GEORGE WOKE UP THE WAY he so often did: with a rabid hangover, his hands bloodied, his knuckles bruised, and his helmet askew. He had a fair amount of vomit on his jersey, which made him all the more thankful that the jersey was a vomit repelling polyester blend. His mouth was crusted in dried blood, and his living room, in which he was now sitting wearing just his helmet, his jersey, and mismatched socks, was spinning violently. The front door to his condo was missing, and his cat, Donnie, was suspiciously dead. George’s coffee table was covered in crushed Percocets, ground Vicodin, and spilled Jägermeister. He located the alarm clock that hung in the centre of the living room, and found it flashing 9:16. He was late for work. He changed quickly into a fresh jersey, and rushed from his condo, failing to shower off the odour of sick, and Jägermeister, and the late night from his imposing six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-thirty-pound frame.

Despite the fact that George was ever so late for work, it was imperative that he start the work day as he always did, with a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice, six thick slices of peameal bacon, four poached eggs, three slices of whole wheat toast, and a happy ending from a middle-aged Asian masseuse. It was fortunate for George that he had drunkenly parked his red Audi A5 on the condominium complex’s front lawn, making the car easy to find and expediting the process of his morning. He sped off towards Eggs & Endings, not bothering to fasten his seatbelt, the windows down to freshen him up, and his helmet so tight it was restricting his blood flow and making him lightheaded. As he weaved recklessly in and out of traffic, blasting HITZ 103.4FM, he considered the previous day at the office. The fighting, the name calling, the screaming, the filing, the drinking, and the data entry. Same Tuesday as it always was, though George thrived somewhat in the monotony of the grind.

Considering the hour, he used Eggs & Endings’ Drive-Thru Full Service, swiping his members’ card, and earning forty bonus privilege points. He arrived at his employers downtown office building at around 10:42, leaving the Audi parked in the emergency lane right out front, and dropping a handful of change into a non-existent parking metre. Quickening his pace, he made a hasty stop at the lobby Starbucks, where he ordered a quad shot Grande Americano, to which he added ten sugars and one Sweet n’ Low. On the elevator ride up to the tenth floor, he popped a package of Extra-Strength Sudafed, straightened his helmet, and chugged a Diet Red Bull.

George knew his boss would be waiting for him at reception, and sure enough there was Mr. Wilson as the elevator doors opened.

“You’re fucking late, Georgie,”  he spat.

“Fuck you, Ronnie, you fucking twat,” George shot back.

The men shoved at each other for a few minutes, before two of the secretaries broke them apart.

“You’re a fucking disgrace, Georgie.”

“Fuck you, Ronnie, I’ll cut you right in the fucking mouth,” George shot back.

Each of the secretaries took the men to their respective offices, which were positioned at opposite sides of the centre of the office’s north wall, an office like so many others, an endless sea of cubicles. For a few minutes the men glared at each other through their large windows, hurling obscenities, coffee mugs, and staplers at the glass. Finally, they settled down and Mr. Wilson went back to work, while George tried to get organized to make up for his tardiness. Though he loathed his job, George liked the company and hated being late. He had missed the anthems, and the morning announcements. He could feel his coworkers knowing eyes on him as tried to get to work. From his top drawer he pulled out a half-bottle of vodka, and used what was left to top up his Starbucks. He straightened his helmet, and then got on with his day, which progressed as any other day would.

At 1:38 of the afternoon George went out to use the copier, but found that its toner and paper trays were empty. Upon discovering that Danny from accounting had been the last one to use the copier, George tracked him down in his cubicle and beat him into unconsciousness with a stapler. Mr. Wilson had one of the secretaries escort George to the break room where he was to sit quietly and consider his actions. For those two minutes he felt shame.

At 2:27 of the afternoon George went to get an orange Gatorade from the kitchen, but found they were all gone. Across the office he could see Sully chugging down the last of a sports drink, so George charged at him full steam, slamming him through a window, and cutting him up pretty badly. It turned out that Sully had been drinking blue Powerade, so again one of the secretaries escorted George to the break room where he was to sit quietly and consider his actions. For those two minutes he felt shame.

At 2:51 of the afternoon George sat quietly in the staff lounge and had his typical mid-afternoon snack of two servings of chicken penne alfredo, four power bars, and a Diet Red Bull, while watching All My Children. On the way back to his office he thought he heard Trotsy from HR say something to him, so the two went at it pretty good, and George cut Trotsy for about fourteen stitches and broke two of his front teeth and a rib. One of the secretaries escorted George to the break room where he was to sit quietly and consider his actions. For those two minutes he felt shame.

