Jason's Stories

Poor Work Ethic: The Reckoning

2007-03-16T00:30:53Z

The quartet stood motionless for what seemed an eternity.

Carol narrowed her eyes as she watched Mr. Wallace, waiting to see what he would do next, her hand tightening on the knife. Wallace was a dangerous adversary and she would do well not to underestimate him.

Susan stood, mouth agape, eyes darting between Carol and Mr. Wallace. It seemed as though the temperature had dropped suddenly.

Mr. Wallace spoke to Carol, his upper lip wrinkling in disgust. “You. Have. Been. Naughty.” With each word, Susan could see condensation from his breath. The temperature actually had dropped, which made the encounter all the more frightening and … otherworldly. She turned and walked stiffly back into her cube.

“You have usurped my authority. You have killed one of my employees. And now you will pay.” He closed his eyes and began chanting rapidly, under his breath. Soon, a sickly green light began pulsing from Jason’s cube.

Then, in a voice made inhuman by dissolving vocal cords, came a single word:

“Wuss?”

Seems to Be Something Else

2007-03-13T18:12:02Z

I looked up from the card and stared down the street in the direction he’d gone, but he was no longer in sight.

A movie producer. Or was it just a ploy? Anyone can have business cards made to say anything. It was no guarantee this guy was on the level. I pocketed the card, and decided to head home.

Over the next few days, my mind wandered back to Mr. Paramount Pictures fairly frequently. It wasn’t him so much as the opportunity he might represent that had caught my interest and imagination.

I finally picked up the phone and dialed the number on his business card. After only one ring, the call was answered. “Paramount Pictures, Dan Stringer’s office,” the crisp voice said.

“Hi there. Uh, may I speak to Mr. Stringer?”

The voice replied, “May I ask who’s calling, please?”

I paused for a moment and then said, “Someone who’s going to be famous.” I smiled.

Something's Missing

2007-03-12T15:50:47Z

Leaving my head on the pillow, I rolled my eyes around the room, relieved that I had at least not gone home with the handsome stranger. That was one awkward conversation I’d be only too happy to avoid.

Still, something felt wrong.

I attempted to recall the details of the previous night, but the harder I tried, the more tenuous my memory became. I sighed in frustration, feeling tired, though I was still in bed. There was a horrible taste in my mouth. God, what I wouldn’t give for a breath mint.

On my nightstand was a half-empty bottle of water with a business card propped against it. How very odd.

I can admit to being a neat freak, maybe even a little compulsive: I crave order and symmetry. This business card, which I’d never seen before, was disrupting that symmetry. It represented a loss of control, for I knew I didn’t put it on my nightstand.

Reluctant to touch the thing, I squinted and read on the front:

Raymond Frost
Collector

Collector of what? I wondered …

The Bad, Bad Comment

2007-03-10T04:14:39Z

Darlene stared at her husband, not quite believing he’d said what he just said.

“What?” he asked, puzzled.

Darlene continued to stare, feeling a shock that was quickly turning into disgust. “You wouldn’t, Don.” It was almost a question. “That’s …” she searched for words. ”... just wrong.”

“Why is it wrong? I was being honest. You asked me, and I told you what I’d do if I had a—”

“Stop!” Her hands fluttered in front of her face, as if they were unsure whether to cover her ears or slap her husband.

Don was becoming exasperated, “Oh, my God, you unbelievable hypocrite.” Darlene looked stricken, but he continued, “After you told me about that little encounter with those people in Richmond. You told me everything, and I appreciated your frankness, even though it hurt hearing it. And now I speak frankly to you, and this is how you react.” He glared at her, breathing heavily through his nose.

She cast her gaze to the floor and muttered, “You’re right.”

Then she turned and left the room.

Poor Work Ethic

2007-03-10T01:02:40Z

He sat in his cubicle, eyes fixed blandly on the computer screen.

Jen, one of his co-workers, knocked on the wall and said, “Jason, I know you’re busy, but can you run metrics on project 4-5-1-20-8 please?”

There was no response. He didn’t even turn to look at her.

Another moment passed in silence. “Okay, great. Thanks,” Jen said, walking back towards her own cubicle. “Ass.”

Ten minutes passed. His monitor went dark for a moment, then the screensaver started up. His eyes never left the monitor, now awash in swirls and shapes.

His manager, Erin, walked into his pod. “Nice screensaver,” she said brusquely. She dropped a sheaf of papers onto his desk, inches from his hand, which rested on top of his mouse. “Can you rework this presentation? Make it fancier for the client. By COB today, if you can.” She turned and left.

Throughout the day, others came and went, and Jason never spoke. He never moved. He never agreed or refused to anything at all.

Jason was dead.