The Cube People by Christian McPherson

you need me?” I yell down the hallway.
    â€œJust go, I’ll be fine in a few minutes,” she mutters weakly.
    On the bus I snag a window seat. A man with a huge beer gut sits down beside me. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t seen his dick in years. He has some wicked coffee breath and reeks of cigarettes. Not surprisingly, Sarah hates taking the bus these days. One whiff of this guy and he would have a new appreciation for morning sickness. As the bus sways along its route, its lumbering metal structure rocks me into a state of sleepy complacency. The engine purrs, “Shhh Colin, go to sleep.” I close my eyes. Blobs of light dance on the dark of my inner eyelids. I think about Invasion of the Body Snatchers and bolt upright in my seat, eyes wide. My mind floats to the laundry and dishes in the sink that need washing. I drift to other things I need to get done, the book I’m writing. Is it scary enough? Should it have a dark ending or should it have a little redemption?
    I glance around me. There’s a man seated across the aisle with hunched posture, a wilted flower. He gives the impression that the attrition of a bureaucratic routine has left him empty. A Tupperware container is perched atop his briefcase. I imagine him on this bus for the next twenty years, microwaved lunches, the same job. I imagine him slipping a noose around his neck and jumping off his Arborite kitchen counter, his flailing arms knocking over his Tupperware leftovers, little macaronis spilling out onto the floor. I see myself as him. I see myself trapped in my day job, trapped in the relentless predictability of it all. Maybe the ending of my new book should be dark?
    But then the bus saunters to a stop and picks up a pregnant woman. Another woman moves to give her a seat. I stare at her swollen belly. I think about how much I love Sarah, ride this bus for her, eat the mircowaved banality for her – for her and my unborn child. But is love enough to keep riding this bus for the next twenty years? Maybe. Maybe not. I need to write my way out of it. Not that I want to, but I don’t see another way. Maybe my book could use a little redemption? Maybe I could use some myself?
    When I finally get into work and into my quad, Brita’s there wearing black military boots, green army pants and a black T-shirt with a picture of Kurt Cobain on the front. She has shaven her head completely bald, reminding me of Sigourney Weaver in Alien 3 . She’s placing her personal possessions, including a Karl Marx action figure, computer manuals, CDs and various leftist magazines into a cardboard box.
    â€œWhere are you going? Are you switching groups?” I ask.
    â€œFuck that MacDonald, I quit this shithole. Let the capitalists find another lackey henchwoman to replace me. I’m off to the rainforest to stop deforestation. I’m going to blow up a few bulldozers. I’m going to straighten shit out.”
    â€œWow, sounds like you’re doing your part for Paperless Office 2012.”
    â€œDon’t get smart with me, MacDonald,” she threatens, swinging around with her box of junk.
    â€œWell, good luck,” I say extending my hand.
    She looks at my hand and debates it. She decides to balance the box on one knee and quickly shakes. “You are one of the few people in here who isn’t a complete asshole.”
    â€œThanks,” I reply, because I’m not sure what else to say.
    â€œIf I were you, MacDonald, I’d get out before this place takes your soul,” she whispers leaning in toward me, so close I worry she might kiss me. Suddenly she spins around and yells at Carla, “Here is something for you, cunt!” spitting a glob of saliva onto Carla’s flat-screen monitor, and then storming off. Carla sits frozen, looking completely horrified, staring at the sliding spittle as if it were a scorpion crawling down her screen. I almost laugh, but it seems like an unnecessarily