Derek is Missing, Part 4

Dear Diary,

It was 1:00pm in the small accounting firm I work at and Derek, the person I hate the most in our office, still hadn’t come in to work. As everyone walked out of the lunch room, we were all greeted by a short, squat man and a towering, thin woman with a long face. Both were wearing cheap blazers and standing by our cubicles with Sheila, our boss. Sheila looked very miffed.

SHEILA: Everyone, this is Detective Mallory and Detective Vuotto. They were called in here today by Eric.

ME: You guys sure took your time getting here. Sheesh.

The squat, round-ish male detective spoke first.

MALLORY: What’s this about a missing person?

ME: Forget about it. You’re too late. His trail is long gone by now.

The tall, skinny female detective spoke next.

VUOTTO: We take calls regarding missing persons very seriously.

ME: Well, don’t worry about this one, because he’s probably dead by now.

Vuotto squinted a little, appraising me.

VUOTTO: Why would you say that?

ME: Because everybody hated that jerk. For sure someone did him in.

MALLORY: Really? Everybody hated him?

ME: Listen, you can trust me on that being a fact ‘cause I’m probably the one who hated him the most. I have dreams at night about how much I hate him, and what I want to do to him.

Don from our office interjected then.

DON: It’s true. He wore a T-shirt last week that he made himself and it said I hate Derek.

I turned, smiling and nodding proudly at the cops.

ME: That's right. And see these two gold medals?

I clutched the two gold medals around my neck.

ME: I stole one from him the other week. And this one just this morning from his desk. I hated that bastard. So, so much. You can’t even begin to imagine. So take it from me, that guy’s a corpse.

MALLORY: We’ve been informed that this morning, you contacted several members of Derek’s family and informed them of his supposed death.

I glanced guiltily at Sheila, my boss.

ME: Not during work hours, but yeah, I did let them know not to keep their hopes up too much. Being as I’m certain someone rubbed out my all-time worst enemy ever. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to assist you on this case.

VUOTTO: And how would you help us exactly?

ME: Well, you see, I’m kind of an expert on wanting this guy off the planet. I could provide you with some insight into the killer’s mind. I most likely have the same wants, same needs, same murderous instincts. What do you say?

Mallory nodded his head briefly then.

MALLORY: I’d like to continue this conversation downtown. Why don’t we give you a ride?

An alarm went off distantly inside my head. I almost didn’t pay attention to it. My grandma Gertie once told me that if a cop ever asks you to “continue this conversation downtown” then you should always turn the other way and run for your life. Which is what I did, just at that moment. I flew out of our office, bursting through the doors to the main hallway. My grandma Gertie died in prison. I wasn’t about to let that happen to me. Even though I still didn’t know what those two detectives thought I was guilty of.

When I finally figured it out, I ran even harder. I wasn't about to give up my two gold medals to anyone, or for anything.

Derek is Missing, Part 3

Dear Diary,

It was 11:00am in our small accounting firm, and Derek, my all-time worst enemy in the office, still hadn't shown for work. My boss Sheila was so nonchalant about the whole thing (maybe she likes him more than an employee. Gross. Sheila might be pretty but now she disgusts me). I was incensed. Was Derek playing hooky, while I had to work? Or maybe something terrible had befallen him. I left the office for half an hour and when I came back, I dimmed the lights as I headed toward my cubicle.

HOWARD: What the hell?

Howard is a sixty-ish ex-army Sargent-turned-accountant.

ME: Everyone! Gather around!

SHEILA: Where have you been? You're supposed to be working.

I quickly unwrapped a game board and its pieces and placed everything on my desk.

ME: It's a Ouija board. We're going to have a séance. Maybe talk to Derek's spirit. Find out what really happened.

SHEILA: This is ridiculous. Someone turn the lights back up.

The lights went back to full.

ME: Fine.

I gathered up the board and pieces.

ME: I'm doing this in the lunch room. Come on everyone!

SHEILA: Oh no, you’re not. You’re getting back to work.

ME: Fine!

I slammed everything back down on my desk and sat down.

SHEILA: That goes for everyone. Back to work.

I dialed up a number on my phone.

ME (quietly into the phone): Hi. Yes, it's me again. I still haven't heard anything. Have you?

Charisse walked by my cubicle then.

ME (into the phone): I know. I really feel for you at this time. My prayers are with you and your family.

CHARISSE: Who are you on the phone with?

I covered the mouth piece with the palm of my hand.

