Paul

It was a cold Saturday morning. I was sitting on the floor and trying to read, but I couldn't focus. It was just too cold. So I dug through my laundry and layered myself in every piece of clothing I could find. And I mean everything – I wore about five shirts, three pairs of jeans, and I have no idea how many pairs of socks. Everything! Then, to top it off, I wrapped myself up in my gross old LA Dodgers blanket. It was a cozy scenario, albeit somewhat smelly, but I wasn't satisfied. Because I was still kind of chilly, you know?

Paul owned a ferret named Wally. Wally did not respond to his name. Paul lived by himself aside from Wally, and considered the rodent his roommate. Paul had gotten Wally from a cute girl he'd met while taking a Sunday night class in business, economics and such.

The girl had told Paul that Wally was a rare creature known as a tree weasel, and Paul believed her because the girl had dyed Wally's fur bright green. Paul was not an ignorant person. Paul just wanted to believe her. Paul believed Wally's fur being dyed while he was still very young may have played a large part in developing the weasel's unpleasant disposition. Wally's fur was no longer bright green. Wally and Paul had been living together for several years. Wally's real name was Penelope. Wally was a she. Paul had no idea. Paul did not pay attention to things like this.

The girl that sold Paul his tree weasel died four months ago. She would still be alive today had she kept her tree weasel. She had no way of knowing this.

The girl that sold Paul his tree weasel got rid of Wally because Wally made a habit of nibbling at her toes in the early morning and rousing her. Due to her amazingly limited capacity to conjure up clever morning activities with which she might entertain herself, this was a huge problem. The girl that sold Paul his tree weasel began to show up early to work everyday.

About two hours early. Every day.

The co-workers of the girl that sold Paul his tree-weasel had not appreciated this. The girl that sold Paul his tree-weasel began to feel uncomfortable at work. She then sold Wally to Paul, with whom she shared a Sunday night class in business, economics and such.

If Wally had been there to rouse her four months ago, she would not have woken up late for work, would not have been in a such rush, and would not have been hit by a truck full of beach chairs. 

Life is funny sometimes.

When Paul was a child, he was forced to sit in the front row of class. This was the place Mrs. Larry reserved for the nerdy drooling types that tended to exhibit occasional outbursts of ridiculously antisocial behavior. Mrs. Larry, Paul's fourth grade teacher, used to sit on the corner of his desk for at least an hour a day as she read the children segments from Charlotte's Web or Where The Red Fern Grows.

Paul hated Mrs. Larry. The perfume she wore smelled like licorice and strawberries. Mrs. Larry was also by no means what Paul considered an attractive woman – her voice raspy, her hair scraggly, and her face like the print of a boot in the mud. Mrs. Larry's presence was an assault upon the senses.

She was the first person Darryl Larry killed.

Mrs. Larry's son later killed Paul for squirting him with a grapefruit at a breakfast buffet. The squirting was an accident. The killing was not.

Neither Paul nor Wally had ever been to a breakfast buffet. Paul preferred to order a majority of his meals through the complex in which he lived. Every complex had a kitchen on the second floor capable of making anything you could possibly want. Wally preferred to eat bugs and other small things. Wally ate dried ferret food. Wally hated Paul much more than Mrs. Larry's son had hated Paul for squirting him with the grapefruit.

Paul did not even have a refrigerator in his apartment. Absurdities like this were not uncommon in the area he was from. Paul lived in a starter's complex, which contained an apartment that had been specifically designed to meet his needs.

Wally did not feel his needs were met in the complex. He thought it sucked. All he wanted to do was burrow, climb, eat, shit, and sleep. His needs were far more easily met than were Paul's – yet they were not met, which hardly seemed fair.

When Paul ordered something from the kitchen, it usually went something like this:

"Coffee, please. Large, please. Lukewarm, please. Whatever. Any kind, I do-…n-…no      really, I d-...D-…JU-…FRENCH ROAST. YES, please. Please send French roast. Yes. Cream, sure. Tw-…no, I mean half and half. Yes. Sorry. Two. Lukewarm, Sure. Please. Okay. Sugar, yes. On the side. A couple. Oh, I don't know. Five? Yes, okay. That's fine. Yes. Thank you. Please. Thank you. T-…yes. Yes. Know what? Can you make it two cups? Please. Or a pot even. Yeah, please, better make it a pot. Alright. Certainly. Thank you. Goodbye."

Paul always said please when dealing with people on the phone. Paul said please to the point where most people wanted to reach through the phone and slap him in the ear.

Mrs. Larry's murderer son had never said please in his life. That requires dedication. If Wally could speak he would have said please often – and thank you. He was very polite. Paul did not say please because he was without dedication or because he was polite, he just said it.

