We’re Fucked, Pt. 124 (Fiction)

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial

The front door of the office thuds closed. Once Jordi’s footsteps fade into the background hum of fluorescent lights and the air conditioning’s whir, I crane my neck toward the frosted-glass wall of Ramsés’ office. His door is open. I hold my breath and perk my ears up to detect the clatter of keyboard keys, the creaking of his leather executive chair, or a muffled fart. Instead, I hear the pulsating of my blood vessels. The last time Ramsés left the office to take a shit or smoke a cig, he must have segued into his lunch break.

Even in the haze of my caffeinated anxiety, the fist of tension that had held me tight unclenches. I lean back in my chair and exhale deeply. I have reached my favorite moment of the office hours, other than when they end: I’m free from the presence of other human beings, that as if I were a quantum system, had transformed me from a superposition of states into something definite. Now I can let my mind drift off without worrying about making weird faces or muttering nonsense as I argue with my inner demons.

I reach for my lunch: two triangular halves of bread, ham, and cheese, their natural colors peeking through synthetic packaging. I pinch the edge of the cling film and peel it back. The seal breaks, releasing the trapped aroma, a salty-sweet combination of meat and dairy. After hours of holding a computer mouse, I welcome the cool, moist texture of the bread, but when I take a bite, the sandwich’s taste reminds me of its week-long confinement inside a refrigerated machine.

Oh, YouTube has recommended a “fails of the week” video. I munch on my sandwich while enjoying the parade of mundane disasters: a teenager barrels his bike into a garden fence; a man crossing a log over a stream slips and crushes his nuts; a texting college girl face-plants into fresh cement; a pair of overambitious souls try to wedge a gigantic fridge into a two-seater; a car mounted on a hydraulic lift at a mechanic’s shop falls on its side; a long-haired dude attempts a flip on his skateboard only to shatter his teeth against the curb; a worker, losing his footing, slides helplessly down a snow-covered roof and plunges onto the street three stories below; a girl posing coquettishly in front of a full-length mirror is interrupted by the mirror toppling onto her head; a pole vaulter nails his jump, but the tilting pole crushes his nuts.

These individuals, belonging to a species increasingly adept at its own annihilation, have not vanished into the cosmos: their misfortunes have been captured on digital footage for entertainment. They serve as reminders that we’re fragile creatures prone to error, but if we laugh at our mistakes, we can mitigate their sting, unless we end up castrated or dead.

The office lights cast a glare on my boss’ receding hairline as he looms over me like a giant boulder about to flatten a worm.

I shriek.

My thoughts have scattered like panicked cats. When I gather them together, my heart is hammering against my ribs.

“You’re one easily startled woman,” Ramsés says.

He rests a hand on my shoulder, his greasy fingers pressing into the cotton of my jumper: an unabashed assault. My neck stiffens, and a wave of heat rushes to my face. I dread to glance down in case the bulge of his crotch has swollen.

I’m a flower trembling before a vast, chaotic universe that threatens to consume me, and Ramsés, a pillar of pungent humanity, is the harbinger of doom. I should shatter the veneer of a civilized society by punching him in the throat. Once my boss falls to his knees, coughing and spluttering, I’ll stomp on his hand over and over, mashing it into the carpet.

His filthy hand slips away from my shoulder, likely smearing a stain on my jumper.

“Is there anything I can help you with, sir?”

My tone must have betrayed my annoyance, maybe even my homicidal impulse, because Ramsés lengthens a pause. The overhead lights are emphasizing the raised mole above his left eyebrow.

“It’s time we had that chat, Leire.”

“What chat?”

“As I told you, I was waiting for the opportunity to offer you a proposal. I’m free, you’re free, and I don’t want to take up your time after work. Let’s do it now.”

A sickly yellow fog seeps through the soggy marshland of my psyche. Ramsés, always the bearer of ill tidings, doesn’t deserve a coherent reply. At best I should muster a dismissive wave of my hand, signaling the end of his unwelcome interruption. I could also let loose a string of profanities and spit in his face. Instead, betraying myself, I clear my throat and wipe the sandwich residue off my lips.

“Is this one of those things where you’ll keep insisting until I listen to your proposal?”

Ramsés’ brow furrows into a map of foreboding.

“Let’s not be oversensitive, Leire. I only discuss matters of significance, you know that.”

These days, a part of me reluctantly acknowledges the wisdom in lending an ear, on the off chance of averting an apocalypse. The rest of me, though, wants to jam a pen through Ramsés’ eye and twist until the point penetrates his brain.

“Alright then. Please proceed.”

My boss turns, exposing his kidneys to a crippling blow. Wait, why is he heading to the front door? Did he intend to show off his ass?

