The Original Cost

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"An' it's a genuine Rolex, too," Joe finished happily, holding his wrist up to eye level again. "Says so right on the dial." He shook it and smiled. "Just watch that baby go. Tick-tick-tick-tick. Like clockwork."

"Funny," Steve replied colorlessly. The others continued to work on their sandwiches.

Joe's grin got a little bigger. "Aw, don't worry, buddy. I ain't too good fer bowlin' night with the guys now that I'm runnin' around with the big boys."

Marv raised one eyebrow above his egg salad. "With the big boys, huh? Funny, I hadn't heard that bein' named Employee Of The Month carried such priv'leges with it."

"Well, they don't give you that $200 bonus check for not bein' an asset to the cump'ny," preened Joe. "Which is why I went for the watch -- show I'm up to th' job, y'know? Watch like this mebbe even says a man is management quality." He shook it by his ear, and smiled at the rattle. "Cost just 'bout my whole bonus, but it was worth it."

Roger spoke up for the first time. "You got a Rolex for two hundred bucks?"

Joe beamed. "Do I gotta eye for a bargain, or what? I figger that's why th' brass is takin' an interest in me, too. They can see just how good I am at makin' decisions."

"It's fake," Marv replied.

Heads nodded all around the table, and Joe turned a delicate shade of green.

"Faker'n a three-dollar bill," Steve added, "and never mind that the guy at 7-11 swore it was legal tender when he gave you your change that one time, Joe; you're an idiot, and that's all there is to it."

Joe held the watch up to his face again, as though expecting it to have changed since the last time he'd looked. "Look, this guy told me it was for-sure real..."

"Oh, for Chrissakes," groaned Marv. "'This guy'? You buy your watches from 'some guy'? What, did you meet him in an alley? Did he insist on unmarked bills? What?"

"He did say cash only," Joe mumbled.

"Jesus wept."

"Now, hold on, fellas," Joe exclaimed suddenly, glaring around at them. "I see what this is. You're just jealous, right? Because I'm movin' up, an' you're all stuck... stuck... stuck not bein' employee of the month." His jaw set. "So you hafta tear down alla my accomplishments insteada makin' your own. Yeah, I get it."

"No, it's a fake, all right," Roger replied calmly. "Real Rolexes tick so fast you can't see 'em do it. And they don't rattle." Then he smirked and pointed at Joe's wrist. "And they don't say 'Rolox'."

Joe's wrist snapped back up, and he peered at it again for the umpteenth time in the last half-hour. "It doesn't say that... it, uh... shit."

Roger slapped him on the back. "Yeah, you sure showed us, big spender," he grinned, adding a wink to twist the knife that little bit extra. None of them'd ever much liked Joe.

Don't Need a Key

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"Back in a sec" Ray grunted, setting down his drill and stepping around a pile of two-by-fours. "Gotta make a visit to the Executive Washroom." The others laughed, as they always did whenever someone used their standard term for the onsite john. Ray wasn't even sure who'd started it, anymore. Might've even been him.

He hummed along to no particular tune as the freight elevator carried him down to the ground floor. The building was really taking shape; he'd be sorry when this job was over. The work was good, the crew got along. Even the onsite boss was an okay guy. One of those "hands-on" guys, the type who started every conversation with a hand on your shoulder and ended it with a slap on your back, but at least he didn't ride your ass all the time. Ray'd had bosses like that.

Dirt puffed up from his footsteps as he made his way across the lot, toward the "executive washroom". A couple months back, someone had taken a marker to the side of it, changing the Os in the "COOPER" logo into the breasts of a naked, grinning woman. Ray had his suspicions as to the culprit's identity -- it was a pretty good drawing, and there was only one guy on the crew who'd been a commercial artist -- but so far there'd been no noise about it from up top. She'd acquired a nickname of "Goldie", for some reason.

"Heya, sweetheart," Ray greeted Goldie now, as he eased open the door to the john. "You may not have a lotta fashion sense, but boy do I like your style."

"I'm glad to hear it, Ray."

Ray froze, one hand still on the door, not quite processing what his eyes were telling him yet. When it clicked, he became aware that he was staring at the boss, seated on the portable john, and in a definite state of less than total dress.

