Precarious Configuration

Bailey was never thrilled to come home from work and find me playing video games in my underwear, but this last time was the worst I'd seen. With a hint of despair in her voice, she asked me how my search for a new job was going, and I had to admit to her that I'd forgotten that was what I was supposed to be doing during the day. In my defense, it really hadn't felt like two years since I'd been laid off. Bailey helpfully reminded me of the full extent of my forced sabbatical later that night when she took us out to dinner for our anniversary.

"Surely it hasn't been that long," I said, my voice muffled from the last bite of the chocolate volcano cake.

"Don't you remember?" she said as she signed the bill. "It was on the morning of our third anniversary."

"And this is...?"

"Our fifth. And it's our last if you don't start looking again."

I knew she was just kidding about that last anniversary remark, but Bailey's point was loud and clear. My days as a stay-at-home dad were over (not much a shock, considering we didn't have any kids). I held the door for Bailey and made sure to not get sex wrong later that night.

My first stop the next morning was the mattress factory where I used to work. Maureen, now one of those managers that has an office overlooking the assembly floor, informed me that the factory still didn't need my services.

"That's weird," I said to her as I looked down at the horde of employees. "It looks like more people work here now than before I left."

Maureen changed the subject to the Cardinals' chances of getting into the playoffs and I decided to not think too much about the extra workers manning my old post at the memory foam station. As I left, Maureen promised to let me know if anything opened up.

"Thanks, that's awesome," I said. "I'll just wait to hear back from you before I look elsewhere."

"No, you should still look elsewhere," she said, a bit too intensely.

The trip to my old job left me a bit deflated; Maureen's advice to keep looking had stung a bit. I shook it off, knowing that she only had my best interest at heart. The months that we had worked at the factory together had forged a lifelong friendship. And she likely had Bailey's best interest at heart as well, their being sisters and all.

I drove around town for a while after that, doing my best to concentrate on the type of job I might want. My thoughts kept zeroing in on the idea of ice cream, though I wasn't sure if I wanted to break into the ice cream business or if I just wanted a double-scoop of mint chocolate chip. After some careful consideration, I pulled off to the side of the road to ask Waze to find me an ice cream shoppe. As the application loaded, I looked up and saw the thing that I had been searching for, right there on the corner of Cornish and Doublet.

It was a construction site, one of those bustling assemblies of man and machine hinged in service to some magnificent new structure. I sat there in my car and thought, I could do that. There were dozens of strapping roughneck types swinging hammers, digging ditches, and wheeling wheelbarrows around. They were wearing casual clothes and most of them appeared to be in good spirits, if not exactly cheerful.

The longer that I watched, the more I recognized a crude semblance of a hierarchy. The foundation diggers seemed to be competing with the wheelbarrow operators for lowest rung on the ladder. Above them, hammer and saw tradesmen crafted elegant pieces to the whole. Though their thumbs were under constant threat of an accidental smashing or severing, these tool wielders were obviously more skilled than the others, and likely better paid.

But then I noticed someone off to the side of the manual labor flow and saw my future. He was a gentleman that was just kind of watching over all of the other workers. He'd offer passive requests to the laborers here and there, but nothing too urgent. He certainly did not physically exert himself in the least. This was something I could definitely do.

Waze instructed me to turn left in 1000 feet to begin a quest to a nearby ice cream shoppe. Instead, I discontinued the app and began to devise a plan.

I really wanted that supervisor job, but I knew better than to go up and ask the supervisor for it. He'd surely be as protective of the position as I'd be once it was mine. I began scanning the signs that were posted around the site for a phone number or company name, anything that might aid me in finding the supervisor's boss.

I had my answer after about another hour of watching. A heavyset man wearing a bright green tie and carrying a clipboard approached the supervisor and said a few words to him. My new rival nodded to Green Tie, before relaying some instructions to one of the hammer guys. Green Tie was obviously the boss; I recognized the chutzpah. He checked off a few items on his clipboard and then went into a trailer sitting on the far side of the site. The side of the trailer had "El Dorado Building Company" in large, bold type with a phone number plainly visible underneath. I somehow hadn't noticed it earlier.

I got out of my car and walked through the construction site, past the men that I would soon be supervising. I did my best to walk and behave as though I belonged there, though I overheard several of them commenting to each other that they had seen me "creepily staring at them" from my car. Also, I was likely betrayed somewhat by my cargo shorts and Backstreet Boys t-shirt, which I sometimes wore because I liked their music.

