Part 2 (1/2)
A common response, these days. Simon knew the company rote. ”Many of our potential customers come to us with this same story, Missus Murphy,” said Simon. ”Truth to tell, though you may believe that you know the circ.u.mstances surrounding your eventual demise based on your prediction alone, the fact of the matter is that the specifics can often be surprising. To both you and your loved ones.”
Mrs. Murphy chuckled. ”Come now,” she said. ”Have you ever heard of anyone crossing the street one day and getting hit by a runaway colon cancer?”
Simon had to admit that he had not.
”I'm fairly certain that I'm destined to pa.s.s away peacefully in a hospital bed, lad,” said Mrs. Murphy. ”All shrouded in white and surrounded by my family. Probably in some pain, too, mind, but there's little helping that.”
”Missus Murphy, if I might-”
”Lad,” said Mrs. Murphy, ”I have my fantasy, just as you have yours. And I am unwilling to cheapen it by banking on the possibility that the chips might not fall that way.” Her voice smiled again. ”You clearly have one of your own. And I think that if you think about it,” she said, ”you'll understand.”
Simon thought about it. And he did.
”Well,” he said, after a moment. ”Good day to you, then.”
”To you as well,” said Mrs. Murphy. ”May G.o.d bless. And say h.e.l.lo to the lions for me.”
”Will do, Missus Murphy,” said Simon. There was a click as Mrs. Murphy disconnected the line, and then a low, steady drone. Dutifully, Simon's auto-dialer started in on another number.
”Dude,” said Scott, the guy in the cubicle next door. ”You gotta cut that out. Armbruster is going to be mighty horked if he ever catches you in the middle of that.”
Simon pulled his chair closer to his desk, fully intending to ignore his wall-mate, as per usual. After all, he had insurance to sell.
”You can't let this Death Machine c.r.a.p run your life, man,” continued Scott, heedless, as Simon waited for his line to pick up. ”I mean, geez, look at you. Ever since you did that stupid prediction thing, you've gone, like, totally mental on us. With the suit, and the tie, and-”
Simon's line picked up; it was an answering machine. Simon dropped his headset to his neck for a moment and rolled his chair back. ”Customers can hear the tie, Scott,” said Simon. ”Just like they can hear a smile.”
”Uh huh,” said Scott. ”So d'ya suppose they can hear this little stain here on my s.h.i.+rt, too?”
”I believe they can,” said Simon.
”Wow,” said Scott, with feigned amazement. ”Those are some really keen ears right there, Simon.” He snickered and spun his chair around a couple of times. ”Dude, you have lost it, man,” he said.
Simon pulled himself back to his desk, replacing his headphones just in time to hear the answering machine disconnect. ”To each,” he said, with measured patience, ”his own.”
”I'm sorry, what?” said Scott. ”I couldn't hear you there, dude. Between my stain and your tie there's just too d.a.m.n much noise goin' on around here.”
Simon just shook his head as the auto-dialer worked its magic again, preparing to serve him up another golden opportunity. It was hard to get too angry with Scott about his little jibes. After all, thought Simon, Scott was likely bored and a bit depressed and was probably compensating for it by taking his frustrations out on the people around him. But he was fundamentally a good guy. He just needed a life goal or two; it would fix him right up.
It had certainly fixed Simon right up. He himself had two life goals: (1) being torn apart by, and (2) being devoured by, lions.
And that had made all the difference, really.
The morning rolled on in a series of polite refusals, and soon it came time for lunch. Standing by the break room microwave, Simon marveled at how quickly the day was going. It was to be a short lunch; Simon had been thinking of ways to improve the company's sales script, and since the auto-dialer gave him only limited opportunities to hash them out on work-time, he was thinking of devoting some of his break to the task.
”Hey, Simon,” said one of his co-workers, coming up from behind. Brad. Blue-eyed, fair-haired and a bit on the pudgy side. Simon and he had joined up with the company about the same time, and Brad had quickly latched on to him as a conversational partner. Simon didn't mind; Brad was, also, a fundamentally good guy. ”I'm'a head to Mickey's in a minute. You want I should pick you up some fries or something?”