ME (whispering): Derek's mother.

CHARISSE: What?

ME (back into the phone): Don't cry. Don't cry. I think the smart thing to do would be to brace yourself for the worst. Do you know of a funeral home?

CHARISSE: What are you doing?

I spent the next half hour talking with Derek's parents, consoling them, offering hope, and then asking for the telephone numbers of any siblings and immediately calling up his sister, and offering a shoulder.

At noon, while everyone in the office was enjoying their lunch in the lunch room, I walked in and turned off the lights.

HOWARD: What the?

I lit a candle and everyone turned and saw me seated alone at one table, conducting a séance before my Ouija board. I closed my eyes and placed the tips of my fingers on the movable Ouija board pointer which is called a planchette.

HOWARD: Could someone please turn the lights back on? I can’t see what I’m goddamn eating.

The lights went back on.

ME (in a deep, ominous voice): Derek. Derek. Can you hear me, Derek?

HOWARD: Could you keep your hooey down? We're trying to have our lunch here.

ME (ominous voice): Derek. Where are you right now, Derek?

The planchette moved, spelling out a word.

ME: H…E… L… L… Hell? You're in hell?

I looked around at everyone, eyes wide with shock.

ME: Derek is in hell.

Everyone stared back at me, blankly.

ME: Well, I suppose he did deserve it.

Sheila was now just outside the lunch room, staring in at me through the small window in the door. She shook her head to herself as I looked back down at the planchette.

ME: But I feel bad for his girlfriend though. And for Sheila. Now, they'll both have to find new boyfriends.

Derek is Missing, Part 2

Dear Diary,

It was 10:30am at our small accounting firm and Derek, the person I hate the most in our office, still hadn't shown for work. Meanwhile, our boss Sheila could not care less (I'm starting to think there's something going on between them). Meanwhile meanwhile, a million scenarios were running through my head. Where's Derek? Did something happen to him? Is he playing us all for fools and having a great time eating cotton candy on a Ferris wheel somewhere? I'd like to be on a Ferris wheel somewhere, perfecting an evil laugh. In my cubicle, I took matters into my own hands and called up his condo. A woman's voice picked up at the other end.

WOMAN: Hello?

ME: Who's this? What have you done to Derek?

WOMAN: Who is this?

ME: It's his work calling. Why? Did I interrupt something? Were you just chopping him up?

WOMAN: What?

ME: This is serious. This is his work calling. He could lose his job over this, and then be homeless and have no money to buy you presents and take you out to stuff your face. That's how serious this is, young lady. Now you tell me where he is.

WOMAN: Listen, he drove to work about two hours ago.

ME: Funny, 'cause he ain't here? How the hell are you, anyway?

WOMAN: What?

ME: And who the hell are you?

WOMAN: I'm his girlfriend. You're being rude.

ME: Girlfriend? What are you doing in his condo? Don't you have your own place? What are you? Some kind of girlfriend-slash-squatter hybrid?

WOMAN: We live together.

ME: Live together? But you're not married.

WOMAN: That's none of your business.

ME: Does your mother know about this? I have Derek's mother's number. I have a mind to call her up right now.

WOMAN: I'm hanging up.

ME: Just between you and me, I don't think Derek's been on the up and up with you. He's sleeping with our boss, Sheila. Keep that on the down low.

WOMAN: Sheila?

ME: Yep. Looks like you're not the only trollop in town.

WOMAN: What's your name?

ME: Uh... Edwardo.

WOMAN: Eduardo who?

ME: Mongooba. Eduardo Mongooba.

WOMAN: Eduardo, you are a despicable human being.

ME: I'm not really Eduardo Mongooba so I don't really care what you think.

WOMAN: Bye.

ME: Wait... About Derek... Has he ever said anything about this guy he works with? This guy named Eric.

WOMAN: What?

ME: Like what he thinks of him?

WOMAN: Eric who?

ME: Eric the photocopy guy.

WOMAN: Never heard of him.

And with that, Derek's girlfriend hung up.

Sheila walked by my cubicle then, and I stared at my computer screen, pretending to work.

ME (chanting under my breath): Derek has a girlfriend... Derek has a girlfriend...

SHEILA: Did someone just say something?

I didn't acknowledge her.

ME (still chanting under my breath): And it's not Sheila... it's not Sheila... even though they're totally doing it... even though they love to do it... in all of our cubicles... wash your cubicles...