Paul didn't enjoy drinking coffee. Paul felt cultured while he drank coffee. He'd sit in his apartment and drink coffee with some fat book he'd never read draped over the arm of his chair. Paul figured anyone who might intrude upon this scene would assume that he was cultured and intellectual.

No one had borne witness to this scene aside from Wally, and Wally did not assume that Paul was cultured and intellectual. Wally waited until Paul was occupied and stole his things.

It was a shame that Paul didn't enjoy his coffee, as he could have used something to help him right that rotten brain of his. Several things, aside from his inherent personality flaws, could have attributed to Paul's mental state.

It might have been his job. Paul hated his job.

It could have been Wally. Paul and Wally battled quite often.

Or it might have been Paul's obsession: email. Paul was constantly receiving email. Not from anyone important mind you. Paul had no secret admirers or important business to attend to. Paul believed that close to ninety percent of all junk mail lists had his name on them.

Paul was close. Eighty three percent of all junk mail lists had his name on them.

And Paul never changed his email address to avoid the junk mail lists. Paul lived in a bizarre fantasy world where he might someday receive some vastly important piece of email at his present address; and if he were to change his address, Paul might miss that vastly important piece of email.

For this reason, Paul dealt with the junk mail lists.

Paul was trashing mail from his inbox, scrutinizing over each "IMPORTANT NOTICE" and "MUST READ THIS" before he tapped delete. He had tapped the delete key so often that it made a loud, sticking, "CLACK" noise as he pressed it. This drove Wally mad.

An email from work was sitting towards the bottom of Paul's inbox. It was sandwiched in-between an announcement for a new Tak Tuckerby and "A FUN FUN FUN NEW way to SHOP for fruit ONLINE!!!!"

Paul worked at a movie theater. It used to be the Thatcher Theater. Bob Thatcher, the janitor in a factory that made seat cushions for orthopedic chairs, had fallen into some money. He'd built Thatcher Theater with no prior knowledge as to how he should run a theater, how to pay his bills, or even how to operate the machine that turned kernels into popcorn.

Mrs. Larry, with her murderer son Darryl, was more qualified to raise children than Bob Thatcher was to run a movie theater. Four years after it opened, one of the projectors caught fire and almost burned Thatcher Theater down. Bob Thatcher then sold his smoldering theater, left town, and became a janitor once more.

Bob Thatcher was very qualified to be a janitor. Bob handled a mop as though he had been born with one in his hands. It's nice when someone is good at what they do.

It is, however, scary that someone could be so capable concerning the mopping of floors. As it happens, people who are naturally gifted in one area are often severely lacking in another. One would think that a talent as worthless as mopping floors wouldn't be worth the possible loss incurred.

Bob the gifted janitor would never be able to play a musical instrument. Bob had yet to realize this because, as of this point in his life, he had never attempted to play a musical instrument.

He never would either.

Because while working his mopping magic upon the stage-area of the Jefferson Amphitheater, Bob tripped himself up while attempting a particularly daring mop-related maneuver and managed to impale himself upon three trumpets in the orchestra pit.

The hissing and retching sounds that came from the instruments were truly embarrassing.

Luckily, there was no audience. Luckily, no one will ever know what a truly awful musician Bob the gifted janitor was meant to be.

There is meant to be a certain order to things sometimes.

So Paul worked at the theater which had been formerly owned by the late Bob Thatcher. Paul received the email from work without a great deal of enthusiasm. It hadn't been a fabulous business opportunity. It hadn't been a message from a long lost love. He hadn't won anything, done anything special, or even been commended.

An email. An email from the theater. From work.

Paul sighed and thought about work that day. He read and re-read the subject of the email, which was "IMPORTANT." Paul slurped loudly on his coffee as he did so. When Paul was not acting in a self-conscious manner, he was a loud and loathsome person. In some cases, people acting self consciously is in everyone's best interests. Paul was a prime example of this.

Wally, infuriated with the slurping, tried to convey his frustration with Paul.

Paul swatted Wally away as the rodent came over to gnaw on his mouse cord. He did not feel like dealing with a tree weasel.

Paul had no idea what happened at work that day. At work, Paul was in a zone. When he got home, it was as if he'd awakened from a dream.  He didn't remember anything.

The memo told Paul that he had to meet with Jay, the manager of the movie theater where Paul worked, in a little less than an hour. Paul could report to level nineteen of his housing complex, appointment room number seven. Jay would meet him there at seven o'clock.

Jay gave no indication as to what the meeting was about.

Jay had worked at the theater for about as long as Paul had.

Jay had grown up on a small catfish farm in Alabama with his mother and uncle. His uncle had been born without feeling in either hands or feet, and it had been the job of little Jay to warn his crippled uncle when he was touching things that were hot, when a hook was stuck in his paw, and so on. It was not a fun way to spend your childhood. The life of a catfish farmer is not a particularly glamorous one, let alone the life of a crippled catfish farmer's nephew.