"Uh," Ray began uncertainly, feeling the pink slip coming. "I, uh, sorry, boss -- I didn't realize -- the door wasn't locked--"

The boss smiled. "Oh, I know. I left it that way on purpose." He shifted on the seat, then crooked a finger at Ray. "Care to join me? There's room enough for two, if we get cozy."

Ray stared, blankly, feeling his brain try and fail to make sense of this situation. "Uh. No thanks? I." He pointed spastically back toward the building. "I gotta get back to work."

"Oh, all right," the boss answered with a mock-sigh, and Ray carefully shut the door and went back up to where he'd left his drill.

"Everything come out all right?" someone quipped.

Ray shuddered.

Lunch Alone

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Bill hung back as the other workers stowed their tools and headed towards the break area. They were joking and laughing amongst themselves; he might've joined in, but didn't see the point. If any of them noticed he was still around, they gave no sign. He busied himself with his gloves, making sure they were lined up neatly on the I-beam.

Eventually he couldn't hear their voices anymore. He ambled across the construction site to the parking lot, where the other workers had already gotten their various lunches and picked a tailgate to congregate around. Today it looked to be Fred's. PJ was regaling them all with what was undoubtedly a profoundly filthy story. Bill had a pretty good one from the time his cousin had gone to a prostitute while on business in Australia, but when he had started to tell it his second week on the site, he'd only been met with stony stares. Today, as every day for the last three months, he ate his lunch sitting alone on his own tailgate. His wife's tuna salad was probably as delicious as ever, but it generally tasted like ashes when she packed it for his lunch.

Loud laughter erupted from the knot of workers around Fred's truck, and Bill glanced over there briefly. They all seemed to be okay guys, Fred and PJ and the rest, except when they were talking to him; and then they all clammed up, mouths drawn down, eyes narrowed. He wasn't sure what he'd done wrong. All the guys at his old job back in Rockford had liked him just fine. He'd even been on the bowling team, after Jimmy had retired and left his spot vacant. But the Rockford job had ended, and there didn't seem to be any more jobs anywhere closer than Pike Creek, and so Bill and his wife had moved. Now Bill was that one guy on the crew that nobody else ever wanted to talk to, and he couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

He finished his sandwich, washed it down with warm Pepsi. The others were still talking by Fred's truck, although by now PJ had surrendered the floor to someone else. Eventually they'd finish up and head back over to the site. Then he'd trail behind them again, slinking back to his post, quietly returning to work without making eye contact with anyone. When the day ended, the others would all exchange their various farewells, while he went quietly back to his truck and went home. And then he would do it all over again tomorrow.

Bill wasn't ordinarily a contemplative man, but sometimes even he had to stop and wonder just what the hell was wrong with the world.

Corporate

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Milt found himself unable to tear his gaze away from the piece of paper in his hand. It was as though, if he only watched long enough, it would disappear, turn into something else. Something a little less... final.

"...nderstand that this was not an easy decision," the HR drone was saying. Milt realized vaguely that the other man had probably been talking for some time. "The company is simply taking a new direction at this time, and as a result we unfortuna..." The drone's voice faded out again as Milt returned his full attention to the pink slip clutched in one slightly trembling hand. What the hell was this? He should've already been to that downed line on Kirkwood by now; had been on his way out the door, before suddenly being called into this cramped little office.

"Six years," Milt said suddenly, interrupting the HR drone mid-speech. "Six years I've been a lineman here, and in all that time, not one promotion. Not one raise beyond the cost-of-living increase back in '05." He looked up at the drone, who was looking faintly fishlike, as though not quite sure what to do with his mouth now that he wasn't talking. "And now you fire me?"

"Yes, well, ah -- "

"And it isn't just me," Milt mused, half to himself. "'Fact, I'm fairly sure none of the linemen've gotten a raise in that time. Although I noticed in the company newsletter that the executives got a nice bonus last Christmas." He gave the HR drone something that faintly resembled a smile, albeit with a bit more tooth in it.

The drone blinked a few times. "I'm afraid I'm not party to the financial decision-making of -- "

Milt waved his pink slip. "I'm the best lineman this company has. Ask any of the others, and they'll tell you the same thing. And my reward's a firing? What the hell kind of a decision is that?"

