Never Comes the Day

This little story has been kicking around in my demented skull for a while. I hope you enjoy. Other than the usual gay male practices, there's just a hint of non-consent. Oh, and my apologies to the Moody Blues; same title, certainly not the same theme...or maybe it is...

...and thank you once again, Miss B!

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Did you ever have one of those days where it doesn't pay to get out of bed? Well, that's how mine started.

Waking up late and with a massive hangover, I rushed to take a shower, scalding myself for my trouble because of the shit-works plumbing. My landlord said he'd fixed it half a dozen times already, but, of course, hadn't. In fact, it's gotten worse. Now that comfort zone resting precariously between the extremes of lobster boil and glacial melt water was narrowing to a thin pencil line on the faucets. The stupid cocksucker was always right on time for the rent check, but MIA whenever anything needed to be done in this cracker box he calls an apartment.

After shooting a half a tube of toothpaste into the sink—goddamn these fucking, tamper-proof containers—I scalded myself again, shaving.

Worse, the steam fogged the mirror up so bad I couldn't shave for more than three seconds before wiping it off so I could see what I was doing. In between trying to shave while wiping off the mirror, I gave myself a nice horizontal laceration across the chin.

Blood was dripping everywhere, and of course, most of it dribbled onto my new, plush, white cotton towel I had wrapped around my mid-section.

The bleeding wouldn't stop—Christ, hemophiliacs have better clotting abilities—so I dug through one of the drawers for a styptic pencil. Of course, it was buried deep, and under about a ton of other useless shit that I never use.

The one positive about my apartment was that the cabinets were built solidly out of heavy oak. I found that out when the drawer with its contents landed on my foot, because I pulled on it too hard.

While hopping around on one foot I found the styptic pencil, or should I say, saw it, as it bounced away from me as if by design, coming to rest somewhere behind the toilet.

Bending down to retrieve the pencil, I inadvertently slammed my nose into the side of the toilet tank. I don't think I need to tell you how much blood flowed out of my nose, covering what little white remained on the front of my towel. Fortunately—and I say that with great sarcasm—what blood hadn't dripped on my towel, ended up pooling on the carpet at my feet.

Cleaning the carpets—this, at least, gives the landlord something else to ignore other than the plumbing.

A bloody nose and a smashed foot later, I finally had the styptic pencil in hand, only to find the bleeding from my chin laceration had already stopped—I did have to stuff about a half a roll of toilet paper up my nose before it would stop bleeding, however.

I finally got dressed without killing myself—big surprise—and had just enough time for a quick cup of coffee before catching my bus. Fortunately—and I say that without sarcasm this time—I had one of those timer coffeemakers and always set it up the night before to start brewing when my alarm went off; and it did, right on time. Unfortunately, given my drunken state the night before, I had forgotten to put the carafe under the maker. Now, eight cups of freshly brewed coffee puddled on the kitchen floor, while a nice, burned coffee stench wafted and sizzled off the warming plate. I spent what time I had left before the bus arrived cleaning up the mess.

I was halfway to the bus stop when I saw my bus pass me. I started racing to catch it when the skies opened up into an early morning thunderstorm. Even though I was soaked, I was about twenty feet from my stop, and the bus was still loading passengers.

Things are looking up, I thought, optimistically. I was going to make it.

Tripping on the curb, I skidded about ten feet along the rain-soaked sidewalk on my stomach, knees, and palms of my hands, and coming to rest right at some kid's feet. The little bastard pointed at me while laughing uproariously—at least I made his day. I was about to kick the little fucker in the ass after picking myself—and what was left of my ego—up and off the sidewalk, when I saw my bus pulling away.

I had to wait another ten minutes in the downpour for another bus. My only solace was that if I actually owned an umbrella, I probably would have forgotten it. So, at least I saved myself ten dollars for an umbrella I'd never use.

It stopped raining just as the next bus pulled up to the curb—naturally.

At least I remembered my pass.

Things are looking up, I thought, sardonically.

The bus was crammed with people because of the rain, and the only open space was in the aisle, way in the back.

You'd think the assholes up front could move back to provide space for those just getting on, but that would have meant they weren't assholes to begin with, so no deal there.

