fickle

Adara paused. For the first time in months, she paused. The world around was still spinning madly -- robberies were in progress, wrecks were inevitable, and someone was thieving their employer's money right under their boss' nose. None of these things bothered her. Really this day was no different from any other. She woke up, got coffee at this small place just a couple of blocks from her apartment, went to work, and then to lunch. While holding a Marlboro Light in her mouth, she searched for her lighter only to find failure. She sat down on a bench outside of the company she worked for, unpacked her lunch (tomato soup and a turkey and Swiss sandwich), and watched how fast the clouds were moving. She finished her meal and threw her trash away. Her watch read 12:18. Everyday, five days a week, Adara was given a thirty minute lunch break, which she never seemed to be able to use. Instead of pilfering away the last twelve minutes of her break, she took for the stairs in order to return to her cubicle (she was deathly afraid of elevators). The problem was she never made it.

After stopping off to get a diet coke from the vending machine, she started her ritual four story climb. Today though, a Mr. Stephen P. Kay decided to greet her with the door. In fact he was so happy to see her, he sent her tumbling down every single last stair in the case.

It was a miracle really. The paramedics were called and arrived forty-five minutes later. They told everyone around that it was because they had been at an accident on the interstate. This was a lie, but the only person who knew this was Geoffrey Stine. Stine was the type of person whom talk radio was invented for. He also found it to be his responsibility to stay on top of any and all traffic incidents within a forty-three mile radius of the building. For the past two and a half hours nothing big had happened. There were only five accidents reported and only one of those posed any threat to human life or tardiness. Or both. But that particular accident was only two blocks from the office and not anywhere close to the interstate. Truth be told, they were simply eating "the best damn chicken-pot-pies in the world." The miracle part though, was not how good the paramedics’ food was. It was Adara's injury report:

1 broken nose
1 broken foot
1 bruised tail bone

A four story tumble and nothing gory to show for it? The company has a policy that states something to the effect of "in the rare case of a traumatic event occurring on or near the vicinity of this property, all operations for that day will cease unless otherwise notified." Traditionally every year one "traumatic" event will take place. It's inevitable. For the past three consecutive years it has been the easily predictable suicide. The first two believed themselves to be mavericks at the gun range and, apparently, thought the gun range should be brought to work. The other was a known dare-devil of sorts and for his final act decided to bungee jump. Minus the bungee. And as tragic as these events may seem, the employees of the company loved them dearly. Marshall Guy hosted the annual (and spontaneous) "Dead Guy Cookout" at his family's farm just a few minutes outside of the city. Everyone attended - from the head honchos to the lowest peons, the “Columbian Coffee Slaves.” Parents would check their children out from school early. Others would run home to pick up their dogs. Phone calls would be made to spouses and/or significant others. It was a big deal. And Adara was ruining everything. Many if not most everyone had already begun to make arrangements for the special evening. Mr. Guy contacted the butcher and ordered an entire pig to cook rotisserie style, with an apple in its mouth of course. Several had already gone as far as to leave the premises.

Adara herself looked forward to this day every year. Suddenly though, her opinion began to morph. She knew that if she didn't die her life would be in danger anyway. People love their days off. They kill for them. Just ask Kimberly Wattensaw, victim number 47 of the company's streak. She was hit by a car in front of the office 12 years ago and didn't die. At least not until Michael McMichael ran over her, again. But you can ask anyone that was there, the brats never tasted better . . .