I let myself into the El Dorado trailer, which was kind of a makeshift office, and introduced myself to Green Tie, whose actual name I eventually wrestled from him.

"Fine, it's Barry," he said, a bit irate. "Now will you tell me what you want?"

Offering a fist bump, I told Barry my name and that I was interested in the supervisor position. I estimated that I was more than qualified to watch over the guys that were digging and wheel-barrowing things.

"Maybe not the hammer and saw people," I explained. "Not just yet. But with time I could learn."

Barry was clearly a man that didn't like to rush into important decisions. He looked me over for a moment and then rubbed his chin.

"You're a real go-getter, huh?" he asked me.

"I sure am," I said, deciding Barry needn't know about my habit of playing video games in my underwear.

"That's good," he said. "It's quite a commodity on these jobs. Why don't you come back here tomorrow morning, say 7 o'clock? I think we can find you something to do."

I reminded Barry that I was really only interested in the supervisor position and that I'd be perfect for any of El Dorado's other sites if this one was already plenty supervised. He assured me that the workers at all of their sites appreciated a foreman that spent a little time getting his own hands dirty before throwing dirt onto theirs. There wasn't a mattress factory equivalent to this idiom, so I nodded and told him that I'd be happy to try out a few of the other jobs for a short while.

"That's good to hear. Of course, you'll need work boots," he said, pointing to my sandals. "For insurance reasons, you see."

"Could I borrow a pair from one of the other guys?" I asked, hoping I wasn't also inadvertently asking for some strain of foot fungus.

"Sorry," Barry said. "It's our one rule. You gotta wear boots and you gotta bring your own."

Before I could remark that this sounded like two rules or some sort of compound rule, Barry suprised me by finally returning my fist bump. He then politely asked me to get the hell out of his office trailer. Walking back to my car, I proudly strode past the other construction workers. I didn't need to act like I belonged anymore, because now I did. I got into my car and drove to the nearest mall, where I ate ice cream and spent several hours shopping for a sturdy pair of boots.

Bailey came home from work that night and saw my new work boots sitting by the front door. I had accidentally left the sales receipt on the table where we put our keys and cellphones, and she gasped when she saw the total cost. During my years of between-employment, Bailey and I had agreed to some basic rules about major purchases, most of which I had broken when I bought my new work boots.

"You spent two hundred and thirty six dollars on boots?" she asked. I quickly paused my game and began to put my pants back on.

"Well, I have this new job," I told her. "I'm going to be a foreman. A foreman is kind of like a supervisor for-"

"Yeah, I know what a foreman is," she said, cutting me off. "Why did you need to spend two hundred and thirty six dollars? I could have gotten you work boots for sixty bucks. Maybe less."

I knew which ones she was talking about. Those so-called work boots didn't have steel loops or circumflex technology in the soles, though I doubted Bailey cared about such features. I explained to her that among people that did manual labor all day, boots were a status symbol. They were a way of setting myself apart from the non-foremen, as I wouldn't be the wearing the ties or carrying the clipboards that management did to set themselves apart. I also told her that impressive boots would serve as a good talking point during lulls in conversation, which was almost as important as the other reasons I had given her.

"Well, at least you found a job," she said. "I'm proud of you."

"You're not upset that I didn't think to look for a construction job sooner?" I asked her. Bailey smiled and changed the conversation to a TV show that we had been binge-watching, and I forgot to circle back for a follow-up on the job question. It was a line of questions better left untouched anyway, as I had forgotten to ask Barry what the job paid before I accepted it.

The next day, I promptly arrived back at the corner of Cornish and Doublet at 8 a.m. sharp, forgetting that Barry had asked me to be there at 7. The workers' glances at my footwear informed me that I had made a smart purchase. I let myself into the El Dorado trailer and was several lines into my tardiness apology when I realized that Barry had been replaced.

"I'm not a replacement," Barry's replacement said, after I had referred to him as such a fourth time. "Managers are called to different sites for a number of reasons. However, Barry told me all about you and what you hope to offer the EDBC. My name is Danny."

Off my look, Danny explained that EDBC meant the El Dorado Building Company. I had encountered my first bit of industry jargon in the world of construction. He then escorted me out the trailer office to meet my new supervisor.

"Well, he's technically my supervisor now, but I'll be taking over soon enough," I told Danny as we walked past some of the other EDBC guys.

"Yep, that's what Barry told me you'd say," Danny replied.

The foreman was introduced to me as Monty, but I couldn't think of him as anything except my professional rival, one that I hoped to replace in a way that Danny had apparently not replaced Barry.