Jay abandoned the farm under cover of night.

Soon after, Jay was working at the theater.

Jay told people that he had run a catfish farm for the better part of four years when a freak tornado touched down, destroying his house, family, farm and catfish. People felt bad about Jay's house, family, farm, even his catfish – and it kept them from asking Jay why someone would choose to run a catfish farm in the first place. This was important, as Jay had no idea why someone would choose to run a catfish farm.

Apart from gutting catfish, burn remedies, and all of the random essentials one might be privy to while having spent a majority of your youth on a catfish farm prying hooks from a crippled uncle, Jay was clueless as to the ways of life. He knew enough to get a place to live, acquire food, and find a job.

That was about it.

Jay was very qualified to be a crippled catfish farmer's nephew.

Paul arrived at the conference room fifteen minutes early. He didn't have anything better to do. Being early also gave Paul time to sit and think for awhile before Jay arrived. The things that Paul thought about were hardly ever worth mentioning.  Such was the case as Paul sat and thought while waiting for Jay.

The conference room was small and similar to a closet. It had two square windows. In the center of the room was a square black table surrounded by four gray chairs. The walls were painted gray and the room was lit by a single cream-colored bulb high above.

Jay arrived promptly at seven. He was unsurprised to find Paul waiting for him and this lack of surprise effected Paul in no way whatsoever because he hardly even noticed when Jay entered the room. Paul was staring at the table in front of him and thinking about how smooth it was.

Jay was winded and breathed heavily. He stood catching his breath and sweat poured from his face. Paul and Jay existed in silence for several minutes. Eventually, Jay wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his shirt and took a deep breath to help slow his breathing. Jay then raised his head up to look at Paul, who was looking down at the table in front of him. Jay swallowed hard.

"Paul?" he said, but to no visible effect. Paul was very much in a trance as he stared at the table before him. "Yo! Paul! Hey!" Jay continued to signal towards Paul in this manner with increasing volume for what he felt was a slightly unreasonable period of time.  Eventually, Paul lurched forward. He then slowly awoke from his daze and looked up at Jay. His eyes were wet and droopy. He formed his two hands into fists, then jabbed them into his eye-sockets, digging them in vigorously for a minute. Once he was finished, Paul looked up at Jay, who was still standing, and smiled.

"You alright, Paul?" asked Jay.

"Sure boss. What's up?" said Paul.

"Well," began Jay. He then wiped his forehead with his arm again and took another deep breath. "I have to go home, man. Like, maybe permanently. Probably permanently, I mean. I mean, I've just gotta go. I mean… I mean, I've just gotta go. I'm leaving. I'm going to have to leave the theater. It's just you. You're in charge now, Paul. Do you –"

Jay continued on, but Paul heard little of the rest.

Jay was leaving and Paul was to be responsible for the theater upon Jay's departure.

To celebrate his promotion, Paul decided to take his roommate Wally out to dinner. After a brief period of deliberation, Paul decided that they would eat their celebratory meal at Tasty Tak Tuckerby's Bar-B-Q Burger Joint.

Two blocks from Paul's apartment was a twenty-four hour Tak Tuckerby's. This particular Tak Tuckerby's featured all the standard accoutrements that went along with your garden-variety Tak Tuckerby's: raised ceilings, heavy use of the colors blue and orange, an almost overpowering bar-b-q sauce scent, and throngs of Tuckerby-starved citizens gorging on the charred flesh of their favorite tasting dead animals in the glorious bar-b-q fashion that Tak Tuckerby's had himself perfected. However, this particular Tak Tuckerby's, being one of both recent construction and central location, was conceived with several extra amenities for which it was celebrated in many circles.

The Tak Tuckerby's located two blocks from Paul's apartment was open twenty-four hours, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty five days a year. In order to get this point across, a banner had been placed across the front of the blue and orange striped building. The banner read, "WE NEVER CLOSE." And they never had closed either. Admittedly, the restaurant had only existed for a little while, but try to overlook this. Regardless, twenty-four hour availability was just one of the many features which made this particular Tak Tuckerby's unique to its species. It also contained the "world's first twenty-four hour bar-b-q burger breakfast buffet."

Just after ten o'clock chimed on the massive clock, which was obscured by the banner which read "WE NEVER CLOSE," Paul entered Tasty Tak Tuckerby's Bar-B-Q Burger Joint for the very first time. The establishment was crowded, and although Paul was unfamiliar with the flow of traffic, he quickly assumed that such was naturally the case for Tasty Tak's, and was pleased in his capacity to come to such a concrete conclusion so quickly and with so little data at his disposal.