"Erm," the HR drone replied. "I'm afraid we simply don't currently have the resources to increase pay commeasurate with your experience -- "

"So when I get too good, you just fire me," Milt interrupted again. "And hire some new kid to take my place, who you can pay even less than you did me." He grinned again at the now slightly greenish HR drone. "No corporate ladder here, huh? It's more of a corporate kill chute."



Mrr. Google seems to indicate that "kill chute" is vegetarian-ese, but I can't think of what the "real" term might be for what I'm thinking of. Just as a clarification, I'm not being all anti-meat-y. I look at vegetarianism in vaguely the same way that I look at spending a few years on the ISS. Humans were neither evolved to avoid eating meat nor live in space. We can do these things, especially with the aid of modern science to, say, produce non-meat sources of needed nutrients, or protect us from the deadly deadly vacuum. But I still don't have the small intestine needed to eat only plants, and I still can't live unaided in space, and -- most importantly -- I have no interest in taking on the added expense and difficulty needed for the simple task of thumbing my nose at evolution. There may be benefits to having someone do it, of course, and other people can go right on ahead if they like. I'll pass.

On the other hand, I have a whole ton of respect for anyone who's gone through all the hoops necessary to get into space, whereas my opinions on vegetarians range from "I don't care what you eat as long as it isn't my stuff you're eating" to "GRARR SMASH KILL", based roughly on how much the person wants to beat their choice into my head. So I guess it's not the best analogy.

Super Sidetrack Powers Activate!

Safety Glasses

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"Ah Christ!" Dave yelled suddenly over the sound of grinding metal. He whirled away, one hand clapped to his face. "My eye! That went right in my eye!"

The foreman was at his side almost immediately. "Shut it down!" he shouted to the man at the controls; as the machinery spun down, he turned his attention back to Dave. "All right, talk to me."

Dave gestured randomly toward the machine with his free hand. "Damn thing just blew a cloud of metal shavings right into my eye." He winced audibly. "Christ, that hurts!"

"Okay." The foreman pointed at a couple of the other workers. "You: get the eyewash kit. And you: call an ambulance. Now, people!"

"I don't have any more sick days -- " Dave began.

"Doesn't matter. You don't want your cornea all scratched up, and you definitely don't want to go blind." The foreman's face darkened. "Although I would like to know just why the hell you weren't wearing your safety glasses."

Dave barked a short laugh, utterly without humor. "There's only five pairs to go around, and six of us on shift," he answered. "Guess who drew the short straw today."

No Deal

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"Come on," Cal wheedled. "Every damn day y'come here with the best lunch, an' every day we all slog through stale peanut butter and cold soup while you're enjoyin' gor-may on-trays. Least ya could do is trade somethin' once in a while!"

Pausing in the act of unwrapping his sandwich, Shawn cast a glance at the older man. "So bring something else if you want a change. Nobody's stopping you."

"Well, see, that's just what my wife says," Oscar exclaimed, plopping his lunchbox on the table and sitting down across from them. "She figures if something she slapped together isn't good enough for me, then I can just feed myself." He winked at Shawn. "Most of us aren't still enjoying that first year of marriage, when everything is love an' kisses an' fancy lunches every day."

Shawn colored slightly, but said nothing.

"And she knows I can't cook, too," Oscar went on, with the air of one enjoying an old gripe. "Some people say they'd burn water; me, I'd burn salad. So it's what she makes, or the cafeteria... and anything's better than the cafeteria." He laughed heartily at that, then took a large bite of his own sandwich.

"Yer a lucky bastard, Shawn," Cal said with a grin. "A bastard who won't trade lunches, but still lucky."

Anti-Virus

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"So we should have the third-quarter reports ready by Thur... by Th... Thursd..." Williams sneezed explosively, then scowled. "Damn this cold."

Liu chuckled. "You finally caught it, huh?"

"More like it caught me." Williams leaned against the wall by the water cooler. "I've been popping cold medicine like it was candy, but it doesn't seem to help much."

