AcmeShorts

Dawson showed up for work on his first day with a box full of his office things under his arm; mostly highlighters and correction fluid. He was sporting his “shirt n'pants”, a fresh business-cut hairstyle and styptic pencil repairs. He regarded his new colleagues with his mirror-rehearsed squint that pulled his top lip up and put his tongue against his back teeth. He strode directly to the first person who made eye contact, did a sharp backwards nod and stuck his hand out, “Dawson,” he tarded, “First day.”

“Davis,” they pressed palms and Davis tried to keep walking, putting two mental dollars on Day 2 in the Date of Termination office betting pool in his head.

Dawson held on tight and told him all about his last job. He used Davis like a microphone and keyed on aspects he felt would best portray him as competent in an obvious voice that was well loud enough for the room. Davis felt violated as if he were being told a joke he didn't want to hear by a racist who would soon move on to the religious material, or like someone was demanding he do that 'thing' that made everyone laugh so hard one time but is impossible to replicate. Eventually, Dawson stopped talking and released his grip, his eyes bobbed about the room searching for the slighest glimmer of interest.

Davis tossed his durable, 11-pt manila stock folder made of 30% post-consumer recycled material into a plant, grabbed Dawson by the face with both hands and violently kissed him square on the mouth. Davis lifted him off his feet so fast that he dropped his box. When the box hit the ground it spat highliters, broken columns of B8 Bosch staples, and a ruler high up into the air where they all danced at their apex before they fell back into the box like trained dolphins. When Dawson was fired two days later, he cried in front of everyone.