Cube Sleuth Page 2

“Then I hear sirens. ‘Fiddlesticks,’ I think to myself. ‘It’s the fuzz.’”

  “Yes! That’s actually better than what I wrote!”

  “Right, some of my ad libs are good. I know that already. Can I please get through three sentences without you interrupting?”

  Ron nods with mock solemnness. He’s handsome in a way I wish I could be: chiseled jaw with a cleft. Just the right amount of stubble all the time. Full head of hair that’s always perfectly tousled, like he slept on it but as if his bed is actually a gifted stylist. Lean and muscular. A lazy but consistent alternative-rock wardrobe made up of many ironic T-shirts that hug his lithe frame. I, on the other hand, have no discernible style: I just wear clothes. And he’s funnier than me. I kinda hate him for it.

  “Thanks, that’s why I got you the notepad. Now shut up and write it down.”

  Ron nods somberly again, folding his hands as if in prayer. “Proceed.”

  “Then I hear sirens. ‘Fiddlesticks,’ I think to myself. ‘It’s the fuzz.’ I turn to Angelique and ask her to try not to act too prostitute-y—”

  “This is—”

  “Ron, I am going to stab you in the clavicle if you don’t let me get through this!”

  Ron giggles and repeats clavicle in a whisper.

  * * *

  I came up with the name Not For Mixed Company for the sketch comedy duo Ron and I formed. My inspiration came from the fact that whenever I used to make an off-color remark at any social gathering involving more than my nuclear family, my mom would say, “Robert, that’s not for mixed company.” Mom insisted on calling me “Robert,” even though everything about me screams “Bobby.” Mom never let me say “hate.” I had to “strongly dislike” someone. This repression of my free speech at an early age, of course, is a big reason why most of my remarks are off-color now.

  Ron had written the entire show that we were rehearsing: Love from Every Position. Seven skits, two monologues, one song, and three ridiculous interludes. Some of it was raunchy and offensive, some of it touching to the point of corniness. In case you couldn’t tell, I was rehearsing my monologue, playing a grandfather who tells the story of being arrested with a prostitute that he’d picked up to deflower his twenty-five-year-old grandson.

  * * *

  Ron flips over the index card he’s reading from. “And then we just tour the city like we didn’t grow up here.”

  I scrunch my nose. “That’s it?” I have my cardigan unbuttoned and my bifocals in my hand as we take a soda break in Ron’s kitchen.

  Ron nods, grinning.

  “How is that romantic?”

  “It’s funny. She’d rather laugh then get a heart-shaped box of chocolates and some jewelry. The romantic part is all in the planning. The costumes and the props. Trust me.”

  “OK, give me Option Number Nine.”

  “That was Nine.”

  “Oh. Give me Option Ten then.”

  Ron stands on his chair and opens his arms like a king surveying his land. “Option Ten I’m calling, ‘Excalibur.’”

  “Is this where you pull a dildo with a sword handle out of her cooter?”

  “No, but that idea’s not half bad. I call it ‘Excalibur’ because it’s so regal. I pick her up at noon in a horse-drawn carriage—”

  “This is expensive!”

  “This is true love, you donkey fart. So, I pick Helen up in a horse-drawn carriage. And she’s wearing the ball gown Belle wears in Beauty and the Beast. That’s her favorite movie. I—”

  “You have to get the gown made? That’s also expen—”

  “Donkey fart: shut it.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s so rude of me to interrupt you every fifteen words with some inane comment.”

  Ron smiles.

  “See what I did there?”

  “Yes, donkey fart. And I’m dressed like Prince Adam. And I need you to—”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. I need you to dress up like Lumière.”

  “Who?”

  “The big candelabra guy. Would you do it?”

  “For seventy bucks I’d do it.”

  “Well worth it.”

  “This is getting so effing expensive for you, Ron…”

  I check the time on my cell phone and notice that it’s Valentine’s Day today. If I had a valentine, I might care. But Nancy of course dumped me for cheating on her with Eve.

