I’ve got a zillion things to do, but here I am. I just realized yesterday that the next Mystery Hour is a week and a half away. Yowzer.yakov_jeffoutside

For the last prompt I asked: What is the last thing a co-worker said to you?

I will use Michelle’s answer:

 

“Last thing that was said to me by a co-worker warning me about another co-worker: “She will not hesitate to rat you out.”

Wonderful.”

 

I think we all know who you’re talking about. Not that I know specifically, but I know the type. Why do some people take it upon themselves to need to be the one who ‘rat’s others out?’ That seems like it would be a stressful existence. Where is the joy in that? The joy is in trying to get away with something.

 

Here’s my imagining of what a day must be like for that type of person:

Cindy lay sleeping in her 800 thread count crisp white sheets upon her memory foam bed dreaming of orderly things. With a beep-beep beep-beep her General Electric 400 series alarm clock woke her up. Cindy woke quickly and turned the alarm off. Cindy didn’t mess around with the snooze button; that’s what lazy people do who would rather not face reality. Although, truth be told, her dreams didn’t much differ from reality.

She gently set her feet down on the floor. She looked at her ankles, which others so crudely called ‘cankles.’ She prefered to think of them as ‘load bearing legs.’ Cindy wasn’t heavy, but she wasn’t a waif by any stretch of the imagination either. She lumbered to the bathroom and raised her sight to the mirror. She didn’t like to look at herself right away, not because she wasn’t completely satisfied with her appearance. It was more because she didn’t like to see her thick brownish hair out of place. Her generally well managed ‘do was smashed on one side and wild on the other. Those were two adjectives she didn’t like anywhere near her.

Cindy decided that she needed to write a stern letter to the mirror manufacturer because it was unfair that the mirror would show her reflection before she was prepared. She even considered mailing the mirror to them so that on the way there it would break, causing them seven years of bad luck. After showering and preparing herself in the bathroom she went to the refrigerator for one deviled egg, a piece of toast with blackberry preserves, and eight ounces of milk. Her cat, Melvin, was on the counter and she had to shoo him off. In all, Cindy had 11 cats. There was Nancy, Friday, Juniper, Mr. Knuckles, Destiny, Dr. Chuckles, Porous, Nicholas, Fletcher, Bunion, and Melvin. Melvin, she hated the worst. He was a tabby cat. In fact, after one bad kitty litter episode, Cindy wrote a letter to the TLAA, Tabby Lovers Association of America asking for a refund. They refused.

In the car on the way to work Cindy had on her helmet, driving gloves and recorder. The recorder was for when she encountered any other drivers doing anything illegal, borderline illegal, or legal but rude. Each day when she arrived at work she would send in the license plate number of the offenders to the local police department. She was sure they ignored her so she made sure to make the e-mail ‘urgent’ so it would appear with a red exclamation point.

Upon arrival at work Cindy was greeted by a co-worker.

“Hey Cindy!” said Peter in accounting.

“‘Hey’ is not the proper way to address me. I am your superior,” replied Cindy.

“No you’re not. We’re in different departments,” replied Peter.

“Fine. I’ll get out the company organizational chart,” said Cindy as she pulled it out of her purse. She kept a laminated copy for situations such as these.

“Look,” said Peter peering over her shoulder. “We’re the same.”

“Nope. If you look closely the box denoting me is slightly higher than yours,” said Cindy.

“Whatever.”

“I’m writing you up!” exclaimed Cindy.

Just then, with no warning the two of them a loud noise burst behind them. It was a large truck. It had crashed through the side of the building. Cinder blocks, fluorescent lighting, and cubicles were easily thrown to the sides of the truck. There was a certain rage in the sound. In an instant the truck just missed striking Peter. Instead, it immediately flattened Cindy right next to him. She was instantly crushed under the pressure.

Peter looked up as the dust cleared. He couldn’t see a figure driving the truck. Then, as the final airborn particles of the scene drifted by, he noticed the driver was a seemingly harmless tabby cat. It was Melvin. Melvin, the cat. He was smiling.

“Who’s ratted out now?” said Melvin coolly.

So, the next time you are talking to the ‘Cindy’ of your office, just imagine a truck driving tabby cat crashing through the building and flattening Cindy. It will make your day more pleasant.

Next prompt: What is one of your very first memories?

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About jeffhoughton

I'm a sometimes writer, actor, comedian and an all the time adventurer.

4 responses »

  1. Jenn Rogers says:

    The first memory I have is of when my mom was very pregnant with my little sister. I was two at the time. She said, “Dad and I will be bringing the baby home soon.” I remember thinking that someone would magically pull a big, crystal ball out of my mom’s stomach, they would crack it open with a hammer, and out would come Baby Sis. Sure enough, a few days later, they walked through the front door with that little bundle of joy! I was obviously correct in my thinking.

  2. Dan says:

    One of my first memories is of being in the nursery at my church back home. I must have been about 3 or 4. I was looking up at the nursery worker and slowly backing away from her. I didn’t realize until I bumped into the wall that I had backed myself into a corner. For some odd reason, I can remember telling her to stay away from me and calling her “Tammy.” The only thing is, her name was Amy. Her younger sister’s name is Tammy. I know this because both of them happen to be my best friend Jon’s sisters. He’s the same age as me, but they’re several years older than us. He’s the youngest of 6 kids.

    On a side note, I ended up working with Tammy at Chick-fil-a during my high school and college years. Jon worked there too. Small world.

  3. Amanda says:

    My earliest memory is of a dream I had while I was still sleeping in a crib. In the dream, my grandma came floating into my room, horizontal, and she reached out and touched a little unicorn that was on one of the crib bars and in a creepy voice said, “Oh, isn’t this pretty!” I blame that dream on my life-long fear of ghosts.

  4. Editor Matt says:

    My first memory is of my parents, all dressed up in square-dancing clothes, getting ready to go out. My mom had a great big shamrock name-tag on and my dad was wearing a bolo. They left me with a babysitter, who wouldn’t play with me, just watched TV and would throw the ball into the corner time-to-time like I was a dog. I cried.

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