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Drought Buster |
by Ben Kizer
I hate white wash.
Brandon Hawkins stared at the wall, one of the four that surrounded him from the hours of 8AM to 5PM Monday through Friday. The fluorescent light beaming from above illuminated the weekly report he needed to finish by the end of the workday, though earlier would be much appreciated. He glanced at it briefly before turning his attention to Facebook, perusing the status updates of all three hundred and fifty friends, ten of whom he saw in person over the past year. Farmville high score updates and thoughts of the latest gossip intrigued him more than any weekly report did. The Friday afternoon routine stayed pretty much the same from week one, with slight variations here and there. It gave him consistency, which, after two years of having none, provided sanity to an otherwise insane existence.
Time for a nap...
Brandon hit the escape key when Kristin Gregory walked by on her cell phone. As usual, she appeared in a hurry, scooting towards her office at the end of the jungle of cubicles before closing the door behind her. Brandon knew Kristin didn't look at him. She never did. Yet, almost as if instinct, he pressed the escape command every time she passed by. The paranoia bothered him, but not as much as the hurt he felt when the ambitious blonde, always focused on the challenge ahead, ignored him day after day. He could leave the office for seven hours and 55 minutes, piss away doing God knows what, come back, fill out his time sheet and no one would notice. It baffled him why he put any effort into his job at all, but he remained proud of the consistent minimal performance he guaranteed the company with his services. They knew he wouldn't pull a fast one and overachieve.
Crap, it's 4:50.
As the office buzzed with weekend anticipation, Brandon resumed his Internet duties. He downloaded the TV listings for the evening, only to be disappointed that The Dark Knight was airing on one of the pay channels he didn't get. He debated between Chinese and pizza, deciding that Tombstone from the grocery store would be the best compromise for the stomach and the wallet. Amy, a co-worker who played IM tag with Brandon all day, invited him out to a party. However, she had a boyfriend and Brandon refused to be the third wheel. He thought of asking John, another co-worker who he sometimes talked football with, if he wanted to be his wingman for the party, but he wasn't sure how close they were. For some reason, around age twenty-three, calling another guy to hang out becomes strange. It made it difficult for Brandon to make friendships in his new home, even though twelve million other people resided there as well. Loneliness loves company.
Maybe I should hit up Vegas...
The drive home on Friday always felt short, especially in comparison with the rest of the week. Brake lights colored the tangerine sky as the sun disappeared behind the lingering smog, hiding the San Gabriel Mountains from the large audience. Brandon wanted seventy degrees and sunshine day after day, but now he wondered why. The sun pissed him off; a warm symbol of his idiocy seven months ago, when he ignored the skeptical warnings of his parents and pointed his Camry west out of Iowa to make it in the business. He found a job, but not a dream. He found warmth, but not comfort. He found a residence, but not a home. It all seemed so close, but not at all. Mom's cooking never made his stomach growl more, or maybe that was the thought of another frozen meal entering his body.
Another Fun Weekend...
The crunchy Tombstone pepperoni tasted like the Thursday edition, as well as the Tuesday and Sunday editions. Crumbs fell from Brandon's mouth onto the script he picked up on his way home. The role, a lab assistant of a deranged scientist, sounded like fifty dollars and maybe a gift certificate to The Palm. However, connections made the effort seem worth it. Strangely enough, that effort paid off in four hundred dollars, three commercials, two cameos and a guest spot on a soap opera. Compared to most L.A. transplants, he couldn't complain, but he still wanted to, for various reasons, most of which, or all of which, he kept to himself.
What is she up to?
The TV blared in the background as Brandon scanned a three-month old adult magazine. However, the flickering glow, as well as Candy and her silky lingerie, produced little solace. The thoughts inside his soul kept returning to her. As inappropriate and wrong as he felt, he only wanted some kind of sign. The noise of the couple above wasn't the sign. Something had to give. Seven months as the new kid in town got old.
* * *
Those clouds are dark...
The weekend came and went like weekends before. The surroundings changed little from the first day his car crossed the state line. Some of the palm trees turned browner than they were before, but everything else remained the same. The sunshine broke through the numerous clouds that ushered in the workweek, as the fresh smog from the jammed highways blocked any visibility of the mountains. A cyclist in front of Brandon forgot to get into the bike lane, causing Brandon to ride the brake pedal as the clueless rider continued trekking at his desired pace. The people behind Brandon blasted their horns with impatience and rage, but he drowned out the noise with game show theme songs dancing in his head. Numerous episodes of "Family Feud" and "$25,000 Pyramid" took their toll on him; Game Show Network satisfied where other parts in his life lacked. He could live vicariously through the thrills and victories of the various contestants. In many ways the behavior was similar to the way parents got into their kids sporting events, but Brandon didn't have to deal with the aftermath of a poor effort or an emotional outing. Instead of getting backlash from a child, he got an offer to purchase a ShamWow from Vince for the low price of $19.95 if he called within the next ten minutes. Emotions brought baggage; materials brought pleasure, if only for a few days. It was a brief break from an otherwise monotonous existence.
Stupid water cooler...
Being the low man on the totem pole made Brandon the unofficial official water cooler changer. Every Monday, right when he walked through the twin hazel doors, he knew Katie, the office gossip and queen of mood changes, would pester him to remove the old tank and replace it with the new one. She didn't wait until Brandon set down his briefcase or even turn on his computer; she stood right in front him, her breath fresh from a cinnamon Tic Tac, and asked, in a somewhat pushy tone, when the water cooler was going to be changed. Brandon knew waiting more than five minutes would cause her to ask again, with more of a whiny sound in her voice. Never mind that multiple guys in the office could get the job done, she always sought Brandon. Though he wished she were more patient or that she might ask him how his weekend was for a change, in a strange way he felt important by her needing him to change the water. It gave him reassurance that they needed him, a purpose to his move cross-country, a connection he desperately wanted, as insignificant and small as it seemed.