  * * *

  Ron met Helen the first day of his senior year at Penn State’s Delaware County campus. He had just transferred there from the main campus so he could live at home with his widowed mother, while she took care of her dying father. According to Ron, Helen was the first face he saw on campus and it was love at first sight for both of them. The catch was that Helen was in a relationship with a creep named Theo.

  Helen and Ron became instant best friends. He described her as a normal-looking girl who all of sudden became beautiful when she smiled. She cursed like a Tourettic sailor and liked to do magic tricks. Over the next four years, Ron had a series of pointless relationships that ended when the girl failed the test she didn’t know she’d been given: could she make Ron forget about Helen?

  When Ron and I formed Not for Mixed Company, Helen told Ron that Theo had been hinting he was going to propose. I asked Ron what he would do if that happened. Ron smiled and said, “Murder-suicide. The old if-I-can’t-have-you-no-one-can ending.” As usual, he was kidding, but after his death I went over that conversation again and again, unsuccessfully trying to recall the exact inflection with which he had spoken those words.

  In response, I gave Ron the only advice I could: “Tell her you’re in love with her. What other play do you have, really?”

  “It’s pointless. She already knows. Theo knows. All our friends know. It’s the kind of pathetic secret everyone knows, but that no one mentions when I’m around.

  “Even worse: all her friends want us to be together. Her parents, too.

  “Even worser: I know without a doubt she loves me back.”

  “Don’t say ‘worser.’”

  Ron smiles. He says made-up words like this because he knows it makes my editor-mind twitch.

  It ends up that Helen started thinking about life married to Theo, a chauvinistic, racist homophobe who by the way, legitimately thought G.W. was just what this country needed. Anyways, Helen realized what she really wanted. She drove to Theo’s house and dumped him. She told Ron it was the only time she had ever seen Theo cry.

  Helen leaves Theo’s place and drives straight to Ron. She calls him on the way—it’s 2:30 in the morning—and tells him to brush his teeth and meet her on his porch.

  Ron waits for his true love with minty-fresh breath and a confused but hopeful expression. He has no idea what’s going on.

  Helen drives up, walks to Ron, kisses him for what feels like forever, then tells him she’s single. She plans to spend the next six weeks getting her shit together emotionally, and at the end of those six weeks, Ron will take her on their first date. Helen hops back in her car, tells Ron he looks adorable with bed head, and drives off.

  * * *

  “OK, give me your notes. You look like you gave yourself carpal tunnel during my monologue.” I slip my bifocals into the breast pocket of the cardigan.

  “I don’t have any notes written down.”

  “You were scribbling furiously the whole damn time!”

  Still kneeling in front of me, Ron turns his notepad around and tilts it up so I can see that he’s drawn a picture of a unicorn with my face. I laugh until my abs hurt. Then he gives me his actual notes—copious and committed to memory.

  This is my last rehearsal with Ron. The last time I would see him alive outside of Paine-Skidder. My last happy memory with my best friend.

  He died the next day, twelve days before our debut performance. Sixteen days before his first date with the only girl he’d ever loved. Other than the day you hit the lottery, I can’t think of a less convenient time to blow your brains out.

/>   Chapter 4

  Late for a Work Meeting

  My company would have a much easier time making a list of the days I was on time for work than of the days I was late.

  I have chronic migraines and sleep is the best medicine for them. I’m a night person and usually stay up until my second wind. In the morning, I lie in bed hitting the snooze a dozen times. Yes, my head sometimes hurts, but usually I stay in bed too long because getting up means going to work.

  Ron died the day after Valentine’s Day. I’m twenty minutes late the morning of his death. I park on P2 as usual, wondering why it’s so hard to find a spot that morning when that level is usually half empty.

  I run up to my cube, out of breath by the time I get there. I expect to find a note from my supervisor Suzanne that says PLEASE STOP IN, but there isn’t one. After fifteen minutes, I walk around and see that my entire department is missing.

  Figuring I had missed a meeting, I check my calendar reminders and emails. I find nothing, so I pretend to look busy and hope Suzanne will buy that I missed whatever I’m missing because I’ve been trying to finish up something important. Hopefully she won’t realize that nothing at Paine-Skidder is “important.”