Derek is Missing, Part 1

Dear Diary,

I can barely breathe. First, let me start at the beginning. This morning... Sorry, I just puked into my trash can. All right, this morning, at around 9:01am, I noticed that Derek, the guy I hate the most at work, but whom everybody else absolutely adores because he's a jazz musician, works out and volunteers helping old people (whom I also hate) wasn't in his cubicle yet. It was empty. Everyone has to be here at 9:00am on the dot. I rushed over to my boss' office. Her name is Sheila and she runs the small accounting firm where I work as the photocopy guy.

ME: Derek's late.

Sheila glanced up at the clock on the wall.

SHEILA: One minute late.

ME: What are you going to do about it?

SHEILA: He's on time every day. I'm sure he'll be here any second. Do you have two of his gold medals now?

I clutched the two gold medals around my neck.

ME: These are mine. I trained really hard for these.

SHEILA: I already told you to give him back the one you took from him. How did you get the second one?

ME: You were at the Office Olympics. Didn't you see me win them?

SHEILA: No one did, because you didn't win them. I don't know how you stole this second one, but you are to leave both of those on his desk.

ME: Are you sleeping with him?

SHEILA: What did you just say?

ME: You like him more than everyone. That's why you're so easy on him.

SHEILA: He's one minute late. Get over it.

ME: If I was one minute late, you'd slit my throat, gouge out my eyes and then throw me out on the highway and run me over back and forth, and then for a week I'd never hear the end of it from you.

SHEILA: You wouldn't need to be one minute late for that.

ME: Open your eyes. This place is imploding with all your loose morals and your corrupted, decaying soul.

I went back to my cubicle, but was back in her office within the half hour.

ME: Derek's still not here.

SHEILA (annoyed): Jeez...

ME: Maybe you should call his home. See what's holding him up.

SHEILA: Whether Derek comes in late today is none of your concern. Now get back to work. And take off those gold medals.

ME: Then why do I have to be here, if Derek doesn't? I'm going home!

SHEILA: You get back to your cubicle now.

ME: This place is going to hell in a hand basket! And I'm the only one who seems to care!

I left her office then, but was back ten minutes later.

ME: I've just called the police to let them know about Derek.

SHEILA: Are you insane?

ME: He's been missing for quite some time. They should know.

SHEILA: But the police? And why do you care? He's your mortal enemy. You told me so.

ME: He should be at work! This is unacceptable! What's wrong with you?

SHEILA: Eric, if you do not stop obsessing about this, I will take action. And give me those gold medals.

ME: I found his parents' number on the Internet and gave them a shout, just to give them a heads up. They're looking for him too.

SHEILA: He's barely an hour late for work.

ME: We don't have much time, Sheila. Not if we want to find him alive.

Grandma Gertie and her best friend Marilla

Dear Diary,

I was ten years old when my grandmother Gertrude was eighty and she ran my school bus off the road by repeatedly smashing her Ford Pinto into our crowded, moving, yellow vehicle. She then burst from her car in her apron and flowered smock, sporting a short, white, old lady perm and a hand gun and forced the bus door open. She gave the frightened, shocked bus driver a dirty, hard look through her coke-bottle eyeglasses which magnified her eyes three times their regular size and which were fastened to a thin chain around her neck. All the children were petrified, frozen in their seats as she grabbed my hand and yanked me away.

Once we were both inside her car, she roared back onto the road, straight to her house. I didn't ask any questions. With Grandma Gertie, it was always best not to know too much.

"A bank was just robbed down the street from my house," she volunteered. "And I need you to be our alibi. The police have been hounding me for years regarding several hold-ups in the area."

"Where were you when the bank was robbed, Grandma?"

"Where do you think? You think banks rob themselves?"

"Was Marilla with you?"

Marilla was Grandma Gertie's best friend.

"Why do you think the police suspect us?" Grandma Gertie responded. "During the robbery, she was using her damn walker."

At her house, we quickly set up a game of bridge with Marilla, and my grandmother cheated. When the police finally showed, I told them we had been playing for hours. When the police detective asked if I was Eric, the little boy who had just been abducted by an armed elderly woman off a school bus, we all made a run for it, but didn't make it very far as Grandma and I had to wait for Marilla to find her glasses.

In the police station, as we waited to be interrogated, Grandma fell to the floor, in convulsions. I screamed for help. My grandmother was dying right before my young, innocent eyes. Marilla was soon on the floor as well, also in convulsions. When they both lay motionless, they were loaded onto an ambulance. I bawled as I waited for my parents. My two best friends in the world were dead.

