Now the thrilling conclusion to Jumping the Monkey. Will the narrator turn on Shefsky? Will the boss learn how to park? How does any of this tie-in with Wil Wheaton? All will be revealed below…
“I should get back to work,” I said.
“This paperwork will be right here, and if at any point today you feel the urge to stop by and chat, it’ll be waiting for you.”
“How long might it wait?”
“Till 2 PM.”
And that was that. I had to decide by 2 PM whether or not to destroy Bob Shefsky or be fired myself. Hell of a way to start a weekend. 8 AM and I already wanted strong drink. And Shefsky wasn’t helping the cravings. That morning, he bounded into my cubicle like a kid on Christmas morning. He looked damn good for fifty.
“Remember that place I told you about in North Carolina?” he asked.
“Your retirement dream home?”
“That’s the one. Got the phone call from the Realtor. We sign on Saturday.”
“Congratulations.”
“Yeah. I threw all my spare cash into that place. Took a second mortgage. But hey, what the heck, I’m two weeks from being out of here. Got that pension coming.”
“How’s your daughter?” When he said pension, I almost puked up my coffee. It was foul brew since the janitors made it at 5 AM. By 8 AM when everyone showed up it was halfway to bile. I tried to hate Bob like I hated the coffee. It wasn’t working.
“I forget to tell you, the oldest one is getting married! Found out about ten days ago. That’s the other reason I took out the new mortgage. I’m fronting the whole shebang. You’re coming, right?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Of course you’ll come! You’re like a second son to me.”
“Thanks, Bob.”
“You know, I tell you there’s a lot of real scum in this place. People who stab you in the back. But you, you were always good to me. I always knew exactly where I stood with you. No hidden agenda. I appreciate it. I’ll miss you, kid.”
This was the moment I needed Shefsky to be a scourge like the boss. Why couldn’t he be a jerk for once? Give me some kind of reason to hate him. Because Shefsky wasn’t a jerk, that’s why. Just an old man who had put in his time already, and was about to get screwed because it made a spreadsheet look better.
Until lunch, I blocked out my problems and focused on the work. Gave into repetition and monotony. For every job I’ve ever had, there’s been a basic script. If you follow the script, everything is fine. Fight the script and either boredom or frustration takes over. Some jobs take longer to master, but in the end once you find the groove, it’s just lather, rinse, and repeat.
At 12 PM Shefsky offered to buy me lunch and wouldn’t take no for an answer. He insisted. I drove and picked a quiet place a bit too far from the office for everyone but upper management. They didn’t care if lunch took three hours. Shefsky didn’t waste any time.
“So what did she offer you?” asked Shefsky.
“What?”
“What did she offer you to steam roll me?”
“I really don’t want to do it, but if I don’t get you fired…”
“…you’re fired.” Shefsky finished for me. “She wants to you to sign something that says I made a pass at you?”
“How the hell do you know all this?”
“Because she’s playing both of us. I’m supposed to sign the same statement, except it’s about you. She’s trying to get us both to fire ourselves. Saves her the dirty work and the company saves on severance.”
“That no good, god…”
“Stop right there. You’re raising my blood pressure. I can think of a few words too.”
“What are we going to do about this?”
“What can we do? He finished his beer. “I’m old and on the way out. And about to be broke. You’re young and dumb. Well, dumb anyway.”
“This is crap. She can’t get away with this. We’ve got to tell somebody.”
“Nice thinking, kid. Who’s going to listen?”
Shefsky was right. We were nobodies, stuck in a nowhere existence two hours from unemployment. I didn’t know anyone of importance. My mind considered the possibilities. I’m kinda ADHD and I remembered something from the newspaper that had nothing to do with anything. There were a few write ups about new book releases, the New York Times best seller list, and an ad on the second to last page. Something about that tiny ad was familiar. Wait, a local book signing. Wil Wheaton had a signing at 1 PM, just a few blocks from the restaurant. I wasn’t particularly fond of his work, but if it made the papers at all, there might be a reporter there. And if there wasn’t, his publicist would be there. Now we just had to get his attention. If we were going to go down, we might as well be extreme. Excited, I told Shefsky my plan. He was dubious.
