Chapter 3 – Call for Obstruction

So far, Barry collided with a courier van, and when he couldn’t find the driver he called the courier service and was offered a job. When he shows up at OTG Courier, he meets Margery, a bizarre tiny and old lady who will be his boss. She gets him to sign a contract, but he doesn’t remember doing so and is burping up smoke. She warns him he’d better show up for work in the morning.

The clock reads 4:40 a.m. and I’ve been staring at a crack in the ceiling for the last forty minutes. This is probably the earliest I’ve ever woken up in my life. No longer able to fight the overwhelming urge to take a leak, I roll our of bed. Slumped over, I rub crust out of my eyes and shuffle down the hall to the bathroom. I think how it’s way too dark for anyone to be awake.

After taking a long piss, I scratch my protruding ribs, turn away from the toilet and headed for the kitchen to fix a bowl of fruity flavored cereal. Five steps later, I collapse down on my rock hard couch, a graduation gift from my mom when I earned my Master’s degree. She calls it a divan and it’s uncomfortable for a reason, as in ‘Don’t get too settled in your apartment, son. Your place is with me.’

The cereal bowl clinks when I put it down on the glass top coffee table. I reach over an empty pizza carton and game controller for the TV remote. It rings and vibrates in my hand; I jump and drop it. Oh, I think when I realize I’d picked up my cell phone instead. Not sure how I made that mistake.

The word ‘Margery’ is on the display. How the hell’d she get her number on my phone? She’s wasting her time. I have no intention of driving one of those damn red vans for her. Still, my body further stiffens the longer ‘Useful Idiot’ plays on my phone. When the voicemail doesn’t pick up, I holler, “Shut up!”

The music stops.

“Barry . . . Barry, is that you.” It’s Margery, calling out through the unanswered phone in her usual irritated tone.

I jump backward on the couch, kick up one foot and whack my shin on the corner of the glass table. “Shit,” I call out, then cuss some more in his head. While rubbing the throbbing welt, my eyes are transfixed on the glowing cell phone, hoping she will just go away, give up.

“Honey, I can hear you breathing.” Her voice turns baritone and slows, like a vinyl record played backward. “Get your ass to work.”

I put the phone to my ear, but don’t speak.

“Pick me up a coffee on your way, Coffee Hut, a block before Revere. Tell ‘em you’re picking up for Margery.”

My heart races, pissed off at her nerve. Who is this woman? I wonder then blurt out all I can think to say, “I’m sick.”

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry to hear that. What’s wrong? Got the flu?”

“Yeah. The flu.” Instantaneously, my stomach churns and gurgles. I hold my palm against it and wonder if Margery’s somehow responsible when I hear her cackle.

“Tell me it’s not the diarrhea? I hate the diarrhea.”

“Been up all night with it,” I lie. This time, sharp gas-pains stab at my bowel and sound off like a growling Rottweiler.

“Well, honey, I tell you what. Come on down to the warehouse and I bet your flu goes away in a hurry.”

“I don’t know. I’m feeling pretty bad.” I lean to one side and pass a long audible wave of burning gas that turns damp.

“I guarantee it, honey. Besides, I know where you live, and if I have to send someone after you, it’ll be much worse than a little Montezuma’s Revenge.” Margery’s laugh turns deep and ominous.

At that moment, my bowels loosen out of control. I jump to my feet, still clutching the phone as I run for the bathroom.

“Don’t forget my coffee.” Margery yells through the phone, right before the call disconnects.