  I hear footsteps behind me and start typing nonsense to look productive. Usually Suzanne knocks on my cube with this jaunty, “howdy-neighbor!” rap. This time she says my name in the same soft voice my mother used when I was a child to wake me up.

  I spin around in my chair with my standard fake enthusiasm, my I-love-a-challenge-what’s-my-next-assignment face. My expression fades when I see that Suzanne has been crying.

  “Can you come with me?”

  I nod. My first thought is that the whole department is being laid off. My dream come true: a severance package, six months of unemployment, and waking up at noon every single blessed day.

  The meeting room is a hundred feet from my cube, and as I get close to the door, I hear sobbing. I step into the room and quickly scan the seats for Ron. He’s the only one not there. I figure he must be very sick because he never misses work. Usually I sit next to him in meetings so we can have facial-expression conversations whenever something ridiculous happens.

  I take the only open seat. It’s beside Harry Brody, which is no surprise. Harry is the social pariah of our department, and possibly of the whole company. He somehow combines complete incompetence and boring conversation with rude behavior and fundamentalist religious views. He also has twin squirrel tails growing under his red nose that look like they belong with the pictures I have up in my cube from The Handlebar Moustache Club website. As Harry’s face-fur grows, everyone’s hatred for him grows with it.

  Harry’s big stupid face holds its usual mix of confusion and bewilderment. Whatever news I’m about to get has spread through the Paine-Skidder rumor mill like chicken pox in kindergarten, leaving Harry out of the loop as usual. I know from how people look and how hard they’re crying that this is not about lay-offs. Someone died.

  My boss Keith Rell stands as I take my seat. He rubs his red eyes and clears his throat. His deep voice, which usually enunciates everything perfectly and makes him sound like a commercial voiceover, cracks when he speaks. “I know most of you have already heard, but I needed to make a formal announcement. If you haven’t heard, please be prepared for some truly awful… news. Last—” He falters and then restarts. “Last night at some point after everyone left for the day, Ron Tipken…decided to take his own life downstairs in our parking lot.”

  I’ve been kicked in the balls before, and it’s so painful that at first you feel nothing. You double over and grab your crotch because you know the pain is coming, but for five or six seconds you’re basically trapped in your brain, where facts are processed but no pain exists.

  My mouth goes numb when Keith finishes his announcement. The fluorescent lights above my head flare in my clouding vision. I drift above my chair like I’m at the dentist inhaling nitrous oxide.

  Keith says a series of stock grief phrases: “…our hearts go out to his… his hard work and his natural…his smile and his fun personality…” I would usually be angered by this corporate platitude bullshit, but it seems heartfelt this time. Before he finishes, Keith breaks down in tears and waves his hand to show that he can’t talk anymore.

  This is the first time I glimpse the humanity in my boss, and it makes me question all my assumptions about him.

  In the comic book sense, Keith is the natural villain to my superhero. He’s my polar opposite. He loves Paine-Skidder; is proud to tell people where he works and what he does. For me, describing my job is like describing a rash. He arrives at work at seven a.m. every morning and reads a newspaper in his car until the building supervisor shows up to unlock the doors. He stays later than anyone else. His life oozes punctuality, propriety, and enthusiasm. His suits are pressed perfectly. His bald head is freshly shaved each morning. His office is a cleaning lady’s wet dream.

  But here he is, crying about one of his employees, a young man he’s known professionally for a little more than a year and has had no personal contact with beyond a few stilted conversations in passing. Maybe Keith’s not such a bad guy after all.

  Everyone in the meeting room stares at me. I feel their eyes on me like warm breath on my neck. Ron was my good friend. Everyone knows we were planning a show together. I’m sure in a morbid way that they’re anxiously awaiting my snot-filled breakdown so they can put their hands on my shoulder and comfort me. But I can hardly breathe, let alone cry.

  I ask “how did he do it?” Already, my suspicions are aroused. Something is amiss. I feel angry. Someone took my friend away and is going to pay.

