Milton and Jerry’s Perfect Printer Ink
After about thirteen years of pencil pushing whilst sat in a small cubicle surrounded by young, hopeful nobodies, Stanley Vincent Carmichael decided he was done. He’s wasted god knows how many years of his life working towards bigger and better things, but has barely moved an inch since college.
He used to be considered the lucky one in his family, can you believe that? The first one to finish college since his grandpa, a handsome, young ball of charisma, and he was practically given his job as printer ink salesman straight out of university! For the first year or two, almost everybody he called purchased at least a hundred dollars worth of ink, whether or not they even needed it, solely based on how enthusiastic and exciting he sounded when describing all the wonderful details of “Milton and Jerry’s Perfect Printer Ink!” But, like most things, he wore down overtime. No longer did he sound like the young, cheerful kangaroo Roo from Winnie the Pooh, but rather like dull, depressing Eeyore. It was around year five that he started losing his hair.
Things were starting to look up for Stan around year seven. They were giving him a ‘promotion’ as they called it, but it was just a way to get rid of the gloomy man to boost sales. They moved him to a new department where he went over the numbers, analyzed the sales, and wrote up reports to hand in to his boss, Mr Abraham, at the end of every week. He was happy for a little while. His paycheck had an extra figure, his department had some older people in it, his cubicle was larger, but all good things must come to an end.
Around 2013, the company decided to merge with their largest competitor to create a “printer ink empire,” and that just brought a wave crashing down over him. The ‘new’ company decided to move to a larger building to compensate for the now large mass of people, but it seemed to only make things more congested. They shoved Stan into a small, four by four cubicle that made Harry Potter’s cupboard under the stairs seem like a mansion, his workload was tripled, and it seemed like they purposely placed him next to the loudest, most obnoxious twenty-something-year-olds he had ever met. He hoped he wasn’t like that when he was young.
He thought about quitting several times over the years. In fact, he went to countless interviews, but a degree in business from North Texas University and resume with only one thing to fill up the experience box can only get you so far. He would’ve been gone years ago if he had landed one, any one, but he needed the paycheck to keep dinner on the table for him and his dog, Sandy, the only thing he thinks will ever love him. Sometimes he would actually fantasize about being fired when the company was ‘being downgraded,’ but he was never picked. It was always the newest to arrive that were the first to leave. Those bastards didn’t know how lucky they were to get out early.
It was upon entering the workplace on January 3rd, the first working day of the year, he flat out decided he was done. He went to his sad excuse for a desk, scribbled down a quick note, not that anyone would bother to find it, and marched straight into his boss’ office without bothering to knock on the door. He was in the middle of a meeting with someone.
“I quit,” he said. Quick, laconic, and to the point, just like Stanley wanted.
“I’m sorry Mr….” Mr. Abraham’s words died out.
“Jesus Christ, after thirteen years! Thirteen years of my life spent at this God-forsaken place, and you still don’t know my name!” Stanley picked up a statue that was sitting on one of the shelves to his left and threw it straight at Mr. Abraham’s head. It shattered against the wall behind him.
In the midst of a storm of rage and fury, he stomped out of the office and towards the emergency stairwell. He raced up the stairs, head racing, heart pounding, lost in a whirlwind of thought. He swung the door open only to be faced with the blinding sunlight. He walked straight to the edge and looked down. Twenty seven floors up, looking at the people below him, skittering around like ants, Stanley still felt small.
He contemplated silently for a little bit, wondering how long it would be before his landlady noticed he was gone, or who would feed his dog, Sandy? He sure as hell knew that his mother wouldn’t take the dog in with her being allergic and all. Doesn’t matter, he thought to himself. He was pretty sure that she got into the pantry every day while he was at work anyway. Come on Stan, Stan the Man, you can do this. Just jump. No one’ll miss you. You’re just a waste of space, sucking up everyone's air. He looked down again, sucked in one last breath, looked up at the pale, blue sky, and leapt.
His ever-thinning hair danced in the wind as it whistled past his ears. For a second, it felt like he was flying, but then reality set in and panic struck. He started flapping around like some sad baby bird attempting to fly for the first time, but unlike the baby bird, there was no mamma bird to catch him in case he fell. Instead, he hit the ground with a sickening crunch.
He never lost consciousness, no, not even when his spinal cord snapped. A crowd surrounded him, only backing up when his blood started to pool around him like a protective barrier. Eventually the EMTs were called and as he was being lifted into the copter, preparing to be heli-carried to the nearest hospital, he thought to himself Well shit Stanley. You can’t even kill yourself correctly. What the hell are you still doing here?
Hey guys, here's just a quick little piece I wrote for my creative writing class. The prompt was depression, and it had to include the loss of a job at some point or another. Hope you enjoy it!
-CG