That's when I heard an ambulance siren approaching. I ran outside as the ambulance from before barrelled onto the police station parking lot, colliding with police cruisers. The back door flew open, as Grandma Gertie reached out to me from inside. I latched onto her hand and she pulled me in. Marilla was at the wheel, scraping past electrical polls, trees and more vehicles. At the hospital, once the paramedics had exited the ambulance, the two had commandeered the vehicle and rushed back to scoop me. We were now heading to where the money was hidden.

We parked the ambulance at the mall and my grandmother and Marilla spent their newfound booty on things such as hard candy, salted black licorice, Bengay, denture cream, lottery scratch cards and both signed up for a Readers Digest subscription. They bought me things as well, mostly socks, before speeding back to Grandma Gertie's house where both ladies baked me some rock hard bran muffins and then torched the place, to get rid of all the evidence they said. They left me on the front lawn for my parents to pick up as they both drove away in the ambulance, the siren still blaring. I miss my Grandma Gertie every day.

Grandma Gertie

Dear Diary,

When I was a little boy, my parents used to drop me off some afternoons at my grandmother Gertrude's. Before they would leave, my father would always eye my mother's mother suspiciously, even though Grandma Gertie was just a diminutive eighty-year-old woman wearing an apron over a faded flowered smock and sporting a short, white-gray, old lady perm. Supposedly back in the 1920s, my Grandma Gertie had been a notoriously wild flapper, dancing in all the big nightclubs of the time. But in front of my father, she now moved very slowly, and smiled, offering half-baked, salted, black licorice cookies which tasted oddly like sweat-soaked running shoes.

As soon as my parents were gone, my grandmother would quickly throw on some satin number while downing shots of gin, and then would invite the mail man in. Soon her street would be clogged with two dozen postal trucks, the stereo in her house would be blaring disco music and my Grandma Gertie would be dirty dancing with all the city postal workers. I'd cry then, scared out of my mind, as my grandmother would throw herself from the chandelier into the waiting arms of her mail men, screaming, "Special Delivery!" She'd usually try to kiss someone on the mouth then, before kicking everyone out, and consoling me with one of her stinky black licorice cookies as she made sure her dress was still covering her in all the right places. I miss her.

When my parents would pick me up at the end of the day, my grandmother would always be back in her flowered smock and apron, moving about the house ever so slowly. As we would leave, my father would never stop eyeing her suspiciously, especially if a pair of panties suddenly fell from the chandelier. Grandma Gertie would usually offer a small laugh then, adding, "I haven't seen these in years."

Under-Appreciated at Work

Dear Diary,

I am steaming right now in my cubicle. You see, I am the photocopy guy in a small accounting firm and I have an extremely unique problem: I am under-appreciated. No one here works like I do, or provides the office with all that I offer. I’m terrified to think what would happen if ever I were to leave. This place would crumble. Seriously. Let’s just say, I wouldn’t want to be here if I left here.

I’ve made a list of at least 5 things no one appreciates about me at work:

5. I make a lot of promises

Most people are afraid of making a commitment to a project. Or announcing that they will take full responsibility for a major undertaking in the office, such as building an addition or a sun deck. Not me. I make grandiose statements about what I’ll do with wild abandon. And if I don’t completely forget about them later, I’ll cancel entire projects if they no longer excite me or I feel like they’re weighing me down. That way, I save everyone the trouble of a grumpy Eric who’s prone to vandalism.

4. I give bad people the silent treatment

No one doles out office justice quite like me. Out of the twenty-four employees in our office, I’m now only speaking to two, and that’s including myself. Last month it was zero. I was like Helen Keller without the sign language.

3. Every day, starting at 3:45pm, I cook my dinner on a hot plate in my cubicle

Leaving the office with my dinner for the evening already prepared keeps me from rushing to get out of the office right at 5pm or attempting to leave early. This week alone, I’ve made jambalaya, curried goat and trout risotto.

2. I re-decorate the office with recycled garbage

Abandoned mattresses make great couches if you can bend them. Just this morning, at 6am, I picked out twenty-four tires from the junk yard, filled them with dirt and planted one daisy in each, and then placed one “tire flower” on every desk.

1. I build and maintain office morale with a show every Friday

Every Friday, right after lunch, I set up my ghetto blaster and wireless microphone and walk around the office, making jokes, Don Rickles-style, ridiculing everyone in the office while pointing out their shortcomings. The jokes just write themselves, really.