"Take good care of him, Monty," Danny said as he left us and went back to the EDBC trailer.

Monty smiled at me for a long time. He appeared to be even friendlier than Barry or Danny. I was secretly thankful to end up in such a courtesy line of work, even though I hoped to ruin Monty professionally by the end of my first week. I decided that I would try to do it in such a way as to not prevent Monty from ever working in construction again, which was somewhat my original plan.

"Well, let's see," Monty said, sizing me up a bit. I stood tall and jutted out my chest. "Hmm, I can't decide if you'd be better at digging or choosing the songs that the other guys listen to while they work. Which would you prefer?"

I hadn't realized that song chooser was an available position. I had assumed that the music that played at the site was coming from a radio set to a rock station. Music selector seemed like even a sweeter job than being foreman. I'll call myself the Atmosphere Coordinator, I thought. Excited by the prospect, I told Monty that I had excellent taste in music and would very much enjoy giving the song chooser job a try.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Monty said, and then he smiled a bit. "I guess what I'm describing is a disc jockey, and we don't have disc jockeys around here."

"I'm sorry?" I leaned in a bit, which was a mistake.

"I said, we don't have deejays here, you idiot!" Monty picked up a nearby shovel and flung it at my feet. "Pick that up!" He was yelling at me. "Pick that up, moron!"

I quickly snatched up the shovel and held it like an umbrella, my shoulders raised to my ears. A few of the other workers were now gathered around us and smiling at these proceedings. I felt a little foolish when Monty revealed the punchline of his joke - and the yelling was unnerving to say the least - but I knew that hazing the new guy on the job was a time-tested tradition. Back at the mattress factory, Maureen would routinely spit at new employees and smear dog poo on the back of their heads. In hindsight, that seemed a little harsh too.

"Hey, anybody want a new pair of boots?" Monty said. Like the song chooser job, this also seemed too generous an offer to be true. However, once I noticed where everybody else was looking, I realized Monty was talking about my new pair of work boots. I tried to protest as two men dropped their tools, pulled me to the ground, and held me down as Monty tried to pull off my recently-purchased footwear. The boots held fast to my feet though, so Monty had to spend a full two minutes undoing the knots and unlacing the top five loop sets.

He tossed the boots into the crowd and flung another shovel at my feet. There didn't seem to be any shortage of shovels at the construction site.

"Now march your ass to the dig zone and start digging, maggot!" he screamed. A few other guys repeated some of the names that Monty had called me, adding "scum sack" and "no boots" to the list. My socks became filthy as I trudged toward the group of men that were digging the foundation. They looked at me with contempt and I realized that the lowest place in the hierarchy of construction work was the new guy with no shoes on his feet. Soon after, I also realized how difficult it was to push a shovel into the earth while wearing just socks.

Later that night, I told Bailey everything that had happened to me. We were sitting on the couch and finishing a spaghetti dinner. She told me that I should quit, but also to really try and get the work boots back. I told her that it had taken me two years to get the construction job and I wasn't about to quit it on my second day.

"It didn't take you two years," she said. "It took you less than a day. It's not like you were looking before then. You don't even know what else is out there."

"It doesn't matter what else is out there," I said. "I'm not good at anything."

Bailey sat back and thought for a moment. "Well, you're a pretty good husband. Usually. And I don't know if you're any good at video games, but you seem to like playing them." I nodded and she continued. "And you look halfway decent in your underwear. There. Maybe look for something in that field." She laughed and flung a throw pillow at my head, causing a meatball to roll from my plate onto the floor. This caused her to laugh even more and then, for a third time that night, Bailey made me tell her about how I had tried to call the cops on Monty during my lunch break earlier that day.

Then we watched TV, and then it was bedtime.

Roller Coaster

Clyde awoke at dawn and went to the refrigerator. He felt compelled to check on a turkey sandwich that he had made the previous night. Due to the elongated surface area of the bread he had bought the week before, the sandwich was very large, too big to fit into one Ziploc bag. Clyde had been forced to seal the two halves separately.

Sitting side-by-side on the top shelf, Clyde saw that both halves were still sealed in their separate zipper storage baggies, but only one half of the sandwich had been preserved. The other half, the part laying on the right-hand side of the shelf, had visibly spoiled overnight. He began to think of what possible variables could have caused the strange inconsistency when he heard Gresham and Nell take their posts at the roller coaster next door.

