ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM
                        
***BIO*** Melissa Sharpe: I have previously been published in Pennsylvania English, Redivider and Nerve Cowboy.
You Can See Them Coming
by Melissa Sharpe
  When Mortimer realized you couldn't actually see through keyholes, at least not the ones manufactured after 1900, he had to do something else.
    It hadn't always been this way.  Mortimer was able to entertain himself.  He could find something to do.  Something productive and useful.  At least a little.  But since the layoff he had run out of things to do.  Hobbies piled up in the basement - missing pieces, incomplete, no money for the much needed paint or glue or wood burning tool.  And the wife, oh lord the wife.  So there was no option left but to find a new job.
    "At least something part time, Mort.  I'm fucking tired of your dishes.  You leave them on the damn arm of the chair like its no big nothing.  What?  What is that?"
    The only available part time position, the only offered part time position, was supervising two forklift drivers as they brought in boxes of whatever it was Mitchell's Gifts sold.  Gifts, Mortimer presumed.
    Mortimer scanned barcodes with a gun-like thing, sometimes pretending to shoot Indians hiding between the scurvy ridden trees of a Michigan forest.  Pwuu.  Pwuu.
    Sometimes one of the guys would drop a box.  Mortimer figured that six out of ten times something broke.  Broken items equaled forms.  At first Mortimer considered pretending that the event didn't happen.  And this would have been just fine because the guy to blame tried to either a) pick the box up real fast like things don't break because of the fall but because of time spent on the ground or b) kick any pieces that appeared under, or behind, something else.
    But broken items meant open boxes.  It meant knowing what was inside.  Forms be damned this was Mitchell's Gifts and Mortimer got to open some.
    On a Tuesday the one guy dropped a box.  "Bring 'er over!" Mortimer called.  He had been counting tallies loosely based on things possibly in stock.  They gave him a box cutter when he was hired and he got to wear it on the loop of his pants.  Like a badge.  But sharp.  It was the type with an orange handle - the new ones employers who went to professional development were encouraged to supply employees with should they go crazy and try to attack you.  You can see them coming.
    The warehouse was gray, save Mortimer's box cutter.  The box didn't see him coming.
    Potpourri.
    Cinnamon, or something red and brittle and fragrant against the cardboard and sawdust soaked grease smell of the warehouse.  The box was filled with cellophane bags knotted up top with ribbon.  Mortimer looked at the bags, across the warehouse left and right and back at the bags.  "It's all busted up man!  No worries, I'll handle it."
    "Thanks, Mort."
    "No prob, guy."  Mortimer began the paperwork for five broken vases.  Any store that carried potpourri carried vases.
*   *   *
    After work Mortimer gave his wife two bags of the potpourri.  It crinkled in her hands as she held it by her face for a sniff.  She had been waiting for a gift of some sort since Mortimer started work at Mitchell's Gifts.  She figured if he was surrounded by giving he would get the hint.  Finally he's making something of himself, she thought.  He had been attractive when they were younger, of course, with his ripped pants and shaggy hair and legion of girls phone numbers etched on ripped paper, napkin fragments and other people's business cards.  But her proverbial landed whale turned 47 the day after that like nothing happened.  Mostly because nothing had happened.
    Until the potpourri.
    Dried flowers and curls and pokey things.  No holiday required (which typically crossed with little fanfare).  No birthday (whose gifts were off base, random at best).  For once Mortimer wasn't her clueless, jobless to semi-jobless ex-teenager.  He was a man.
    A man left with a box full of potpourri minus two bags.
*   *   *
    Step One:  Try to sell it.
    Aside from being a mute button for wives, potpourri was also the cash crop for someone - or they wouldn't make it in the first place.  If Mitchell could sell it, so could Mortimer.
    He parked his car near the entrance of a strip mall parking lot.  After buying poster board from the Rite Aid and returning to get a permanent marker, Mortimer sat on his bumper holding a sign - "$5 potpourri" - with the box at his feet.
    It was a slow day.  Surprisingly, two people stopped by.  Women.  Women who looked in the box and lifted a bag and smelled the knotted top.  "That's kinda nice."  But then, to Mortimer's surprise they… Put.  It.  Down.  And left.
    Business plans and strategies ran through Mortimer's head.  He got an idea.  He should have checked to see what Mitchell was selling his potpourri for.  Then he could sell for less.  Competition.  Maybe he should make it seem like a deal.  Mortimer looked at the sky and squinted.  This was the way he always pictured great ideas happening.
