SPOILSPORT
Jesse
MacDonald had discovered a rare pleasure: spoiling things for those around
him. It had
started years ago, when he’d actually made a pre-teen girl cry by telling her
“Snape kills Dumbledore” when the sixth Potter book came out. It was a powerful
reaction, and it thrilled Jesse to no end. Since then, he had a new hobby, as Doreen, his soap opera-loving wife, could angrily attest.
At work,
folks knew to avoid him if they didn’t want to know who got dropped from last
night’s reality show final, or sports scores from games happening while they
were stuck at work.
Heck, if he had a way to figure out the gender of unborn babies, just to
tell their prospective mothers at inopportune times, he’d leap on
it.
Jesse saw
Patrice, the new secretary, sitting at her reception desk, paging through a
paperback book. He
squinted at the cover.
It was Daddy’s Gone A
Hunting, by Mary Higgins Clark. He promised himself to
go online, read the end of the Wikipedia entry, and casually give away who was
the killer before work today.
That
reminded him. He
dialed up Scott Henreid’s extension, eager to leave him a
voicemail.
Scott
picked up. “This
is Scott.”
“Hey,
Scott, I—“ Jesse began, trying to keep the smile out of his
voice.
The young
department manager interrupted. “I haven’t seen the
game yet, so please don’t say anything.”
“I
wouldn’t dream of it,” Jesse said. “Just wanted you to
know our department still hasn’t gotten the toner for the back copier. Light’s blinking
again.”
“Alright. I
thought we had ordered that on Tue—“
“Oh, and a
shame about the Redskins beating the Patriots like that, wouldn’t you
say?”
Scott hung
up on him. Jesse
wished he could see his face.
He heard
someone laughing, and glanced outside his office to see Eric and Pierre, the two
geeky data entry guys who sat across from each other, talking about cartoons and
comic books half the time. He had prepared for
this yesterday, and rose.
Jesse’s
heart swelled when he saw Eric’s face redden upon hearing about Black Widow’s
death in the Avengers sequel, which didn't even hit theaters for a month.
“That
might not be accurate, Eric,” Pierre said, standing up in his cubicle. “These rumors
always fl—"
“No,” Eric
muttered, “It’s exactly what that bastard Whedon would do.” He slumped in his
seat.
“I’m
sorry,” Jesse said, as insincerely as humanly possible. “Did I say something
wrong?”
“Some
people like to save themselves, Jesse,” Pierre growled.
“Like you
two are for your wedding nights?” Jesse retorted. Alright, he didn’t
actually think of that until he was halfway back to his office, but it was a
nice slam anyway.
Stupid nerds.
Jesse was
out in the warm sun, walking through the aisles of the farmers’ market, looking
for organic lettuce and celery, when a Chinese woman with a display of
undersized vegetables nodded at him. “You looking for
carrots?” she asked.
“Nah,” he
said.
She was
around fifty, but wore the cat-style glasses popular in the Sixties. She stood up, showing
off her produce like a game show presenter. “You like onion? Very good
onion.”
He just
shrugged.
She was
persistent. “Green
bean. No
chemicals. Best
quality.”
“Sorry,”
he said, and started to walk by.
The
Chinese woman cocked her head, looking up. “October 29, 2021,” she
said, as though reading it.
He looked
back at her.
“What?”
“'Clement
Jesse MacDonald, age 47, passed away yesterday after a long battle with stomach
cancer,’” she recited.
“’He is survived by his parents, Annabelle and Jerard, and an
ex-wife. Doreen.’”
Jesse’s
mouth opened, but he said nothing.
The
middle-aged Asian woman swallowed, then shook her head. She turned her
bespectacled eyes to his, and said, “You sure you not want
carrots?”
1 comment:
Nice !
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