“The only thing is,” I said. “We’ll need some kind of documentation. Otherwise it’s libel.”
“If you get a reporter’s ear, I’ve got proof.” Shefsky pulled out three rolled up sheets. His version of the written statement from the boss. “I made a photocopy when she went to the bathroom. You don’t get to be my age without learning how to cover your ass.”
I smiled.
The line for autographs at the store was thirty minutes long. That’s about twenty-eight more minutes worth of fans than I thought Wil Wheaton had. I didn’t see any security. I wasn’t the tail end of the crowd, which was a good thing, because the more people around the better. Shefsky spotted a reporter in the corner, prepping questions for a post-book signing interview.
At last my turn came. Then boss walked in with her own copy. Great. Another reason to dislike Wil Wheaton. She cut ahead of everyone including me and said to Shefsky, “Thanks for saving my spot in line.”
Two times in the same day was too much. “Excuse me, the line forms behind,” I said, pointing to the rear.
She look confused, as if I had told her to change the toilet paper in the men’s room, instead of reminding her of basic courtesy. “Oh…uh…”
“Line is back there, lady.” Someone behind said.
The boss retreated in a huff.
“Would you like it personalized?” Wil asked me.
“Please. Make it out to Bob Shefsky.”
“OK. Here you go. Thanks for coming out today,” said Wil.
How very grateful he was. Until I punched him in the face. Really, I cracked him pretty hard. True, Wil wasn’t ready for it, but he sort of crumpled like a five-year old in a heap on top of a stack of his books. I expected someone to stop me right after that, but everyone was so shocked. They stood, confused. Then I thought someone might help him, but they didn’t do that either. They all just stared at the pool of blood forming underneath his head where he slumped on the table. No one spoke. Stress affected people in strange ways.
The reporter approached. “How pathetic. How much did he pay you?”
“What?” I asked.
“This is the crappiest publicity stunt ever. He paid you to act like you hit him, didn’t he? To get some sympathy ink. Like Geraldo or Moby.”
“Wait a sec. I really hit him.” This I didn’t expect. Sure, somebody had asked me why I did it. I never suspected someone would doubt the attack was real.
“Why would you do it unless he paid you? He’s an actor after all.”
“Can someone call a doctor?” I said. “This guy needs one.”
“You mean this is an act?” asked someone behind me. “Pathetic.”
“Faker than fake,” said the reporter. “Come on Wil, wake up, or you can kiss your interview goodbye.” Apparently, Wil wasn’t listening.
“Loser. Faking an attack.” A few people dropped out of the line.
“Jesus Christ. I just assaulted someone in broad daylight. “How about a doctor and the cops?” I felt like turning myself into the police just then. Mostly to get the hell away from these zombies.
“Since Wil’s not talking, let’s hear your ‘deranged fan’ reason,” asked the reporter.
“I’m not a deranged fan,” I said. “I’m probably deranged at this moment, but I’m just a normal guy who was between a rock and a hard place. This morning my boss asked me to say some guy, a good guy, made a sexual advance at me. If I didn’t do it, she’d fire me.”
“Oh the drama. You’re a worse actor than he is. You two really need to work on that routine.”
And that’s when things got really strange. The boss, who saw the whole situation, fainted. I guess everyone thought that was an act too, because only Shefsky came to her aid. He rushed over and discovered the boss had had a heart attack. The doctors said later he was the reason the boss lived. He performed CPR just in time, and restarted her heart. A real hero, that Shefsky.
Maybe the reporter hadn’t listened to me, but when Shefsky rescued the boss, they saw a real story. And Shefsky told the reporter everything. He was very quotable. The reporter was horrified to learn of the blackmail attempt. Disgusted by the boss, the board RIFed her after she returned from medical leave. Even thought they hadn’t wanted to pay out, Shefsky got his pension.
I got arrested, but the prosecutor went with the reporter’s version that the attack was staged. No charges were filed. I even got interviewed.
I heard Wil Wheaton blogged about the incident. He went with the reporter’s take, too.