  Keith seems caught off-guard by my question and my skeptical tone. He looks at Suzanne, who shrugs helplessly, then folds his hands. “With a gun, it seems.”

  “What gun? He didn’t own a gun.” I sound angrier than I intend.

  Keith shifts from foot to foot. He doesn’t speak.

  Suzanne steps behind me and crouches to talk in my ear. “If you need to go home for the day, that’s OK, Bobby. This is a lot to…process.” My apartment is a black hole since I got rid of my mementos of Nancy (her hobby was beading necklaces, and vacuuming up her beads made my vacuum cleaner sound like one of those toy versions that pop little balls around inside when you roll them). That’s the last place I want to be right now.

  Trying to digest the idea that Ron is dead, I don’t have room for any other thoughts. If I were thinking about the people around me, I would think how nice it is that they all care about Ron. Everyone is crying, except Harry, who is too fucking dumb to cry. He still looks confused, and I bet he’s trying to remember who Ron is.

  A few weeks later, I curse myself for not studying the faces and body language of everyone in that room. I should’ve been scrutinizing everyone, sizing them up for physical signs of duplicity, what poker players call tells.

  The only person in the meeting room who seemed capable of murder was an editor named Cody Heet. Cody was a former Marine who liked to sneak up on me at least twice a week, grab my chin, and put a penknife to my throat. “You gotta be ready for anything all the time, son. I could’ve just sliced you ear to ear.” An obnoxious exercise, but one of the few exciting things that would happen during my workday, so I never discouraged it. It fueled my fantasy that one day Cody would come in with a machine gun and blow us all away. A terrible thought, but not as terrible as the thought of working at Paine-Skidder for the next forty years.

  Cody once told me that part of Marine training involved killing a dummy hundreds of times, until the motions lost their meaning and became rote. He said this was how you were desensitized; that it was the only way an average guy could go through with ending another man’s life, especially in hand-to-hand combat.

  Cody cries in a reserved, macho way with barely audible sobs. His head is bowed, a hand over his eyes. His chest rising and falling in rapid jerks.

  He is the first white guy under forty with a cool non-
ironic mustache since Tom Selleck was Magnum, P.I. Cody gets a lot of women. He is a sex addict who once showed me his comically extensive sexual to-do list, which included SEX WITH AN ASIAN WOMAN I MEET ON THE SUBWAY.

  To my knowledge, Cody and Ron had gotten along well but didn’t interact much, so Cody had no motive that I was aware of. But when my suspicions turned to Paine-Skidder employees, he would be the first person I’d investigate. He was the only guy at work I knew who owned a gun. He owned several, actually.

  Chapter 5

  What, When, and Where

  The Paine-Skidder building is in West Conshohocken, Pennsylvania, a new hot spot for local businesses. The company is eighty percent female. Most employees are married with children. Four married couples work at Paine-Skidder; with a little over a hundred workers, that means almost eight percent of the company is married to itself.

  The day after I got my service award was our company picnic. After three consecutive years of rain, we finally had a sunny day. But an eighteen-wheeler tipped over down the road from our building and leaked noxious fumes. We were sent home, and the barbecued ambrosia waiting for us outside had to be thrown out. To make matters worse, this early dismissal ruined one of the most delicate and precarious tasks of my investigation.

  That disappointment sums up life at Paine-Skidder for me; the name itself starts with pain. If that’s not irony, it’s at least cruelty.

  * * *

  After Keith tells us about Ron’s “suicide,” I sit at my desk staring at my computer screen. I stare at my computer instead of doing something productive all the time, but this time I don’t bother to fool people into thinking I’m working.

  A loud, humming gush of air whirs in my ears. My pulse throbs. My tongue feels like fiberglass insulation. I taste stomach acid, phlegm, and a drop of blood deep in my throat. My cube shrinks until it hovers an inch above my skin like those old diver suits you see in the bottom of fish tanks. I can’t breathe.

  I hear myself sigh, but the sound seems to come from someone else. And then I’m moving, walking, sprinting down stairways, bursting through doors. I stop, breathing hard, when I get to P3.