"Well, it's not supposed to help, not really. It doesn't make you better. Just hides the symptoms so you feel good enough to go out and infect other people, who will then buy more cold medicine."

Williams waved a hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, I know, it's a vast conspiracy." Then he gave Liu an appraising look. "I notice you haven't succumbed yet. Some Eastern miracle remedy us poor saps don't know about?"

Liu burst out laughing at that, earning a strange look from one of the secretaries who happened to be walking by just at that moment. "Oh, there is a secret to not getting sick, O foolish round-eye. But it's actually pretty damn simple."

"Do tell."

"Just be an antisocial bastard to almost everyone you meet," he replied, grinning. "Then you won't actually be around anyone enough to catch what they've got."

Williams pondered this for a moment, then glanced sidelong at the other man. "Your method appears to have a fatal flaw, ol'-buddy-ol'-pal."

"That'd be your fault, Typhoid Mary," Liu chuckled.


There's a nasty flu going around my campus right now, along with all the usual varieties of cold. Most of my classes are half-empty, and just about everyone who does bother to show up is a sniffling, coughing mess, but I have yet to catch anything. What's my secret, you might ask? Simple -- I have no friends on campus, and practically never interact with anyone while I'm out.

It might be sad, but hey, it works. Buncha plaguey suckers.

Film

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"I don't actually care, ma'am," Zoe wanted to say.

"Your grandchildren, surprisingly enough, do not interest me in the slightest," Zoe longed to add.

"For the love of God, woman, shut up," Zoe wished to emphatically state, before turning on her heel and walking away.

Instead she continued leaning on the counter, nodding and smiling at the right places in the old woman's monologue, and silently praying for the ceiling to fall in and put them both out of her misery. Eventually the woman finished up and went away, which was almost as good.

Zoe turned back to the bins of developed photos, pretending to be busy straightening them. Every damn day she finished up her shift determined to quit, and yet every morning she was still here, bright and early and "with a team attitude." It wasn't that it was a bad job, so much as it was a stupid one. Especially when people came along and decided that she needed their life stories to go along with their badly-shot photos of ugly children and boring tourist traps.

A hand rose suddenly from the other side of the window that led into the back room. It wasn't a photo lab, exactly -- they weren't even trusted to develop the pictures here, that was for the "experts" at the Zionsville store -- but it was good for storage, sorting space, and unscheduled breaks. Ralph was in there now, and it appeared that he had found something of interest, since clutched in his hand was an envelope containing someone's developed photos.

"Need help in there, Ralphie?" Zoe asked, all innocence. That old woman could learn a thing or three from Ralph, she reflected, supressing a grin. He seemed to have a real knack for finding the more... unique photos taken by their customers. And he, too, loved to share them.

She supposed she might quit today. First, though, it was just about time for her to go on break.

Compliment

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"What the hell?" Danny scowled as he rejoined the others behind the fry cookers. "Was that supposed to be some kind of a joke?"

"Never knew Mr. Carter was French," drawled Joe from where he sat sprawled in front of the freezer door. "Wouldn't know it ta lookit 'im."

"Seriously, what does that even mean? Gar-kon? Is that some French insult?"

Shane, currently sitting on a crate of cheese slices that was supposed to be going into the freezer, snorted. "Carter's not French. He's lived here since forever."

"Dammit, what did he say to me?" Danny slammed one fist into his other palm. "Damn Frenchy thinks he can insult me, he'll have another thing coming when I catch up to him in the parking lot and kick his ass -- "

"And get fired from Wendy's for fightin', just like with the last three jobs you worked." Shane idly reached into a hole in the crate of cheese, pulled out a stack of slices, and began munching on them. "He thinks he's bein' all socially responsible or whatever by noticin' burger flippers. Did it to me too the other day, when I was workin' the register."

Danny glared at nothing in particular. "Still could've been an insult," he said sulkily. "I don' even know what it means."

Shane started to answer, then paused. "Just get high and forget about it," he replied finally, tossing the rest of his cheese at the trashcan. "'s practically 4:20 anyway."

Success

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The foreman coughed politely. "Need some help there, Murray?"