As I made my way to the back, pushing past and around the stupid jag-offs standing up front, I stepped on some old lady's clown feet.

At least someone other than me was having a shitty day.

I apologized to her, wondering how she found size seventeen shoes for women, and whether they came with their own zip code.

She called me a 'stupid asshole' as a, 'you're welcome,' as I continued toward the back.

I finally passed the logjam caused by the inconsiderate assholes and that woman's feet, and saw clear sailing to the back of the bus.

As I moved quickly down the aisle, I slipped on what I hoped was a discarded burrito, landing hard on my ass and into a large puddle of rain water that had collected along the floor—at least, I hoped it was rain water, it seemed awfully warm for rain water—and invariably splashed whatever it was across everyone's shoes and pants. Above all the loud murmuring of those nearby questioning my parentage and masturbatory habits, I heard the clown-footed woman cackling at my misfortune.

Jesus, that laugh was like nails against a chalkboard, and must drive all those within earshot, insane. I swear, even dogs and cats must throw themselves into traffic whenever she cracks a joke.

I ignored her. I figured with my luck today she was probably some form of demonic witch, and any further confrontation would just result in her turning my crotch into something unnatural. Besides, I didn't want to attempt passage through the burrito minefield, again.

The rest of the twenty-minute ride was spent being hacked on by some elderly Asian guy. I offered him my handkerchief to keep as much of his SARs-laden phlegm off my clothing, but he declined, saying he never uses them.

I could see his point. Why waste a perfectly good hankie when a stranger's dress shirt was so convenient? He thanked me, at least, before yakking more mucus in my direction.

I tried to move away from him, but a large, oafish goon who smelled of stale cigar smoke mixed with overly ripe cheese, boxed me in.

The thing that bugged me the most was that I was enduring this crap for a job about which I really didn't give a shit. Oh, I was happy to have it—given this economy and the fact that it took me over six months to find it—but it was still a fucking bore. It was a lot of data manipulation and entry with absolutely no thought or imagination involved in the process. Still, it did provide a decent enough paycheck while I looked for something better, so I couldn't complain too hard.

********

I got to the office twenty-minutes late. I tried to make my way to my cubicle without being spotted by my boss, but no such luck. I caught him peering at me through the plate glass window of his enclosed office. He tapped his watch, highlighting my tardiness.

What a tool.

That was the other problem with this job, my boss, Scott Conklin. I've been working here for about six months, and as near as I could figure, he spent most of his time staring at everyone from his office window. Men and women alike, he didn't discriminate with his lecherous leering. You would almost feel his hard stare anytime you left your cubicle to get coffee, or confer with a colleague on something.

Often, his leers were accompanied by an obscene habit he had of touching or tapping fingers to his pursed lips, or scratching his chin absentmindedly as he gave you his patented, moronic smile. His whole demeanor was one of inspecting you, intently, under a microscope. I didn't want to guess what he was thinking, as he stared at you long and hard with that insipid grin on his face.

He gave everyone the creeps. It got so bad at times that very few of the women, and even some of the guys, wouldn't venture away from their desks unless it was lunch or quitting time. We all referred to him as 'Stop Gawking' whenever his name came up in conversation.

He looked a little like Yul Brynner, with his closely cropped hair, heavy brow, and chiseled, hawk-like features—not the older and wiser, more thoughtful, Brynner from 'The Magnificent Seven,' but rather the younger, more petulant Brynner from 'The Ten Commandments' or the 'King and I.'

In fact, whenever Conklin wasn't scratching his chin or tapping his lips as he leered out from his office enclosure, he would often stand with hands on hips, striking a pose as if he were lording over his subjects. All he needed was a pair of red-velvet pantaloons and a short open vest, and he would have struck the very image of Brynner's king.

Etcetera...etcetera...etcetera.

Once I got to my cubicle, I kept my head down and stayed busy with my duties for the rest of the morning.

********

Before I knew it, it was close to lunch time—thank god.

I still had a splitting headache from my hangover, and hadn't eaten anything since the previous night. I was hoping I could sneak out a bit early and get a quick bite from the street vendor, then take a slow walk around the block to clear my head, when that sound that always made my stomach lurch, shattered my plans.

