when I say stupid things won’t you?” he asked and she nodded. He swallowed some more beer, lost in thought, before continuing.

‘Old Mr. Clark went back to his office, and I sat down and looked at my desk. Mary sighed. "You know he's going to fire you soon," she told me. “You never do any work, and you're always late, and you're so untidy."

I could tell she liked me. She was always full of sympathy; a real woman. I went over to her desk.

"You're OK," I said. "I can't work for someone like him. He doesn't appreciate anybody. Except you," I added. "’Cos you’re so sexy." I leaned over her. "I wish I could take you out one night. We could have a couple of drinks and watch TV," and I thought about the other things we’d be doing after I got her drunk.

She wrinkled her nose. "You should shower more often," she said, but she smiled to show she had no hard feelings. I was just thinking up a smart remark, when Mr. toffee-nosed salesman walked in, stupid grin all over his smug face.

"Hey, Mary," he said, ignoring me. "I got out early and sold a whole building full of that office furniture we've got piled up in the basement. Just showed 'em the brochure, and told 'em I was cutting off my right arm for the sake of their business..." He rambled on, grinning at Mary, half turned, so I had to look at her over his shoulder.

Well, I wasn't going to bother with the likes of him, so I went back to my desk, and started to shuffle papers around, looking at Mary's legs, crossing and uncrossing under the desk. I didn't know how long I could stay cooped up in this dreary office, day after day. The morning dragged on, and I doodled on my desk pad, getting angry and frustrated as usual.

About 11 o'clock, Mr. Clark appeared again, standing to attention in front of my desk. "I've got a job for you, my boy," he told me. "You can take the van and go pick something up. Make sure you bring it back in one piece, and I don't want to see any scratches on my desk."

So that was it. He'd finally gotten round to buying the antique desk he'd been talking about for weeks. We have to slave in oversize matchboxes while he works in luxury. Not that I'd want an antique piece of junk, anyway. I mumbled something, and he went on to tell me all about his new toy. "Well," he said when he was done. "Get on to it right now."

Naturally, it was still raining when I got outside, blinking into the car park. I climbed into the old van and slammed the door shut. I couldn't wait for the sun to come out and brighten things up a bit. I had to drive through the drab streets, dirty water streaking the windscreen of the rattling old van. Bosses are all the same. Old Mr. Clark thinks he owns me, just because he pays me lousy wages for a lousy job. If I was rich I’d be a manager, in my own office, with a sexy secretary or something. But no. "You need experience," they all tell me. "You need to improve yourself.” Work extra for nothing is what they mean. Meantime those college kids with rich daddies get all the best jobs.

The owner of the desk lived on a small farm, just outside city limits. I took my time. No use rushing there and back. They'd only find something else for me to do. Some little old lady turned in front of me, hunched nervously over the wheel of her old car, peering at me in the rear-view mirror. I dunno why they let these old biddies out on