With Paul was, of course, Wally. Wally was harnessed and tethered to Paul's wrist by what Paul derisively had dubbed "the rat harness." Along with the rat harness, Wally's attire also consisted of a neon green "weasel diaper," matching almost perfectly the color with which Wally's fur had originally been dyed. Wally was mortified to be seen that way. He hated the weasel diaper with a passion matched only by his hatred for Paul and the rat harness, and as such, did his best to extricate himself from the diaper whenever he was not too busy being dragged around by Paul. Paul referred to the rat harness and weasel diaper as Wally's "formal attire" in the most condescending manner possible. When they were together in public and Wally had on his "formal attire," Paul would say things such as, "What's your hurry, fancy pants?" Or perhaps, "How's about some chow, don weasel?" This, of course, horrified Wally.

Wally and Paul situated themselves at an available booth to the rear of the establishment, very close to where the buffet was. Soon a young blonde girl in a white blouse approached them, and just as she opened her mouth, but before she had a chance to utter a single word, Paul instructed the girl that he "and his weasel" would be "dining at the breakfast buffet this evening." The girl looked at Paul. She then looked at Wally. Wally looked at her. She looked back to Paul. Paul was looking at the breakfast buffet. The girl then took off.

Paul looked at Wally, who reeled back and took a defensive posture. The weasel's body was arched, and it would have looked quite menacing were it not wearing the harness and weasel diaper. Paul rolled his eyes, stood up, tugged at Wally's leash, and said, "Come on, Mr. Fancy Pants. Let's go hit that breakfast buffet."

The Tak Tuckerby's Breakfast Buffet was very popular, and for good reason: it was the most excellent breakfast buffet in human history. Traffic on the buffet line was slow and dense. The buffet was zigzagged like a lightning bolt, and if it was stretched out, would have covered a hundred yards or more. Paul grabbed an orange tray and some utensils by the buffet entrance. He also grabbed a second tray which was colored blue, and lifting up Wally, he placed the weasel upon the blue tray. "Tonight we eat like kings, my friend," said Paul to Wally.

Now directly beside Paul and Wally in line at the breakfast buffet was Darryl Larry, son of Paul's former teacher Mrs. Larry and killer of Paul's friend, the cute girl with whom he shared Sunday night classes in business. economics and such. Paul and Darryl were unfamiliar with one another and had never met. The same could also be said of Wally and Darryl.

Slowly, Wally, Paul, and Darryl all made their way down the impossibly long Tak Tuckerby's Breakfast Buffet. Wally napped on his blue tray while Paul picked very selectively at the buffet delicacies at his disposal. Darryl's tray was entirely empty. Darryl had come to the buffet for a custom omelet. He knew exactly what he wanted and was incredibly focused. Darryl knew he wanted an omelet and he knew exactly what he wanted on it. Wally, Paul, and Darryl continued down the buffet line: Wally napping, Paul slowly filling his buffet tray with the many exotic culinary wonders at his disposal, and Darryl intensely focused on his future omelet.

Eventually the three of them arrived at the custom omelet station. It consisted of a single gas burner and a cast-iron skillet. Behind the burner stood a heavy-set mustachioed man with red bushy eyebrows and large white teeth. Behind him were bowls containing any omelet topping you could possibly imagine. It seemed anything anyone had ever even considered putting on an omelet was at this man's disposal. Darryl's eggs hit the cast-iron skillet's hot surface with a squeal that woke Wally up from his slumber on the blue tray. Paul had begun to use Wally's tray as an overflow tray for his own buffet selections, so Wally, upon waking, was somewhat startled to find himself surrounded by exotic breakfast delicacies. His green weasel diaper shook as the weasel trembled with rage. Wally looked at Paul. He then looked at Darryl.

Darryl was calm as a kitten. He watched the mustachioed man before him assemble his custom omelet with the same tender satisfaction that some men show in catching a first glimpse of their newborn child.

Wally was delirious with fury. He was wearing a weasel diaper and the rat harness. He was in public on a buffet tray surrounded by breakfast delicacies. It was torture. It was too much. As the omelet hissed on the cast-iron skillet nearby, Paul's tree weasel slowly lost its ability to cope with the reality before it, and seemingly without provocation, the weasel lashed out and sunk its tiny rodent teeth firmly into the first target available: a grapefruit which was sitting directly beside Wally on the blue breakfast buffet tray. A tiny steam of juice shot from the grapefruit and hit Darryl squarely in the eye. Darryl, who had been tranquilly observing the assembling of his omelet, absolutely lost it. He turned to see Paul beside him. Paul was gazing off into the distance with a dopey looking smile on his face, patiently waiting in line and looking forward to eating the mound of food which he had piled on his tray.

Darryl then grabbed the cast-iron skillet meant for his custom omelet, and with one strong blow, caved in Paul's skull.

Wally was free, and lived happily ever after.

And the universe in which Paul had lived continued on without him, much in the same way as it had continued along with him.

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