    The sign now read "$5 potpourri" with a $15 crossed out near the $5 and an "Imported!" at the bottom in block letters.
    It took 20 minutes for his next customer to show up.  "Fifteen dollars!  Wow!  What kind of potpourri is this?" A woman again.  A woman who sniffed and pondered and did not hand Mortimer five dollars.
    He was about to pack up and move, or just call it a day, when the cops showed up and told Mortimer he had to go with the second option.  And so he did.
*   *   *
    Step Two:  Try to sell potpourri again.
    This time it was in the mall parking lot.  People looking to spend, spend, spend.  People who could appreciate an 86% or 75% or something discount on a quality import.  Mortimer hadn't done the math.
    Mortimer made ten dollars.  It was a good day until he did the math and figured he earned $2.43 an hour.  Not worth it.  Had to think big.
*   *   *
    Step Three:  Sell potpourri to stores.
    Mortimer knew two things about his potpourri.  It was red and spicy and Mitchell's Gifts bought it by the box.  By the big box that Mortimer was tired of carrying.
    "Good afternoon, Laurie's Lovelies," the phone answerer answered the phone.
    "Good afternoon.  My name is Mortimer and I'm a small, very small, supplier of potpourri.  I'm looking to start doing business in your area and I'd like you to consider my red and spicy blend."
    "You can stop by on Tuesdays between 10 and noon to meet with our buyer.  Bring samples."
    "Great."
    Two problems - Mortimer worked on Tuesday and he wasn't going to give his inventory away.  He only had one box.
*   *   *
    Step Four:  Screw Laurie's Lovelies.  It was all about the restaurant and hotel sector.
    Mortimer rested his elbows on the counter of the Marriott near his house and said "Know what this lobby needs?"
    At the inn with weekly rates:  "Know what your rooms could really use?"
    And at the 24-hour diner:  "No joke man, your bathroom needs it."
    One gas station attendant bought a bag.  It was 11pm.  Mortimer was supposed to be picking up cigarettes.  He had made five dollars in potpourri sales that week.  Something was definitely going to have to change.
*   *   *
    Step Five:  Research.
    The library book said things about saturated markets and consumer behavior and other stuff and Mortimer decided to close the book.
*   *   *
    Step Six:  Logic.
    Mortimer knew that Mitchell's Gifts bought this potpourri.  He knew they must do that because their customers buy it.  Bingo.
    Mortimer parked his car near the Mitchell's Gifts parking lot entrance and awaited his first big sale and second and third.  He planned on buying lunch with the money.  A burger with horseradish sauce and pepperoncinis.  Something exotic like that.  If he sold more than the price of a burger he'd buy another meal the next day.  Food.  Good, restaurant food.  That's what he wanted and deserved and if he made enough he might even take his wife.  He'd get a car wash at the place that cleans the inside of the car, too.
    "Mort?"  It was Stacey.  A sales rep who sometimes came in back to double check barcodes.
    Ten minutes later Mortimer was fired.  And now he didn't even have any potpourri to sell.
*   *   *
    Mortimer had been fired before so he knew how it went.  The forms sent, or not sent, to the state - depending on if there were stamps in the house or not.  The wife, the fights, the shit she does with a calculator and sighs.  He'd done it before and was done with it, thank you.
    All he needed was a place to go during his shift.  Mortimer went to the movies.  Walked around the lobby seven times before and after his movie and stood in one place counting how many times the rotating light reading "star" ran across his chest, appearing on the floor behind him twisting and swerving and back up another wall.  There was glitter in the cement steps outside and Mortimer quite liked his new job.  If only it paid.
    "Got any applications for employment by any chance?"
    "Maybe.  You can fill it out.  Dunno if they're hiring."  The ticket counter girl was short and roundish.  She had a shitty job nowhere near the cool lights making little money and she was giving Mortimer a brush-off.
    "I'm retired you know.  An engineer.  Like $90,000 a year.  Just trying to kill time," he lied and lied and lied and didn't.  "Don't be a bitch."  Mortimer cringed and watched his career disappear under the ticket counter.  She didn't even take out an application.  Just folded her arms and said: "Try me.  Try it, jackass."
    Mortimer took a step back into the thick arm of a part-time security guard who probably jumped off garage roofs on the weekend.  (Mortimer saw a clip once on a friend's computer).  He was asked, then made, to leave.
    Mortimer was shocked at what the world had come to.  He was certain a girl would cry if he called her a bitch.
