The Cube People by Christian McPherson Page B

practice for you. It’ll help you. Just do your best, that’s all I’m asking,” he urges, putting the sheet back in my in-basket.
    Insanity. But I smell something fishy here, aside from Bruce’s power games. Bruce isn’t that smart. I erase the numbers in question and put in new random numbers. I walk the 220 form over to Bruce’s cubicle again. “That was quick Colin. Do you think you got it right this time?”
    â€œYou tell me.”
    â€œWell let me look it over and I’ll bring it back if it needs fixing.”
    â€œWell just look at it now.”
    â€œListen Colin, I have to finish this email, but I’ll do it right after that.”
    I’m contents-under-pressure, a steaming kettle, Fahrenheit four-fifty-fuck-you. There’s a worm in the apple and it’s time to go fishing. “Fine,” I say and leave, but I don’t go far. I slip into Peter Cann’s cubicle, right next door to Bruce’s. I place my index finger to my lips and make a silent shhh to Peter. He’s a good sport and doesn’t say anything, just curiously watches. I stand on his guest chair and peer over the wall at Bruce. He’s not writing his email. He’s looking at my 220 form. He opens one of his desk drawers and pulls out two other 220 forms. I recognize one as my original from March 2006, and the other one I surmise to be Brita’s. He’s added them together to make sure they match my new estimates.
    â€œBruce!” I yelp over the wall. He jumps as if his spine were about to pop out of his back. I step down off the chair, thank Peter and spin around the light grey cubicle dividing wall and back into Bruce’s cube. “Give me that,” I demand snatching my 220 form from his hand. I quickly do the addition of all four boxes in question right there. It takes me about forty-five seconds and Bruce doesn’t say a peep. When I’m done, I hand Bruce the form and say, “Estimates are now complete.”
    I walk back to my cube with joy in my heart.
    When I get to the office the next day there is a calendar invite from Barry, the manager, Mr. Paperless Office. He has requested a meeting with me at 10 a.m. in his office, the subject line: The Committee. I click the button to accept and don’t think any more about it.
    At 9:55 I get a pop-up reminder about the meeting. I hit the washroom, and then walk to Barry’s office. When I get there, he waves me in and asks me to shut the door. Barry’s a fat little man, habitually adorned in a light grey suit (almost the same colour as our cubicle walls – sort of office camouflage, so he can sneak up on people) and some sort of novelty tie. I think he’s about fifty-five, but he seems to have no imminent retirement plans. It’s not because he has to work; no, I think Barry has lots of money. He won’t retire because he loves his job. He loves his job because he thinks he’s making a difference. He thinks his job is important. Today his tie has a profile picture of Homer Simpson drinking a Duff beer. I suspect that this tie, at least in Barry’s mind, is a kind of jovial catalyst, a springboard to you-can-talk-to-me-for-I’m-a-man-of-the-people, just a small piece of his open-door managerial style that he professes as part of his office philosophy. “I hear that there was a bit of an incident yesterday with the work estimates.”
    â€œYeah, Bruce is driving me crazy with those. I don’t know what to tell you. The whole thing boggles the mind.”
    â€œListen,” says Barry, rolling his chair closer to mine, putting one hand gently on my knee. “Bruce was quite scared by what happened yesterday. He said, and this is a quote, he said he ‘felt physically threatened’ yesterday when you grabbed the piece of paper from his hand.”
    I’m stunned. “You have to be kidding me?” I ask.
    â€œThis is a serious matter Colin.