Excerpt
Reginald Baskin, not remotely a religious man, closed his eyes in his small cubicle and asked God for his money back.
"Whatever I paid before I was a sperm, Lord," he said under his breath, "I want it back. Every cent, or I'm reporting your ass to the Better Business Bureau. I was promised much that I did not receive. The marketing was deceptive. I am not completely satisfied. I would like a full refund and a personal apology from the maitre d'. And a free calendar. Not a shitty one. One with naked girls on it."
Reginald was many things. He'd been the fat kid in high school. He'd been the fat kid who didn't fit into the small lecture hall seats and had to sit in the aisle in college. He was now the fat guy who worked for a fitness equipment manufacturer, which had its own unique breed of irony. He was also, on occasion, the fat guy on the bus and the fat guy who wouldn't take his shirt off at the beach.
And he was, lastly, the kind of person who prayed out loud to a god he didn't believe in when nobody could hear him but himself, just to prove a point.
Reginald stood up, leaning heavily on the corner of his desk to do so. He looked down at his wheeled chair, grabbed the small pink set of rubber lips that was protruding from under his seat cushion, and pulled.
A Whoopee Cushion. Awesome.
He dropped the thing into the trash can, then sat back down and tried to ignore the snickers coming from the other side of the cubicle wall.
Fucking Todd Walker.
He wouldn't give him the satisfaction of replying, of rebutting, or of responding. He'd just act as if nothing had happened. There had been no farting noise and no unceremonious disposal into the trash can. Screw you, Walker. I didn't even notice your prank.
Walker had never grown up; that was the problem. Neither had Simmons or Yancy or McGuinness or Graham or Nichols or any of the rest of the sales team. Almost the entire company was male, in its 20s, and in great shape as befitted a proper fitness company. The only exceptions were those who worked behind the scenes: Reginald, Sarah Kopke, Noel Leonard, Scott Valentine, and the new kid who worked overnight and dressed all in black. Everyone else looked alike and was more or less ready for a magazine cover shoot on a moment's notice, should the need arise.
Reginald was fat. Sarah and Noel weren't terribly attractive and were the wrong gender. Scott was in his sixties. The new kid looked nineteen if he were a day, and dressed like a goth. He wore a sword on his belt, for God's sake. Nobody wanted to talk to him.
But everyone else looked alike, as if they'd been cast from the same mold. Reginald, Sarah, Noel, Scott, and the new kid couldn't've stood out more if they'd tried, and just like in high school, standing out meant Whoopee Cushions on your chair or dentures and adult diapers on your desk. Or, if you were especially lucky, tampons in your coffee.
It was enough to make you ask for your money back.
Reginald had always held onto hope. He'd taken the abuse all through high school with as much aplomb as he could because it was always only a few more years, months, and days until he was out of school, into college, and into the real world where people understood that appearances only ran skin deep. But that's not what had happened. Instead of landing in a nonjudgmental utopia, he'd landed in a frat house.
He wondered if it would always be like this. He wondered if people ever changed. He wondered if he could ever be just "Reginald" instead of "Reginald the fat guy."
Across the cubicle wall came a farting noise. Then another. Then another and another and another in rapid succession, counterpointed with the guffaws and chortling of two deep male voices. Apparently the Whoopee Cushions had been a two-for-one deal.
This wasn't supposed to be the deal. This wasn't what he'd signed up for.