At 3:48 of the afternoon George went back down to Starbucks for another quad shot Americano, to which he added sixteen sugars and two Sweet n’ Lows. He had a meeting with Mr. Wilson scheduled for 4:00, and wanted to be alert. He arrived at Mr. Wilson’s office at 4:11, munching on a packet of Advil Cold and Sinus, and much to Wilson’s chagrin.

“You’re fucking late, Georgie,”  he spat.

“Fuck you, Ronnie, you fucking twat,” George shot back.

The men shoved at each other for a few minutes, before two of the secretaries broke them apart.

“You’re a fucking disgrace, Georgie.”

“Fuck you, Ronnie, I’ll cut you right in the fucking mouth,” George shot back. “Now hows about that promotion there Ronnie, lets go!”

“Now Georgie, you know I love ya. I loved ya comin’ up there through the mail room, and I loved ya there when you worked the phones and all that good stuff, like I says. And now I got you filing and data entrying real good. You’re the best I got, and you’re real good in the room, a real character guy, I don’t have to tells you that! But you ain’t got the hands to do project management, Georgie, and where we gonna find another filer and data entryer as good, right?”

“Fuck you, c’mon now Ronnie, lets go! I done project management comin’ up for my dad and all that back in North Battleford, and I been filing and data entrying real good for you, and Danny looks like he’d be real good at that too, so come on, lets go!”

“But Georgie, you beat Danny and Trotsy good there today and they’re real salt of the earth guys, real character guys, good parents too, and they ain’t back for four to six weeks I hear, upper body, lower body, and all that. And you’re always late, Georgie. Ya gotta give me eight full hours, five days a week, a hundred and ten percent, roll up your sleeves if we gotta go into overtime, and all that, c’mon!”

“C’mon, now Ronnie, fuck. I got the sandpaper to be a good project manager and all that, lets go! I’ll bet you got fucking Europeans or Russians or something doing project management and taking away jobs from our boys, it breaks your heart, wearing those visor hats and all those things, c’mon! I’ll fucking drop the gloves right now, and go a round for the job, Ronnie, employee of the month and all that, lets go!”

The men shoved at each other for a few minutes, before two of the secretaries broke them apart.

“You’re a fucking disgrace, Georgie.”

“Fuck you, Ronnie, I’ll cut you right in the fucking mouth,” George shot back.

This time however, the men pushed the secretaries aside, and started to really brawl. Both were righties, and threw some solid punches. The fight went on for a good ten minutes, before someone went down to the secretarial pool, calling for all the secretaries to come and break the coworkers apart. Deep cuts flowed filling their eyes with blood. Their knuckles were bruised and sliced. Their noses broken. Someone brought a six pack of Molson into the office, which were used to slow the swelling, settle the nerves, and ease the tension.

“You got me good right there I’ll tell you that right now,” offered Mr. Wilson.

“Ya, I think you done separated my shoulder good, I’ll tell you what, c’mon now,” replied George.

“You gotta go back to work then, get her done and all that, I need those files there collated and all those things right now!”

“Right on, Ronnie. You pussy.”

“Fuck you, Georgie.”

George pulled himself together and made his way back to his office. As he did, his peers applauded and cheered, rapping their pens against their office windows, and tapping their keyboards against their desks. He went back to filing, and collating, and entering data, as one of the secretaries came in and tended to his wounds.

Over what was left in the day George was able to finish the rest of his filing, and collating, and data entry, and when the 5:00 horn blew, he was ready to head home. He and Mr. Wilson shared an elevator down the to the lobby, drinking cans of Molson and passing Wilson’s flask of Jameson back and forth in comfortable silence. When they reached the exit, they patted each other on the buttocks a few times, and then headed off in opposite directions.

George was happy to find that his red Audi A5 had not been towed. He got into the car, and resting the can of Molson on the dashboard he fastened the strap on his helmet. He considered his evening, thought about hitting the pub, maybe hitting a few pints, hitting on a few girls, hitting a few guys, and hitting a bowl of chicken and pasta, maybe catch the game. His head still ached, and George was unsure whether the throbbing pain was from the previous night, or running Trotsy, or the fight with Mr. Wilson. If only he could remember where the pub was, and whether or not he enjoyed pasta, or chicken, or pints, or girls. His memory was suddenly fuzzy. He new he was a real character guy, but could not remember where he lived, or his mother’s maiden name, or how to collate, or how he got in his Audi A5. Regardless, he tightened his helmet’s strap a little more, and sped off foolishly into the night.

This story was originally published January 9, 2012 on mikespry.org.