Hell Is Other People, Danielle Bellwood [best novels to read .TXT] 📗

An interesting thing that Arlo had discovered was that while time seemed to reset every day, the posts he shared through social media never went away. Even the embarrassing or strange ones. Especially if a post received a negative comment. That shit got retweeted and shared for all eternity.

“I mean,” Roger continued mumbling nonsensically, not realizing that the man he was attempting to explain his job duties to no longer cared, because he had become once again distracted by his handheld link to the universe. “My main duty is just to connect experienced workers with new trainees.”

“Right,” Arlo said absently. “But what do you really do there, Roger?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Okay,” Arlo said. “Never mind. How about this, next time you see Phil, give him a message for me, alright?”

Roger shrugged. “Sure. I suppose. What message?”

The First Step

7:31 AM. The little accountant was standing in front of Roger’s desk with his hands braced on the faux wood. His chest was so swelled in anger that he was in danger of popping a button on his navy-blue vest.

Roger blinked slowly. Phil was steaming. Literally. The man’s bald pate was so red and sweaty that a haze of superheated air rose from the glistening surface.

“I said I needed that form by the end of the day!” Phil yelled.

“Ummm…” Roger mumbled. He glanced around at his desk. No form in sight.

“Go tell Bertha you need another one, and if it’s not completed and on my desk in the next hour… you don’t want to know what will happen!”

“Phil. I need to tell you something.”

“What?” Phil snapped.

Roger’s brow furrowed in thought. He knew there was something very important he was supposed to say. But he couldn’t quite remember…

Phil turned to go, giving up on Roger’s scatter-shot memory.

“Oh!” Roger said. “Arlo Black wanted me to tell you that ‘He’s on to you’.” Roger frowned. “Do you know what that means?”

Phil didn’t answer. He just abruptly stalked out of the room, slamming the clear glass door behind him.

As the angry accountant stormed off down the hall, Roger could no longer deny that strange things were afoot at the office. Until very recently, Roger had been, if not happy at his job, at least semi-content in a listless, bland sort of way. Each day of his life felt exactly the same as the one before. Boring and pointless. But Roger wouldn’t have expected anything else out of life. He’d always known that there was nothing special about him. He didn’t have a quirky but endearing personality. He didn’t have a reasonably attractive face, or an interesting sense of style. He didn’t even have any friends to spend his free time with. What he did have was a near crippling dose of depression and a mostly unsatisfactory supervisor job at Forever Pharma. But while his role as supervisor in charge pro tem wasn’t an especially good job, it was still better than a sharp stick in the eye. Probably.

Bertha was waiting behind the receptionist desk when he walked around the carpeted bend in the hallway. She stared blankly ahead, unmoving until Roger approached her. As he neared the corner of her counter, she craned her neck to look at him, cat’s eye glasses taking up most of her face. Her fire engine red lipstick was dark against her pale skin, and the massive brown beehive of her teased hair rose majestically above her. Roger was entranced.

“Yes, Roger?” she said.

“Bertha,” he said.

“Yes, Roger?” she repeated.

“I need…” He broke off, gazing curiously at the various forms in their neat little boxes lined up all along the wall behind her.

He had done this before. How many times before? And why? Why bother? He’d never get the proper paperwork filled out in time. His charges had abandoned ship. Phil would be angry at him no matter what. So, what was the point of it all?

“Would you like to go out sometime?” he asked.

She looked confused.

“See each other outside of the office?” he said.

She blinked a few times before turning on her heel and walking to the wall of cubbies behind her. Roger watched as she grabbed a giant stack of pink and yellow paper and carried it back to the counter. Dropping the pile with a plop, she pulled a small brown pamphlet from beneath the counter and set it on top of the foot-thick form.

“What’s this?” Roger asked.

“Form 37B,” she said. “And a current handbook.”

Roger sighed. Grabbing the handbook, he tucked it into his shirt pocket and turned to go, the ponderous paperwork left lying on the Formica surface.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I quit,” Roger said.

Turning dejectedly from the beautiful Bertha, he trudged through the door and left the office. As he shuffled across the beige carpet in the beige halls of the bland office building, Roger began to feel gradually better.

As he passed through the lobby, a few scratched letters above the sliding doors to the street caught his eye. Glancing up, he read the words carved into the concrete blocks by a sharp pocket knife:

‘We are all just prisoners here.’

It may have been meant as a warning. Or maybe simply a statement of the meaninglessness of existence. Roger found the phrase to be strangely comforting. Knowing he was a prisoner felt like the first step toward freedom.

When Roger wandered into the coffee shop a few minutes later, Joe Jr was waiting for him behind the order counter. The young-seeming barista with the pimply face and coffee stained apron cocked his head curiously at the thin man in the too-big work shirt and horribly hand-painted kitty cat tie.

“You seem different today, Roger,” Jr said.

Roger’s face slowly stretched as a smile spread across his features. Abandoning his job/life left him with a sense of lightness. The suffocating blanket of depression lifted and for the first time in forever he felt… good.

“I quit my job.”

“You…” Jr glanced around the coffee shop quickly. “You what?”

“I’m sure there will be hell to pay in