"Hey, Nell!" Gresham called out to the tall, surly girl across the platform. "What'd you get into last night? I heard you let Shawn Decker get to home plate." Gresham wheezed out a harsh laugh as he crossed his thin, pale arms. He was wearing another punk-looking, sleeveless shirt. Clyde had never heard of anybody named Gresham before, but knew his name from overhearing many conversations between the two college dropouts during their daily shifts at the roller coaster.

Nell lowered her sunglasses and extended a middle finger in Gresham's direction. Still holding it up, she walked over to a large, lectern-sized control panel and pressed the offending finger onto a red button. Grinding clicks and mechanical groans sounded as the roller coaster roared to life. Nell flipped her hair from one side of her head to the other. Clyde had observed that, on weekends, she liked to dye it dark red and spike it up, Mohawk-style. However, it hung in a pinkish blonde, limp cascade on this Tuesday morning, the red not entirely washed out from the previous weekend.

Clyde stared at the vulgar young people through his kitchen window and thought back to the days when the lot next to his house was nothing more than a pile of wreckage. He missed the chirping of birds and the gentle spraying sounds of lawn sprinklers the most. All of his neighbors had moved away once they heard that a single-standing roller coaster would take the place of the demolished Blockbuster Video, but Clyde had opted to stick around and see just how bad it would be before deciding if he would leave or not.

Three short months later, he had to admit that it was pretty bad. The kinetic vibrations from the coaster's first large drop tended to rattle Clyde's wine glasses and often knocked picture frames off of the walls. Also, the loop-the-loop was right next to his bedroom, so the screams of elated passengers would keep him up until the roller coaster closed for the night, usually around midnight.

Taking a deep breath, Clyde lifted the window and called out to the lone-ride carnival employees.

"Morning, gang!" he called to them in his most chipper voice. The ornery teens glared up at him. Clyde cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah. Hi. I'm not sure if you got my letter last week, but would it be possible for you to ask your guests to not litter or, you know, urinate upon my lawn?"

"I'm sorry?" Nell asked him, cupping her ear. She was standing further away from his house than Gresham, but Clyde suspected that she had heard him just fine.

"It's just...the noise is bad enough, but the litter and, you know, urine smell is just getting intolerable."

Nell locked eyes with Clyde and began to walk toward his kitchen window. One of the long roller coaster trains rushed along the rails, grinding to a halt in the platform's passenger loading station. Without stopping or even looking down, Nell skipped up onto one of the cars and glided across it, glided as if it had been there for her all along. She pushed by Gresham, passing by him without taking her eyes off of Clyde. She then stopped and rested her forearms on the platform's railing, which stood less than three feet away from Clyde's window.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you," she said to Clyde. Her voice was low and sexy. Clyde knew it wasn't genuine, but it gave him a chill all the same. She batted her eyes. "Is there some sort of problem, Clyde Brinkman?"

"Well, it's just..." Clyde looked to Gresham, who now was wearing a merciless smirk across his pimply face. The punk had thrown his arms around a metal rod that was resting on his shoulders and Clyde could see reddish underarm hair sprouting from the sleeveless section of his shirt. Nell reached over the railing and grabbed Clyde by the chin, forcing his lips into a sloppy pucker. He sputtered a bit and finally said, "No, it's just...I was just saying 'good morning'."

Nell leaned in close to Clyde, close enough so that he could smell her passion fruit lip gloss. "Well, good morning, neighbor." She quickly released his chin and smacked his forehead hard, pushing him back into his kitchen a bit. Gresham howled with laughter as Nell sauntered back to her post at the control panel.

From over a block away, Clyde could hear the first wave of thrill seekers arriving. Just like any other day, their yells and cries would attempt to dominate the the noise of the roller coaster, eventually settling for second place. A deafeningly close second place.

"Time for a test run," Nell announced. Gresham hopped into the first car of the train as Nell started the ride. As the roller coaster rose up into meet its first summit, Gresham pumped both of his middle fingers into the air and sneered at the world. Clyde could only stand and watch.

Flashing a smile at their reluctant voyeur, Nell called out, "Let us know if you ever want a ride, Clyde!" She then laughed at the rhyme as though it was the funniest thing she'd ever said or heard.

Clyde closed the window, along with the blinds. He backed up into the darkness of his kitchen, listening to the swooshing noise of the roller coaster outside. His fists clenched, he walked back to the refrigerator and peered into it again. Clyde saw that one half of the sandwich was still good and the other was still bad. However, the spoiled one, its elongated bread covered in a thin layer of blue-green mold, was now on the left-hand side.