So, what else is new?

The phone intercom crackled to life, loud and inconvenient, as it always did seconds before I'd hear 'Stop Gawking's voice of doom.' He sounded harsh and raspy coming through the poorly designed speaker, "Madison, come into my office before going to lunch."

Fuck me, I'd rather take the toilet in the face again.

I looked at my watch. It read two minutes to twelve. I just knew this asshole's going to keep me through lunch break, probably as punishment for being late.

This was another of Conklin's idiosyncrasies I've come to know and hate, about every two weeks or so, he'd get a bug up his ass about some major company 'brush fire' that needed quelling. Normally, the problem was just in his head, but he always got half of us to spend half the day working to fix his 'problem,' only to be told to forget about it a few hours later. All this shit did was put us behind our normal workload, which we had to make up working late or on weekends, naturally.

Division productivity must sink through the floor every time 'Gawking' had one of these fictitious brush fires that needed to be put out. Upper management had to know this, yet they still kept the moron employed. I figured Conklin had pictures of the company President fucking a goat or something, making him bulletproof.

When I entered his office, right away I knew this wasn't one of those 'brush fire' meetings, given I was the only one there.

"Mr. Gawk...Conklin," I said, quickly catching myself before I shoved a whole foot into my mouth.

Conklin didn't look up for the desk, but indicated for me to sit down in one of the chairs across from him.

He was busy staring at a folder opened in front of him. I watch as his eyes darting back and forth across the pages. Occasionally, they narrowed and darkened, as if he just read a particularly troubling passage. This went on for some time, page after page. My stomach growled, sounding comically loud in the closed, quiet confines of his office. I looked at my watch again.

Fuck, ten after. I might as well forget about lunch.

"You have somewhere to go, Madison?" His voice startled me, coming as it did, unexpectedly loud.

"No Sir," I blurted out, "It's just that I didn't have any break..."

Cutting me off, Conklin finally looked over at me, and asked, "How long have you worked here?"

I had to think for a few moments, "About six months."

Conklin sat back in his chair. His creepy stare was back as he put a finger against his pursed lips—staring at me with that 'bug under the microscope' look. I could feel the hair standing up on the back of my neck. My feet began to sweat and itch.

Finally, he asked, "Six months, and in all that time no one informed you about company policy dealing with internet usage?"

Oh, fuck! I was so fucked!

Part of the problem of having a boring job was often times I needed a diversion from the mind-numbing tedium. Usually, this consisted of playing on-line games for short spells during lunch or perusing—how should I say it—perusing web sites catering in more adult entertainment than games.

I decided playing ignorant wouldn't work. Stupid might, but not ignorant, "Sir, I know this looks bad at face value, but..."

He cut me off again with a malicious laugh, "You college pukes really crack me up. It's like all you dumb fucks think you're still in the frat house and can do whatever you want without consequence. This isn't the frat house, Madison, and I'm not your frat mom, here to cook your meals and wipe your ass."

"Sir, I never belonged to a frat..."

"Shut up!"

Playing stupid wasn't working either; although, in my case, I wasn't playing.

Conklin continued following my interruption, "I'm not paying you to get your rocks off looking at porn."

"Sir, I know it was wrong, but most of the time I was doing it over my lunch break..."

Maybe lying will work.

Conklin laughed again,. Looking back at the folder in front of him, he said with mock surprise, "Lunch break? Really? Here you are logged into a triple-X site at ten-thirty one day. Here's another at around three. Still two more at eleven-fifteen and one-thirty on the same day. Oh and here's four more logons from a week ago. And for each logon, you're spending at least fifteen minutes..."

So much for lying, and yeah, I know, some days I was bored a lot.

"Sir, I know this looks bad, but..."

Conklin continued to ignore my pleas, "You ever hear of Spaulding?"

"The sports equipment company?"

"No, you idiot, Spaulding was the dumb fuck who had your job before you. He was just another dumb fuck frat boy like you, who spent too much company time jagging off to porn. I had this same conversation with that numb-skull about six months ago; right before shit-canning his ass."

I just glimpsed my career circling the drain. Shit, it took me six long, fucking months to land this job, sometimes with barely enough money to afford Ramen Noodles twice a week. Who the fuck knows how long it will take me to find another?

