Martyrdom is a Lousy Way to Go

My past life died of the plague. Not that pussy pneumonic plague, though. Not the oh-dear-I’ve-got-a-fever-hack-hack-cough-cough-bloody-sputum-death thing. Too fast, too easy. I’m talking bubonic. My past life writhed in agony for days while his hemorrhagic lymph nodes swelled into thick buboes and his organs bled and his skin turned black and he sucked his final breath through disease-ravaged lungs and collapsed dead and alone in his quarantined house. You may wonder how I know this. I once read in a book somewhere that each reincarnation of a person will suffer comparatively similar tribulations, and as I sat in front of a large red oak desk, on top of which was a stern looking, gold-plated plaque that read “David Clark,” behind which stood a stern looking, though not gold-plated, David Clark, I became convinced of it.

“…maintain a positive working environment,” or something like that was what David was saying to me as I tried instead to remember the words to the Saved by the Bell theme song.

When I wake up in the morning and the clock lets out a…something…and I don’t think I’ll never make it on time... What the hell was that word?

“…and I’m sure you’ll agree that’s a difficult role to fill, when— James, you are listening?”

I jerked my head up quickly and made immediate eye contact with him. Eye contact shows that you’re listening and you care. I read that somewhere. “Yea, boss. I was listening. I can fill the role of maintaining a positive working environment.”

“Well, sort of. Anyway, what I’m trying to say here is that—,”

Have you ever been in one of those rooms that felt like everything it was on showcase? Like you could pick up the nearest item and find a price tag on the bottom? This was one of those rooms. The burgundy plush armchair I was sitting in looked pristine Victorian and felt vinyl. David’s seemingly hand crafted wall shelf lost its substance when you looked at up at the bottom and saw that where the aesthetically pleasing wood ended, dry plywood began. The entire office was as fake as a nose job; and like a nose job, time and age would eventually reveal its too-perfect lie.

“…consequently, James, I’m going to have to let you go.”

I put my mental song on pause and waited for David to surely continue his statement. I mean, he meant to say something like, I’m going to have to let you go to the bathroom now, you’ve been sitting here for a while, or I’m going to have to let you go down to the break room and get us a couple cups of coffee. I waited. David stood there.

“Let me go, sir?”

“Well, yes.” He shuffled his foot a little and looked down at his desk to make it seem as though he was just as hurt by all this as I was. To make it look like he wasn’t a complete asshole.

“But…but why?”

“James, are you serious?” David leaned in and put both palms spread out on his desk for support. “You are an absolute imbecile, James. I can’t count on you to do anything. I mean, you weren’t even paying attention while I was trying to fire you. Doesn’t that tell you something?” He let out an exasperated sort of sigh so as to properly convey just how frustrating I was.

“Warning!”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s was the word…that I…Saved by the…nevermind.” What the hell was he firing me for?

“Was it that time I told you to pull the corncob out of your ass? Is that it, Mr. Clark Sir? Because I didn’t mean it, really—I was still kind of hung over from—,”

“That’s not it, James. Well, I wasn’t particularly pleased with that sentiment, but that’s not all. This is your life, James. This is your job. If you don’t take things like this more seriously, where do you think you’ll end up?”

I got up slowly and pushed in my chair. And really, after that, there was only one thing left to do. I picked up the shiny black ceramic pen holder thingy that held all of David’s five dollar gel-filled streamlined anti-gravity candy dispensing pens and flung it as hard as I could against the wall. This was it, my friends. This was the start of the revenge that I’d heard about so many times—the little guy finally getting his way with the boss. I suddenly felt my face getting hot and my heart racing and I balled my fists up at my waist for effect.

“Jesus, what in the hell do you think you’re doing, James?” David backed himself wide-eyed into the corner to avoid what he must have assumed would be the next flying object right for his head. That would have been awesome, of course. I thought only briefly about my already late car payment and how much harder it would be to pay it without, oh, an income and the thought of David rolled up on the floor cradling his blood-soaked head in his knees while trying to pull shards of—that stupid fake southwestern flower vase on the floor looks promising—shattered flower vase out of his head was a comforting one. But no; I wanted him conscious to watch.

“What am I doing? WHAT AM I DOING? I’m stickin’ it to the man, man! This is…this is prejudice! This is immoral! This is racist!” I was screaming at him but his reactions weren’t quite was I was going for.