"How about that," he said to himself, loud enough so that he could hear his voice over the noise of the roller coaster next door.

Why I Write

I hit "publish" on The Great All-nighter's drafting dashboard and another story is finished, sent off into the world. And not a moment too soon.

Seconds later, Spider kicks in my front door and stomps across my living room. As always with Spider, the threat of violence is unmistakable. I notice he's gotten another arachnid tattoo, a small spiderweb on his left cheek, since I've seen him last. He's tall, so I have to squint to see it. I'm always surprised at how much bigger he is than anyone I've ever met, easily larger than most professional football players.

"Where's the story, Fox?" he demands. He brushes the stubby spikes on one fingerless glove with the thumb from his other hand. "You'd better have a story for me."

"Right over here, Mr. Spider." The man only accepts physical copies, so I gesture to the fresh pages I printed out for him just before posting the story. The giant man hulks over the thin stack.

"What is this, about twelve hundred words?"

"Yeah, right around twelve hundred. Good eye."

Spider snarls at me and snatches the paper from my desk. "I prefer the shorter ones," he says as he fishes reading glasses from out of his black leather vest. The garment is opened to reveal several more spider-related tattoos on his bare torso. He reads the title aloud.

"Your Server Will Be Right With You. This isn't one of those personal stories, is it?"

"Well, kind of," I tell him. "It's-"

"Never mind. I'll read it myself." He folds the papers and stuffs them into the back pocket of his dirty blue jeans. He quietly scans the room as he replaces the reading glasses in his vest. Then, he looks at me with the beady, pale green eyes from my nightmares.

"There had better not be any spelling or grammatical errors," he hisses at me. This is a major concern of his, and I have no idea why. He takes a step closer and cranes over me. I hold my ground, but a shiver rushes through my bones.

"I double-checked. Shouldn't be a problem, sir."

"I hope that you're right," he says. He's so close that I can smell his breath, which reeks of tree bark and window detergent. Tears fill my eyes. However, before I begin weeping, Spider storms out of my apartment, gone just as suddenly as he had barged in less than a minute earlier. I hear the growl of his Harley-Davidson and the subsequent screech of its wheels as Spider speeds off into the night.

I exhale and take a deep breath in my empty apartment, relaxing again as I open up Facebook on my computer. I cut & paste the story's URL on my page and write a short introduction for my readers. But it's all for Spider, expressly posted so I can see whether he "likes" it or not. This is what tells me how much time I have until the next one is due.

It could be any moment from now.

Pendleton & Colt

Pendleton Baker had a great imagination, but even it was easily exceeded during his first day working at NASA. He had spent most of his life daydreaming about the awe-inspiring ideas that were made into realities there and he just knew that the brilliant people in charge wouldn't disappoint him in the least. In fact, Pendleton was certain that his acceptance into mission control's department of orbital operations was a summation of his entire thirty-two-year existence, one spent in absolute devotion to science.

However, that notion changed soon into his second day at NASA, when Pendleton was introduced to Colt Bronson, his company-assigned bully.

Colt had called in sick on Pendleton's first day, which was supposed to be Colt's first day too. He had decided to go cliff diving and hit a few bars with some buddies instead, ending up with a terrible hangover when he reported to Buzz Aldrin for work on Tuesday morning.

"Glad you could finally join us," the legendary astronaut said to Colt. The bully sheepishly stood in Buzz's office doorway.

"Sorry, coach. I guess I caught something over the weekend."

Buzz leaned in across the paperwork on his desk. "Well, I hope your illness didn't get in the way of all that cliff diving fun."

Surprised by the accusation, Colt couldn't contain the guilty expression that washed over his face. "Gosh, how'd you know?" he said.

"I have my ways," Buzz replied. He figured that if Colt was stupid enough to post the pictures on his public Instagram account and not realize that his boss could see them, then why should he give up his source? Buzz leaned back and smiled. "But don't worry, Colt. I ain't gonna ding you for that crap. I was young once too."

At this, Colt couldn't help but smirk. Buzz continued, "Alright, that's enough gabblegocking. Let's go find that pipsqueak Pendleton you're s'posed to terrorize."

Pendleton's attention was focused on the ceiling when Colt and Buzz approached his cubicle. He was attempting to hang a fern over his desk, standing on his office chair and trying his best to keep it from swiveling as he adjusted the screw that was to hold the chain of the fern's basket.