NOTE: The above work ( Jumping the Monkey, Copyright 2005 Sam Hilliard ) is made available under the Creative Commons License for Attribution-NonCommercial 2.0 license. You may redistribute the work for noncommercial use as long as the license and the copyright notice remains attached to the work.

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Thank you Michael Jackson for resting his case without presenting a shred of defense. At last a move that expedites the trial of the week. Oh, what a trial it has been.

Bold maneuvers at this level are a gamble. With a solitary gesture his defense said to the jury: not only did the prosecution not prove the case, recognizing any claim they made isn’t worth our time, because they are all big fat lying doodie heads.

On the plus side, the jurors aren’t bogged down further with the ordeal, and see the end is in sight. That may lead towards more favorable sentiments towards Micheal. However, much communication comes down to tone and body language. If the maneuver appeared arrogant given the evidence, resting without a defense can enrage both the judge and the jury. Given the length of the prosecution’s presentation, taking a chance like this seems foolhardy. Perhaps his play, right out of Martha Stewart cookbook, might draw similar results. Well don’t worry Michael, Martha only got six months in Camp Cupcake.

If found guilty, there’s a special place for Michael. Very special. It’s called general population in the California State Penitentiary system. Only the best 2.3 percent of the population can call it home.

You can call it Neverland.

As promised, part one of a new two part short story - Jumping the Monkey. The more comments the better. Keep in mind this story verges on farce and is, let’s hope, humorous above all else.