And don't forget what kind of reference you'll get. "Madison's may be just mediocre at data entry, but he's a four star, fucking-off dream at porn surfing, so he's got that going for him."

What happened this morning aside, I was just starting to like the new apartment, shitty plumbing and all, and getting used to having some cash at the end of the month that I could save. Now, it was all going up in smoke.

I was finding it hard to breathe.

Conklin just continued to stare silently at me with those dead eyes. I felt like I was drowning in them, and just like a drowning man, I starting to grasp at anything within reach in order to save my skin. Panicked, I heard myself utter, "Please, Sir, I'll do anything. Just give me a second chance to prove myself."

What a total, dumb fuck move! I knew those words were a mistake the minute they left my mouth.

A self-satisfying smirk crossed Conklin's face.

When I said I'd do anything, I meant working overtime. I'd happily work 50, or even 60 hours a week without complaint or extra pay. Then, what little time I had left on the weekends, I'd go over to his house and cut his lawn if he had one. Shit, if he had any kids, I'd babysit the brats after cutting his lawn. I'd even take the little fucks to Chucky Cheese on my dime, fill them up with pizza and pop while telling them how great I thought their dad was.

However, Conklin didn't have kids. He wasn't even married and he lived in an apartment across town.

Conklin got off his chair and stood in front of me, leaning back against his desk. He made no attempt to hide the sizable bulge in his trousers.

I shot out of my chair and moved away from him as if he had leprosy. Standing on the other side of the room, but still not at a safe enough distance as far as I was concerned, I said, "I don't swing that way. All I meant to say was that I'd work extra hours..."

"It doesn't matter to me whether you swing my way or not. In fact, I get a kick out of turning you straight-acting twinks into cock sluts. And I don't give a shit how many hours you work, just as long as they end with you tonguing my balls."

"Straight acting? Fuck you! Go tongue your own balls, you perv. Better yet, why don't you blow yourself while I go to HR. What do you think they'll say when I tell them you're some sicko perv who blackmails employees into sex. You ever hear of sexual harassment laws?"

Conklin laughed, and asked, "You ever hear of Pete Miller?"

Exasperated that my threat seemed to have little effect on him, I barked, "Who the fuck is Pete Miller?"

"He's a very good friend of mine. He runs our Department of Human Resources. He's the one who would hear your case. He handled Spaulding's case when that dumb fuck had the balls to bring harassment charges against me. They should be getting to his case in a couple more years. Until then, why don't you say hello to Spaulding for me when you see him in the unemployment line."

"So, I'll just bypass HR and get a lawyer, myself," I said, defiantly.

"Fine, you can phone your crap-weasel lawyer from the unemployment line. I'm sure Spaulding will let you borrow his phone. If he can still afford one, that is."

Conklin turned his back on me as a dismissal.

He was such an arrogant fuck and didn't pretend to hide it, probably because he was right. I guess that's what pissed me off the most about this situation—he knew me and what I would do, all too well.

Oh, I could have gotten a lawyer, brought charges, and waited for my case to be heard sometime in the far future. In the meantime, I'd still be looking for another job and eating Ramen Noodles three times a week, while any extra money went to my shit-bag lawyer. Then, when the money well finally runs dry, even my lawyer tells me to go fuck myself...

Conklin had me by the balls and he knew it.

"Okay, okay," I said, defeated. Sitting back down in the chair, I pleaded again, "Can't we just talk about this first? Isn't there something else, anything else, I can do to set things right?"

Conklin stood close to me, so close that his bulge nearly brushed against my cheek.

He ran his fingers through my hair, as he said, "This is going to end in only one of two ways, Jeff. You can either, unzip me and get to doing what I know you'll love doing, or you can start cleaning out your desk."

Jeff? The fucking prick just called me Jeff. Since when did we get on a first-name basis?

When you decided to suck his cock to keep your job. That's when, you dummy.

For the longest time I stared at that lump in his pants. Reluctant to do what I knew I had to do.

I could see the lump moving, growing. It shifted about, ever higher, along his zipper as the blood must be flowing fast and furious into his muscle, stiffening it against the fabric.