"Okay, Pendleton," the second man to ever walk on the moon said. "I'd like to introduce you to Colt Bronson. He's going to keep you in line and make sure that you fly straight 'round here, so to speak."

"Oh, but I've already met my supervisor, Mr. Aldrin. Do you know Mr. Stevenson? His office is right over there." Pendleton, his hands still full of the fern machinations, quickly nodded his head twice in the direction of Stevenson's office.

Buzz and Colt exchanged a knowing glance. Looking back to Pendleton, Buzz spoke slowly, as though he were talking to a child. "Yes, Pendleton. Mr. Stevenson is your supervisor. That is correct. But you see, Colt is not a supervisor. He is your bully."

"My what?" Pendleton assumed he had misunderstood the astronaut that he admired so dearly. He hadn't noticed any bullies the day before, as many of them, like Colt, chose Mondays to call in sick.

Colt placed a hand on Buzz's shoulder. "I got this one, coach." He walked over to Pendleton, who was still balancing his weight on top of the office chair. "Hey, Pendy. The name's Colt, but you can call me 'sir'. Now, how shall I put this?" He tapped his chin in mock contemplation before finally snapping his fingers. "Oh, right. I'm going to make your life a living hell."

At that, Colt grabbed the back of the chair Pendleton was standing on and yanked it, causing it to swivel wildly and fling Pendleton and the plant into the air. Pendleton's trajectory knocked several items off of his desk before he crashed to the floor. The fern landed hard atop his head, causing the wild green leaves to cover most of his face.

"Nice," the man known as THE Buzz Aldrin said. He looked at his Apple smartwatch. "Okay, I'm late for a propulsion lecture. Catch you later, man." He high-fived Colt and made his way out of the cubicle farm, where several other NASA employees were either trying to behave as though they hadn't just witnessed the dangerous prank - or too busy appeasing their own bullies to notice.

Colt cracked his knuckles and stood over Pendleton, who was still trying to figure out what had just happened.

"Listen, rocket boy." Colt said. "Here's what I like: cold beer, tangy barbeque sauce, and the sound of a crowd chanting my name. Here's what I don't like: people forgetting my birthday, jellyfish stings, and science geeks like you."

Pendleton, fern fronds still obscuring most of his vision, nodded. This wasn't his first Colt Bronson.

"And what do you call that thing on your head?" Colt said, pointing to the plant.

Pendleton tilted his head a bit so that he could meet Colt's eyes. "A fern," he said.

"A fern," Colt said, already working on an exaggerated impression of Pendleton's voice. "I don't like ferns either." He barked out a quick, hoarse laugh and looked around. Returning to his own voice, he said, "Okay, Pendy. I'm gonna knock off a bit early today, let you continue to get settled. Tell you what - we're both professionals here - I'm going to give you the courtesy of not forcing any dough outta you on a daily basis. But I'm gonna need a loan upfront. Whatever you got in your wallet right now should cover it."

Before Colt had even reached "wallet" in his sentence, Pendleton began reaching into his back pocket. He pulled out his billfold and handed over the thirty-eight dollars he had brought to work. The basket with the fern fell off during the maneuver, leaving a small pile of dirt on top of his head.

"Cool. This should cover a pretty good lunch and maybe some of that cold beer we were discussing." Colt dropped two dollars into Pendleton's lap. "Here. Treat yourself to some chips and a soda if you want. Don't say I never did anything for you."

Colt then crouched so that his eyes met his coworker's directly. Pendleton could see the rage that seemed to constantly bubble just below the surface of Colt's face. He found it unsettling.

"So, that's it for now," Colt said, lowering his voice into a dry monotone. "Nice to meet you, Pendleton. I look forward to working with you."

He smiled without joy and made his way to the exit, snaking through the tiny maze of cubicles that made up the orbital operations department. Along the way, he nodded hellos to the other NASA bullies and twice threw up a clenched fist to make other "nerd" employees flinch.

Pendleton knocked the dirt off of his head and climbed to his feet. He was taken off guard at first, but he quickly regained his composure as he tossed the fern and basket into the garbage bin by his desk. He sat down and pulled out his drafting notebook. At the top of the first page he wrote "COLT BRONSON".

He had decided to blow off setting up his work area for the week. Instead, Pendleton wanted to figure out how to get something into Colt, maybe a small electrode or mixture of chemicals, that would make a sip of cold beer feel like he was getting stung by a jellyfish. It wouldn't be easy, but he was fairly certain it could be done. Science was something that Pendleton loved, and science had never let Pendleton down before.