Let’s get the facts straight: I didn’t rush around everyone waiting in line and pop Wil Wheaton. First I asked for his autograph. Then I punched him in the face. I was polite. Assaulting a quasi-public figure sounds so violent, evil even.
I’m not a violent person by nature. Not much of anything, really, other than average. In high school I was all Cs. Since graduation, I haven’t improved much. The minimum effort keeps my bills paid and my head above water. I look more or less like everyone else, and don’t stand out in a crowd. You pass a thousand guys like me every day on the drive to work. Neither of us waves.
Maybe I’m just a bit different because of a pseudo-celebrity sucker punch, but there’s nothing special about that. And there really shouldn’t be. In the end, the outcome of this was a much bigger deal for everyone else than it was to me. When the interest died down, everything went back to normal. Which is weird, because besides Wil, his family, and the police, I’m not sure why anyone even cared.
Just say I had punched Jamie Foxx in the face. Now that would’ve been a big, big story, because a little man socking an A-lister meant an entire team of bodyguards had dropped the ball. Famous stars pay a premium for security and they deserve service for their money. With lunatics wandering about who fixate on celebs, they need bodyguards. Besides the buff security details on the lookout for nuts, most people genuinely adore Jamie Foxx. He’s an all around nice guy, with a nice family. Punching Jamie Foxx is like kicking Mother Teresa in the stomach. There’s no good defense for either, and no one would respect the bastard who did it. I sure as hell wouldn’t.
But Wil Wheaton? Why, that’s another matter altogether; a different scenario. Am I saying I don’t respect Wil? Not at all. Does he deserve a beat down? I’m no judge or jury. Probably not, though. I’m just describing the events that afternoon, documenting my thoughts in the moments before the scene. Everything happens for a reason, you see. Everything.
The day began like most when Princess, the dog next door, howled at 6 AM. She was a pocket dog, one those teeny canines that weigh less than a cat. The little she-beast had a bark like a hound from hell. Every time the paper boy rode by on the bike with the banana seat and orange flag, Princess sounded off. Princess needed some Xanax.
I borrowed a newspaper from the neighbor’s lawn for about thirty minutes, returning it minus the TV guide and the book reviews. He didn’t read and he didn’t own a TV. Actually, he used to have a TV. Now it was in my apartment. A nice set too, with a flat panel screen, and clear, bright picture. I sure couldn’t afford a set like that. It’s kind of a funny tale, actually. You see, the neighbor’s doctor told him he had cancer and would be dead in two months. Certain the end was near, he sold his possessions at a garage sale. My roommate picked up the set for a dollar. That was three years ago. I argued for returning the television. It only seemed right, but the roommate warned if I tried anything like that he would steal the set back on general principles.
After two slices of cold pizza, I read the book reviews, showered, and dressed. Business casual like always: khakis and a polo shirt with no logo. Instant termination awaited any employee who wore a shirt with a logo inside the building. The surest way out the door was advertising for another firm. They didn’t care which company or the cause. Any graphic was forbidden. Really an odd policy, because the job required very little customer contact, and all of that was over the phone, so appearance didn’t count for much. The bosses were so worried about the logos, they hardly noticed other abuses. Like that half the employees ran businesses from their cubicles. Or the others who took two hour lunches. I exercised my own perks, too. Let’s just say I shopped in the supply closet now and again.
That particular morning I took care shaving. Often, I’ll rush through it and miss a tiny spot under the chin or on the neck. Not that day. Something told me — hey buddy, look sharp today.
When a voice like that spoke to me, I listened. Especially my own. Nah, I don’t hear voices. Talking to myself was creepy, and I didn’t really do it. At least not when anyone was around. In a room all by myself with the news on full blast, yeah, I’ve had a few arguments with the newscasters over the stupidity of government or whatnot. Probably the same amount of gripes as the next guy.
My boss had snagged the last parking spot by whipping her 5 series BMW around me at the last instant. As she walked into the building, I waved like there were no hard feelings, and considered keying her car. No, that would be wrong. The alternate plan: avoid her for a few hours. She had her own course of action.
Before I strapped on my phone headset, the boss requested a quick convo in her office, so I followed her into the small room at the corner. The more difficult the subject, the more she expected a subordinate to drive the conversation. Since asking me down the hall she hadn’t said a word. Which meant there was a big problem.
“What’s up, boss?” I asked.
“Between you and me, we’re looking at a 40 percent RIF across the board.” A reduction in force. Cutbacks, layoffs, terminations, downsizing - whatever the phrase was this year - lots of people were getting canned. For some reason the boss thought I liked her, so she often shared confidential details. At that moment, I should have only known what everyone else did, which was that the company had posted record profits last week. That and the CFO got caught on the couch with a hooker before a board meeting. She continued. “It was supposed to be 20 percent, but our return on equity is down and the analysts demand action.”
“It’s a tightrope act.”
“This is one wire I don’t want to walk.”
This whole conversation soured more by the second. “So how can I help you today, boss?”
“I don’t want to see you go. Still…we have to reduce every department by 40 percent, and your group is one of the smallest. The scales are against your favor.”
“We are an elite but dedicated squad.”
“I know. I hand picked all of you.” Another outright lie. Like most bosses she took credit for everything. She inherited the entire department from a manager fired for skimming profits.
“And we’re sure lucky to have you.” One lie deserved another. And I needed that job.
“Thanks. You’ve got a good attitude. Now there’s one way you can help me help you.” She pulled out three-page typed letter, stapled at the upper left hand corner. It looked like a confession, and I said as much. It was worse than that. “You know the trouble we’ve had with Shefsky…” she started.
Bob Shefsky was a kind man who despite his age had weathered six reorganizations and twenty-five years with the company. The only trouble with Shefsky was that he was due a pension in two weeks. I hadn’t a clue where she was headed with this, but suspected it was bad. “Exactly what is the trouble with Shefsky?”
“As I understand it from this sworn statement right before you, he attempted to coerce you into a sexual relationship on several occasions. He threatened you with physical violence if you denied his advances. I only learned of this today.”
“You want me to sign this?”
“It’s imperative that I ensure a safe and happy workplace.”
“What happens to Shefsky?”

With the change of the seasons, so goes my scheduling abilities. Lately, either there’s 30 seconds left till midnight, or it’s 1AM and the blog is already past due. Ack. Deadlines are suggestions. Certain deadlines, at least.

For instance, I know of a library in Maryland that is short one title. I know this because I borrowed said book in 1995 and just unpacked it today. Perhaps there’s a warrant for my arrest in this matter. This talk of broken deadlines brings me to my writing situation.

Tis true, the eternal struggle with Velocity continues. I never dreamed I might write at such a tepid pace. Net for a productive week: 5-7 pages. To some authors that’s barely a days work. Stephen King espouses the 4 page a day plan. A nice goal that’s way in the distance. If I write 4 pages in a day, 3 go in the garbage and the remainder lingers in revision hell. There’s just no forcing more content out. Maybe the next book will be different. Or so I pray.

The new short story is coming very soon. Just waiting for it to arrive in the mail. Why mail a story I wrote to myself? A good question. For the answer read tomorrow’s entry.