”Not today, Brad!” said Simon, twirling an empty little coated cardboard box in his hands, the erstwhile contents of which were now warming pleasantly in the microwave nearby. ”Today I'm having Rosemary Chicken with Vegetables.”
”Rosemary,” said Brad, frowning. ”Is that an herb or something?”
”Indeed it is,” replied Simon.
Brad thought about this for a moment. ”So you're eating herbs now?” he said, eventually.
”Yep,” said Simon. ”It's only polite, I figure. After all, you are what you eat. Right, Brad?”
”Well, I guess I pretty much gotta be a triple-stacker roast beef melt by now,” said Brad.
”Quite possibly,” said Simon, diplomatically. ”But for me? No.” Simon smiled to himself, his eyes going distant. ”No, Brad, from here on in, I intend to make myself exceptionally, even exquisitely, healthy. And, if possible,” he added, ”herb-flavored.”
Brad narrowed his eyes. ”Wait a sec,” he said. ”This isn't the thing about being eaten by the lions again, is it?”
”It will always be the thing about being eaten by the lions, Brad. From here on in, until it occurs.”
”You're obsessed, guy.”
Simon grinned. ”Perhaps,” he said.
”Totally!” called out Scott from his corner table. He sneered at them around and through a mouthful of sandwich.
”Hey, shut up,” said Brad.
”Make me, fatboy,” Scott replied. Then he chucked a piece of onion at him.
”Little snot,” muttered Brad, picking the onion out of his hair. ”Look, Simon,” he said, putting his hand on Simon's shoulder. ”Little friendly advice. You don't have to be a Machine of Death slave like this. Don't be trapped by it. Use it to free yourself.” Brad spread his arms wide, exposing his substantial midsection. ”I mean, look at me.”
”Can't not,” said Scott, swallowing his latest bite. ”You take up our entire visual field.”
”Hmph,” said Brad, raising both his chins in a dignified fas.h.i.+on and turning his back to Scott's table. ”Look at me, Simon. Here I am, going to die in a car crash or something. So, I don't worry about the roast beef melts anymore. I don't worry about the soda refills. And I don't worry about getting the chili and the cheese on the fries instead of going healthy and eating them without.” He smiled amiably. ”You see?” he said. ”Little changes. I know it won't matter what I eat, so I eat what I want. And I'm happier for it.”
Brad shook his head, then. ”But you, Simon. You're thinking about this thing all the time now. It can't be good for you.”
”I want want to think about this thing all the time, Brad,” said Simon, earnestly. ”I am looking forward to it. Like you wouldn't believe.” to think about this thing all the time, Brad,” said Simon, earnestly. ”I am looking forward to it. Like you wouldn't believe.”
”For Pete's sake, Simon,” said Brad. ”Why?”
”Because,” Simon replied, his pale brown eyes as wide as the veldt itself, ”it will be the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me.”
Brad shrugged. ”Suit yourself,” he said. ”But I read in this self-help book my mom gave me that you shouldn't sacrifice your now just because you're looking forward to being eaten by a bunch of lions at some point in the future.”
”Don't worry,” said Simon. ”I'm not sacrificing my now. I'm happier, healthier, and more vital than I've ever been.” He smiled. ”The thing is, Brad,” he said, ”everything I do for my lions? It makes my life better too.”
There came the sound of a throat clearing from the door of the break room. Simon looked up.
”Pfennig,” said Paul Armbruster (Vice President In Charge Of Targeted Media Solicitation), leaning into the room. ”When you have a moment. My office, please.”
Silence. Simon gathered his smile. ”Certainly, sir,” he said, tossing the box from his frozen dinner into a nearby waste container and stepping toward the door.
”After lunch is fine,” said Mr. Armbruster. The tips of his moustache lifted in a tiny grimace, as though someone had invisibly popped by with an eyedropper full of lemon juice and given him a bit. ”But soon. We need to talk about your...performance.”