“WE’RE BOTH WHITE!” He screamed back. A minor detail. I wasn’t about to let that stand in the way of me becoming an instant celebrity. Maybe I would push his desk up on end and let it go sailing out his wall-sized window down the dozen or so stories onto the sidewalk below. Talk about special effects. It would be really cool if I went out to the cubicles and started ranting about injustice and fair treatment and got a whole ton of people behind me and we started chasing him down with torches and pitchforks and then…I would…shit on his carpet—just to top it all off. But I scratched that plan—I didn’t really have to go right now. I walked over to the window, as menacingly as possible so as to maintain the overall maniac mentality I’d achieved, and leaned my forehead against the cool glass. My chest was heaving.

I hated David Clark. I hated David Clark because he drove a Lexus. I hated him because he wore ties that cost more than my bi-monthly paychecks. I hated him because he got a fucking gold-plated name tag and I was lucky if my inter-office mail got put in the right slot. I didn’t need this damn job, no one here did! Screw the corporate bastards that are screwing us over…somehow…yeah! Down with the system! I hated David Clark because he was just another player in the fascist oppressive capitalistic economy that fucks the little guys over! Mostly, though, I hated him because even after all this, none of that would change. It was then that I realized what I had to do.

“Would Joan of Arc have meant much to us if she hadn’t died?” I turned and looked at David, who had started to relax some but snapped back into the corner when I spoke to him.

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Just answer the question.”

“No, I don’t suppose so.”

I nodded. “I didn’t think so.” I opened the huge window—large enough for a man to squeeze through—and squeezed through it. But I didn’t let go. First, I had to think of something really profound to say and then I would let go. I couldn’t think of a thing.

“Hey, David?” I hollered at him, but it was unnecessary; he must have instinctively left his corner when I opened the window and stood frozen three feet behind me, clearly unable to think of a next move. “Hey Dave, what would you say if you were about to jump?”

“James, what…in the fuck…are you doing.” David was visibly shaken, and I liked that.

I thought about it. What the fuck are you doing. What the fuck are you doing? Well, it wasn’t as profound as I had hoped but it was something to work with. I took a deep breath and wished the wind would blow my hair back dramatically, but it didn’t.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” I screamed as my fingers slipped from the edge of the window and I began to fall.

It’s one of those feelings that practically no one alive has ever had—falling to your death. It’s exhilarating at first, it sort of gave me the same feeling I get descending from the top of a steep roller coaster. Your stomach tightens and your breath catches in your throat. And, just like all the stories say, time slows down. I tried to make my life flash before my eyes, but all I could remember was kicking another little boy at my fifth birthday party and after that I gave up. This is great! I thought, Not only am I going to be a martyr, but it’s the ultimate thrill ride along the way. I tried to imagine how David would break the news to the rest of the office.

Ladies and gentlemen, I hate to be the bearer of heartbreaking, disastrous news, but our very own James has just leaped to his death in the hopes that you all will see that he died for your cause. Let his death be not in vain!

I was sure he’d say something like that. And then everyone in the office would immediately chuck their perfectly perforated weekly planning reports to the ground in a show of defiance and march confidently out the door. It would be glorious. It would be the model for office revolutions everywhere. If only I could be there, and didn’t have to die to spark the uprising. Then a thought occurred to me: how, while plummeting to my death, had I had the time to invent that entire scenario in my head? Shouldn’t I have died somewhere in the middle of my made-up eulogy? My head swam as a voice entered it. A voice that showed me I was not only dead, but indeed in the seventh pit of hell.

“James? James, are you ok?”

It sounded exactly like David Clark.

“James, you complete moron. You can’t even commit suicide right.”

It was David Clark.

“James, would you please get up and get your ass back inside before someone sees you?”

There was only one logical solution. David Clark was Satan. A sharp twinge in my forehead caused my eyes to blink open, and I saw that hell looked an awful lot like the view one would have while lying on a ledge ten feet below an office window looking up. That was, in fact, where I was and what I was doing.

James, I’m coming down to open the window next to you. For God’s sake, don’t move.”

My head rolled back and forth, trying to realign my eyeballs and shake the pain away. Damn, was all I thought. So much for my glorious death. As I began to pull my knees up under my stomach to hoist myself into a kneeling position, the window in front of me slid open and David stuck his head out.

“Get the fuck in here.”

“Yea, alright. I’m coming.”

“You need some coffee? I’ll get you some coffee.”

I blinked at him. “Yea, I suppose I do.”