“Weren’t you going to tell me something?” I ask nervously.

Ramsés halts, and looks over his shoulder.

“I had in mind a more secluded spot for our discussion, concerning the proposal I mentioned.”

“Where? Do we have a conference room?”

Ramsés sighs. He beckons me with his thick fingers.

“We’re wasting time. Come along, and you’ll find out soon enough.”

After gulping down the last of my sandwich, I push myself up from the chair. He’s already holding the door open for me. Is it legal for a boss to compel his employee into having a private meeting? Instead of indulging his whims, I yearn to finish my work, go home, and make sweet love to mommy. Right now, my two family members must be strolling along Ondarreta beach, while Nairu marvels at the crashing waves and the seagulls coasting on the air. Maybe they have moved on to the Comb of the Wind, which Jacqueline was eager to present to our Paleolithic artist. I picture Nairu seated on the steps as she sketches the rusted iron sculptures integrated in rocky outcrops, or the water jets that shoot up from the platform, spraying sea mist. The pavement is a mosaic of cobblestone and foam like from a receding tide. If I could join them, my heart would be set at ease.

Should I refuse to meet with my boss unless Jordi accompanies me? He gave me his number, so he may come to my rescue if Ramsés’ behavior turns creepy. Jordi, despite having been born a man, is a clean-cut kid who listened to Jacqueline’s sexual escapades during lunch break without getting aroused, while our boss, this shithead who worsened a life that already sucked, tends to flicker his gaze toward my breasts. I have felt him seconds away from groping my butt, and I suffered nightmares of him cornering me in his office and shoving his fingers up my cunt. Nobody would have found out, because I would have kept such indignities a secret.

So what now? Will I follow Ramsés into the overcast midday until he finds a quiet corner in the park or a café? I would prefer somewhere I can order coffee. I’d warm my palms around the cup as I sat in front of my boss, and if he uttered something nasty, I’d splash the scalding brew in his face, blinding him. He would stumble into traffic and get mowed down by a truck. With his body twisted and broken on the tarmac, his last words would be, “Sorry, Leire. I’ll never bother you again.” But what if Ramsés takes me to a deserted parking lot, a wooded grove, or a derelict warehouse? Maybe I’ll end up on a torture table, lying spread-eagled with shackles binding my wrists and ankles. I picture the brassy gleam of a scalpel slicing through the flesh of my belly, his hands reaching into the crimson mess to fondle my guts.

In the darkness of my mind, the one provider of freedom rotates like a pick-up item in a video game: Spike’s revolver. Its cylinder, deeply fluted, casts shadows along the six chambers. Above its grip of checkered wood, the polished frame is engraved with a skull and crossbones. I wish I were clutching my weapon already, feeling its wood and cold steel against the sweaty heat of my palm. As the one in power, I wouldn’t hesitate to follow my boss to any secluded corner; if he annoyed me enough, I’d hold him at gunpoint until he praised or at least complimented me, knowing that with one twitch of my forefinger, a bullet would blast out at the speed of a tiny cannonball, and its kinetic energy would carve a tunnel through the delicate union of cranium and consciousness. Blood would ooze from the hole in thick, viscous streaks. A rattle would escape Ramsés’ throat, and he would crumple to the floor. Then I’d fire into his corpse until the revolver clicked dry. If I could spare the time, I would dip my finger in his blood and write on the nearest wall, “Respect to the strong.”

“Go right ahead,” I say in a raspy voice. “I gotta grab something.”

While I scurry to the office, Ramsés complains to my back.

“Go right ahead? You don’t even know where we’re going.”

I fish the key chain out my trouser pocket. As I kneel in front of my desk cabinet and I fumble with the keys to unlock the top drawer, where I keep my revolver among office paraphernalia, I hear Ramsés’ footsteps approaching.

“You don’t need to grab anything to have a conversation,” he says somberly. “Let’s go.”

I glance over my shoulder. Ramsés is looming behind me with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched. Shit, how can I retrieve my revolver when he’s staring right at me? I never asked, but I’m guessing that my boss adheres to a no-weapons policy.

“Oh, I just need my notebook and pen. I’ll forget the important stuff if I don’t jot it down.”

Ramsés unfolds one of his arms to point at my workstation.

“Right there. Next to your keyboard.”

I find myself staring at my bumblebee-yellow notebook and the ballpoint pen that rests on top of it. I swallow, grab my notebook and pen, and haul myself to my feet.

Author’s note: today’s songs are “Seven Nation Army” by The White Stripes, and “Take Me Out” by Franz Ferdinand.

I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout the novel. A total of two hundred and seven videos. Check them out.

Are you into AI-generated audio? Of course you are. Check out the rendition of this chapter.