Murray felt his face go red, but he remained as he was, facing the door, head down so he could get a better look at his keys. "Nosir, Mr. Talbot. I know I've got the right key here; I'll find it any second now -- aha!" From the massive keyring he triumphantly held one key aloft, a huge silver-colored affair, worn and greasy with the use of years. "Sorry about that, sir, there's just so many keys to sort through that it... hrm."

Talbot frowned. "Problem?"

"Wrong key." Shamefacedly, he held the keyring even closer to his face, nervously aware of the seconds ticking by even as the key he sought continued to elude him. "There's just so many of them I need to have on me, you see, and so many of them look alike, and -- "

"Murray, your boss and I have been somewhat... concerned, lately," Talbot interrupted smoothly. "You've worked here for, what, fifteen, twenty years?"

Murray felt his throat tighten, but he answered as calmly as he could. "Twenty-three."

"Twenty-three. That's a long time to have kept up your janitorial duties, and you've generally performed admirably." Talbot paused slightly, then continued. "However, we have noticed lately that you appear to be having... difficulties."

Murray turned to the foreman in alarm. "Sir, if this is about that door I left unlocked last week -- "

Talbot shook his head. "No, no, it isn't just one thing; it's more a series of incidents, minor ones, certainly, but... they do add up." He coughed, then pointed to Murray's belt. "Is the key you need on your other keyring, perhaps?"

"Oh." Murray went red again. "I think it is, actually."

Talbot's hand came down on his shoulder, heavy, insistent. "As I said, your boss and I have been talking about your performance lately, and... I'm afraid we're going to have to let you go."

"Oh," Murray said again.

"Perhaps there's something else on your mind lately, and that's what's got you distracted," Talbot went on, not letting go of Murray's shoulder. "We would certainly be willing to consider rehiring you in a year or so, if that is the case. And we've no hard feelings, you understand."

"Yes," Murray agreed.

"We just have to look out for the success of the company, you see?" Talbot gave him a brief, meaningless smile. "That's all."

Blowin' In The Wind

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Before Stu opened the door, he took a moment to smooth down his hair a little. Everyone knew perfectly well he was balding, of course; he had never been foolish enough to try to hide it, or God forbid, sport a comb-over. Still, what hair he had left was a bit on the long side right now, and with today as windy as it was, he had to be careful or else he'd wind up looking simply ridiculous.

He entered the building quietly, smiled and nodded at the receptionist behind her massive desk as he made his way to the elevators. Marshall was there already, and his square face cracked into a grin as Stu approached. "Heyyy, Stuart! I know that look... that's convertible hair! Finally gave in and had yourself a midlife crisis, huh?"

"If I did have a midlife crisis, I'd skip the convertible for a speedboat," Stu replied dryly. "I just took a walk around the building before work, is all, and it's windy."

Marshall chuckled. "Honestly, I don't know how you do it." The elevator doors opened, and he continued as they both stepped inside and Stu pressed 4. "You don't drink, you don't smoke, you don't partake in other substances -- not that anyone knows, at least," he added with a sly grin, "and you're still more well-balanced than anyone else I know."

"Maybe all that clean living is good for you after all, eh?"

"But boring," Marshall replied, shaking his head, "so very, very boring."

The doors opened on 4, and they both stepped out, just as Clyde from Accounts Payable was approaching. "Good morning, Marsh," he said amiably, "and Stuart, hey -- decided to commute with the top down today?" Marshall burst out into laughter, and Clyde blinked. "What'd I say?"

"Nothing," Stu grumbled in response, stalking off toward his desk. "Which is a damned good idea, so keep it up."


Meta: here is an approximate transcription of my thought processes regarding this post's title.

"I will not make the obvious reference, I will not make the obvious reference, I will not make the OH DAMMIT FINE I GIVE IN"

And now you know.

Also, since the Houston Chron is a big mean jerk and doesn't have this day's comic up for some reason, I have had to fall back on the official Pluggers site. Ahh, grayscale lineart images presented as jpgs... where would the World Wide Tubes be without you?


Meta, as an update on 04/14/2010: the Houston Chron is a super-big mean jerk and doesn't have old Pluggers anymore, so the above is obsolete! I just figured I'd mention that as I slowly trawled through putting in images culled from gocomics.com.