This is going to be fun...
He removed the wrapping around the new cooler and using all his strength popped off the covering. The might of the pull caused some of the water to splash out, hitting Brandon's white shirt in different spots. The next task required an elaborate plan: getting the tank from the floor onto the dispenser without spilling anywhere or causing a big scene. At this point Brandon wished the lounge had locks on both doors so no one could walk in and witness a spectacle, but they didn't, so instead he maneuvered around the room to check and see if the coast is clear and then to quickly put the cooler on the dispenser. This plan had many flaws that Brandon forgot about every time. One, he had to check both doors, causing much time to pass without moving the cooler one inch. By the time he would get to the cooler, people might have gotten up, deeming the whole point moot. He wondered why he got so paranoid and made a small task so much more difficult, but he didn't want to question his neurotic behavior too much. The water cooler was still on the floor and he wasn't going to leave until it sat where it belonged.
Damn it! Every time!
Water splattered everywhere. The wall turned a harsher shade of gray as the liquid soaked into the paint. A puddle formed around the dispenser like a moat separating a castle from a kingdom. Brandon grabbed a roll of paper towels, unraveling and placing it on top of the mess. However, the water absorbed right through the whole roll, rendering it useless. Cursing under his breath, Brandon dug through the multiple cupboards in the lounge to find a mop or something to clean up the mess. Feeling the heat from his flushing face, he chucked numerous objects over his shoulder as he dug deeper, desperate to fix everything before anyone walked through the doors.
Shit!
Her face said it all. The half smile, a forced effort in attempt to create a comfortable situation, had the same effect as the paper towels. Her teal eyes, accentuated by her dark eye shadow and an ideal amount of mascara, gazed at the exposition, taking it in with all four senses. She glossed her ruby lips with her tongue in contemplation. Her gold hoop earrings dangled as she paced around the room. She placed a manicured hand on the wall, sliding it along the stained spots. A small chuckle escaped her, while her fingers flowed through her blonde hair. She sidestepped around the puddles, grabbing a cup from the dispenser. Brandon gulped and began to sweat. She poured herself a drink from the dispenser, the cooler making a gurgling noise in the process, diminishing the sound of Brandon's twisting stomach. As she placed her lips on the rim of the cup, Brandon closed his eyes, grinding his teeth as he endured the pain.
"Ah! What a damn good cup of water. Cold and fresh, just like I like it."
She hates me...
Brandon slowly opened his eyes to see Kristin beaming. The pressure of the whole ordeal overwhelmed him. He decided to take his lunch break four hours early and stormed off straight to his car, his head down his entire way out.
* * *
Looks threatening up there...
Brandon pulled his car into an open stall at the park close by his office. He turned off the ignition while tuning into the sports talk show he enjoyed. Hungry, he dug around his car to find something to munch on. After a minute, he pulled out a bag of Skittles that somehow ended up underneath his seat. He ripped the pack open and dumped the contents into his mouth, a profuse amount of pieces landing inside all at once. The high sugar intake caused his gums to break open, causing further damage to his dental records and blood sugar levels. He washed down the candy with the left over coffee from his morning commute. The lingering beans at the bottom of the cup were all that was left, but it certainly tasted better than the water in the break room. He knew his desk would be emptied during his break and his belongings resting with Art, the senile security guard, on the lobby level. He embarrassed himself. In front of her. Of all people. Brandon searched everywhere for a travel size Jack Daniels. When he couldn't find one, he switched to skimming the script for another tryout later that afternoon. The part was for Dillion's Pizzeria. All Brandon had to do was toss the pizza in the air, give the pitch, and let the pizza fall on top of his head. A simple task for most actors, but a huge fear for Brandon. If he couldn't change water coolers properly, the odds of him failing to catch a pizza were slim to none. Not a good start to his new full-time profession.
* * *
Water from the sky?
As Brandon's lunch break entered hour number three, a small pattering hummed along his car. It gradually covered the window with a layer of vague memories. Obviously someone from above was sending him a sign, either to start paying attention to the morning weatherman or never to go back to that office again. If the sunny sky could change, so could Brandon. He knew he came down to L.A. to act. No better time than now to cut out anything unnecessary and hone the focus.
Was that thunder?
The pattering along the car proceeded to get heavier and heavier. A potential rumble of thunder lurked across the landscape. Brandon flicked the radio off as he let the sound of Mother Nature cleansing herself enter his brain. For once, something new happened. He gleamed at the new canvas in front of him. He untied his shoes, unbuttoned his shirt, and stepped out into the new world barefoot, wearing only an undershirt and slacks. He jumped around, his toes pruning as they waded around the grass. His hair flopped in front of his face from the powerful downpour. He basked in the moment, remembering the reason why he did what he did.
"I do the same thing."
Uh oh...
After moving his hair out of his eyes, he saw her. Her blonde hair everywhere, her clothes drenched, and her bare toes sinking into the soggy ground. The workday wasn't over yet, and there she was. Doing the same thing. No serious glances. No questions. She never raised her voice.
Does she know?
Her smile was all the sunshine and warmth he needed.
Ben Kizer was born and raised in the Great Plains of Omaha, Nebraska. He wrote for the Omaha City Weekly to fill his bland winter days. Kizer escaped to Southern California and graduated from Chapman University's Creative Writing program with an MFA. He writes short stories, novels and screenplays when he isn't writing copy for a major marketing/pr firm.
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