*   *   *
    New mission.
    The next day Mortimer went for a walk.  He parked his car a few minutes from his house and walked to a gas station.  Mortimer grabbed a thing of candy.  They were orange and green shapes.  Looked sour.  Had the granules on it.  Mortimer didn't care because the candy was just a prop.  He took it to the register.
    "It's two for 55 cents you know.  You can get another."
    Mortimer looked at his candy.  The top of the bag was sealed with an orange slip of cardboard and sure enough "2/.55" was stamped inside a neon yellow circle.  It was an odd price, but a good one, so he grabbed another - rationalizing that the props were also his reward.
    "That's a dumbass price, you bitch."
    "Fuck you," she said, tossing his change off the counter, his candy into his chest.
    Lucky for Mortimer it was only the morning.  He sat on the curb and ripped open his candy.  It was sour, but harder than he expected.
*   *   *
    Not even ten minutes later a woman with two kids walked near.  Perfect, he thought.  "Stop being such a bitch, you bitch."  Mortimer figured the second "bitch" would be his savior.  He got kicked in the shins.
    From the gas station to the church women swore, threw, kicked and flipped him off.  None cried.
    They were all like his wife.  So sure that they were not only his equal, but better in some way.  Like what Mortimer did didn't affect them, he didn't make a difference.  He could be there or not be there.  Decent for yelling at, OK for some money, but nothing else.  And the word bitch - so spitty and flustered out of his mouth - couldn't make him matter.  Mortimer hoped that they went home for dinner and told their husbands about it, that they were unable to sleep because his words ruined their soft, pink brains.
    When the girl in high heels shot up her middle finger and said "fuck off creep" without even breaking her stride, or phone call, he knew he was forgotten by the next block.
*   *   *
    At home, Mortimer's wife had bought a new remote for the TV.  The old one needed its batteries taped in and the new one was a universal remote she had programmed in seconds while Mortimer was out there calling strangers bitches.
    He sat down and figured he needed a new plan.  Without any potpourri to sell or tears to relish he needed something to do.
*   *   *
    Day three of no job was the day for rocks.  Mortimer decided to throw the rocks from the middle school garden onto the grass.  It seemed minor but he could sense the radiating significance.  Rocks in grass meant so long lawn mower.  Mortimer's greatness was here at last.  As a bonus he ripped out a few plants and stomped mud on the "Garden Club" plaque.  Second bonus:  if a club member saw him, they might cry.
    Mortimer stepped over to peer through a classroom window.  Students were doing something with newspapers in groups around tables.  Mortimer tapped on the glass.  When the table of girls nearest to him turned, he ripped a small flowering plant in half.  Sweet salvation.  Through the window he heard:  "What the fuck?"
    Mortimer ran away, breathless and scared.  A table full of middle school girls.  He was pathetic.
*   *   *
    The next day, day four, was payday.  He had a reason to return to Mitchell's Gifts.  He had a reason to walk up to Stacey and tell her that she too was a bitch.  Just like the others but even more so because she did something that got him fired.  Only Stacey wasn't working and someone he barely knew handed him his check as soon as he walked in the door.  Had they been waiting?  Was he expected, anticipated, feared?  "Good timing.  Just printed these off," the employee said, ruffling through the envelopes.
*   *   *
    Mortimer was starting to get tired off all the plans he had been making lately but knew he couldn't take a break yet.  So he went back to where he was most successful.  The mall.
    After picking the perfect bench Mortimer crossed his legs at the ankle and started.  "Bitch.  Bitch.  Bitch.  Bitch.  Bitch."  He earned a few turned heads, a few looks of puzzlement, but no tears.  He didn't even have the energy to make it an insult anymore.  He had to give up and try something different.
    Walking into a store at random he stood near a woman holding up a shirt.  "You are too fat for that," Mortimer said, proud of his spontaneity.  "And you are a bitch."  She gasped, clutched the shirt to her as if she was naked and took a few steps back.  Confused and worried and put on pause for a moment her face fell, full of shock.  She was pale and stuttered and seemed ready to fall.  She was shorter, smaller, her eyes growing rounder and larger against her shrinking frame.  A person had never changed so much in front of him before.  By the time she yelled for someone to help her, Mortimer didn't care if he got physically removed from the premises again.
*   *   *
    Mortimer went for the apartment complex near the lake because there were lots of people in apartment complexes.  It was like fishing.  If he went where there were not a lot of fish, his chances of getting one would be low.  If he went where there were tons of fish, his chances were high.  Plus, Mortimer wouldn't have to walk outside as he went from house to house.