Dear Buddhapuss,

I know very well that you’re no ordinary feline, but I come to ask you advice for dealing with my feline house mate, Joey. She has invaded my sleep and working quarters and prefers to sleep there throughout the day than in her own. Is there anything I can do to persuade her that my room is not her space? I strongly believe cats are the masters of the house; however, she seems to have abandoned her own area, which is quite a shame.

Thank you for your time, Buddhapuss Michael

Dear Michael,

At last, at last, an intelligent question at long last. But first a query right back at you, Michael. Joey is an unusual name for a female, no? Perhaps the gender ambiguous name reflects a pattern of mixed messages in the household.

For instance, your cat has a room, a room you once claimed as yours, yet you do not want her to sleep on the comfortable bed within her room? That may be asking a bit much of Joey. Even though the primal instincts still flow, she’s not a savage beast. Her thought process is quite advanced. Consider the scenario as Joey for a moment.

In her mind, she’s the leader of a pride and all the other house mates are members of an elite group. For her to sleep on the bed that you say is yours is a sign of respect. She has chosen this berth over all the others in the home as a base of operations, and invited just one lucky member – yourself – to join in the cat pile.

If you would prefer to shun this token of respect and reclaim “your” bed, there are several options.
1) Spray her pillowcase, sheets, bed frame and mattress with lemon scent. The acid scent may repel Joey. For this to work it will take a lot of scent. Not recommended.
2) Keep a small squirt bottle of water ( just water ) on the nightstand. Each time she crawls into bed, blast her body with some H20. Actual results depend on the breed. If she is a Maine Coon or Norwegian Forest Cat, bedtime is now a game and the mattress is even more appealing. Possibly recommended ( depends on breed ).
3) Trade Joey in for a dog. Strongly, strongly NOT recommended.
4) Accept that the bed is big enough for two. This is the Zen way and highly recommended.

You see Michael, there may be several options, but obviously only number four makes sense.

2005 The Year of the Buddhapuss,
Master Buddhapuss

Darkness, pain and suffering - a tale of one man’s descent into hell in exchange for absolute power – such is the tale George Lucas promises and such is the experience he delivers.

A fan’s film, there’s so much eye candy I’m diabetic. In this instance not a problem. Since the film is hard to describe without spoilers, I’ll state it simply. Believe the hype. Believe the excitement. Believe in the Force.

The dialog and acting is soap opera grade, maybe a bit less, but that doesn’t matter. Star Wars is more than the story and toys. It’s an outlook. It’s a lesson in karma.

What works about Episode III:

1) Big questions about the characters and series are answered, some with eloquence, some with stunts and some with rocking fight sequences.

2) The effects are beyond cutting edge. Repeatedly, I caught myself thinking – Episode III pushes the envelope of cool visuals. That and the teenagers sitting near me are fighting with full size light sabers.

3) Unlike the Episode I and II, there’s no lag and the story always moves forward.

What needs improvement:

1)At the moment of truth, I expected the Emperor would demonstrate some amazing power unseen at any other time in the series and sway Anakin. We got a display of amazing skill, I just wanted more. Really the only glitch of the whole film and a forgivable one.

Verdict: Full price theater for fans. DVDs for fans. Cable for fans. Video for fans. Not a Star Wars fan? Consider this film anyway.

It can’t be Tuesday. That’s just simply impossible. I blinked twice on Monday morning and the day was over. And I forgot to blog. Ouch.

Here’s the haps at 30,000 feet:
1) Buddhapuss Books - built an automated repricing tool to stay on top of prices and listings. Coding that much sucked the life out of me for a few days but if sales stay consistent, the time invested was worthwhile.
2) A cool question arrived for Buddhapuss yesterday. The cat will try and answer on Wednesday or Thursday.
3) Writing. Very slow the past 2 days due to BB business. Got a new short story in the can that I’ll post in a few days, next week at the latest.
4) Movies reviews. There’s not been a one since Hitch. This has less to do with my viewing habits, I still go often, and everything to do with the fact that few grabbed my interest. Mostly, they sucked and rather than trash talk a few hundred million dollars of celluloid, I’ve waited for the right film to jump back in. I have tickets to the Thursday morning 12:01 AM showing of Episode III. Certainly that will inspire a review.