    Mortimer picked the fifth floor because it was his fifth day of no job and he was a fan of symbolic meaning.  Once off the elevator Mortimer walked a few doors to the left, turned and chose the right.  This way he would be "right".  Mortimer was confident.
    At door 517 Mortimer bent a little at the knees and tried to look through the crack of the door.  There wasn't really a crack at all, the door met up with the wall pretty damn close.  The biggest crack was at the floor level but when Mortimer got down on all fours he realized it wasn't really a crack either.  Carpet filled in the space.
    So Mortimer tried to look through the keyhole.  The lock had a pretty big hole in it but when he put his eye to it there was nothing but blackness and the reflection of his own eyelashes.
    Just to be safe Mortimer tried this at the next few doors.  Wherever he learned the technique, they were wrong.  Mortimer had to do something else.
*   *   *
    Back to the library for research.  Mortimer didn't know what was being researched this time, but he couldn't go to his old work, he definitely couldn't go to the movie theatre or the mall, and the gas station attendant had a good arm so he had to stay away from there.  This left the library.  Mortimer figured once he was inside, inspiration would hit.
    Mortimer sat down at a table and watched the people.  It was a pretty slow day and there were librarians near him.  Mortimer did some calculating.  They may not be able to remove him, but they may have some guys in back who could.  This meant Mortimer had to get out of their sight.
    The most private place in the library was the reference room.  It was off on its own and ignored by most people because people don't reference, they just say and do.  Mortimer walked into the room and pulled a book off a shelf.  It was something about butterflies.  He flipped through some pages and ripped one out.  He left it on the floor.  This way, even if he failed at his primary mission, the ripped butterfly could complete it for him in his absence.
    Mortimer waited.
    The reference room had some encyclopedias in it that weren't the regular kind.  Mortimer picked up one on medicine, Volume G-J, and ruffled its pages.  Mortimer made up a game.  He would pick one page then go down to the fifth line, pick the fifth word and call someone by that name.  Plus bitch, because that was a good finisher.  Mortimer closed his eyes, flipped, stopped and pointed to a word.
    He shook his head, ignoring the disappointment for forgetting his own rules, and counted out five and five.
    Vulva.
    It couldn't have been more perfect.  Mortimer read a little to make sure a vulva was what he thought it was (it was) and he closed the book with one hand, holding it above his head.
    Twenty minutes later he was still standing in the reference room.  Alone.  Vulva book still in hand.  Mortimer looked out the door of the reference room into the rest of the library "free need some help cookies in here" he called, mumbling the two phrases together.  If "need some help" didn't entice someone, "free cookies" would.
    Five minutes later Mortimer was still alone.  He found a chair in a back corner and pulled it out to the middle of the room where he could see if anyone decided to come in.  Flipping through the pages of his encyclopedia, Mortimer decided to find a second word.
    Gestation.
    That word was stupid.  The whole book was stupid.  Just as he was about to throw the book across the floor Mortimer caught a glimpse of something.
    This wasn't just any medical encyclopedia, it happened to be one with pictures of naked women in it.  They may have been standing like paper doll cut outs, arms just a little out to the side, still and tall, heads missing or eyes blacked out, but they were naked.  And they were endless.
    The thin ones were most interesting.  Mortimer wondered if he would call them bitch or not.  If they would cry, or like it.  These girls couldn't leave or ignore him.  They were stuck on the page.  They were oh so naked.
    Mortimer did what he had to do, without even deciding or planning.  He tugged on his zipper and invited himself out, well lookee who has come to dinner, just as someone was inviting themselves in.
    She was thin like some of the pictures, with a messy ponytail and sandals on her feet.  "Oh!" she gasped.  Mortimer looked up, dropped the book and froze.  He felt himself shrinking and looking confused so he did what he had to:  "vulva bitch!" he yelled at the girl who went running from the reference room.
*   *   *
    Mortimer had counted a lot of things, like days and jobs and plans and bags of potpourri but when the judge sentenced him to 30 days in jail and five years of probation and meetings with some group about something or the other, Mortimer didn't know where to start counting or where to stop.  The girl from the reference room had sat on a red chair near the judge and said:  "He was, like, just sitting there.  Holding himself.  Weird.  Like no big deal.  I don't even think he was doing it right."
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© 2009 zygoteinmycoffee Ink.
Oct. 2009
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