Paradoxical Ink

[JoeyTwoShoes]

Paradoxical Ink
Short story by Patrick Verhagen

I am seated in my office, surrounded by trinkets and work-appropriate ornaments. My back hurts, but I don't worry because I have an orthopedic desk chair. In this room I spend the majority of my life, wood walls, Le Mis poster, fluorescent lighting, an unopenable window, and the little Zen sand garden that Alison, my wife, gave me, in which I have placed the business cards of all the men and woman who I have personally fired. I like this corporate graveyard, it relaxes me, and I suppose this is the point of a Zen garden.

Soon I will have to get up. I am not relishing the prospect. My chair is a Byzantine contraption, and it takes several minutes for me to unstrap myself. It's worth the inconvenience though; my back is very delicate, and my chiropractor tells me that without daily preventative adjustments my spine will macerate and eventually snap like a pencil tip. He says that this could happen at any time, that in the middle of my daily jog I could fold in half like a manila envelope, and I would have to lie there, an unwilling contortionist, until some Samaritan calls my saddened but ultimately prophetic spinal adjuster.

Andrew, my head accountant, is here. He's talking to me, but I'm not listening. I nod my head when it feels appropriate to do so, and let my chair keep me from falling over. The man's a bore, but he has a pretty wife, so I suppose he must have some attractive qualities. He has a hunchback that really bothers me. Maybe I'm just protecting my own vertebraic insecurities on him. He does need help though; I should really give him Dr. Germane's phone number.

He's gone now; I can't remember anything he said, but I did give him the phone number, so I hope that works out.
I unstrap myself and wearily get to feet; my back immediately stops hurting, which is a nice surprise. I have a meeting with David, so I straiten my tie as I walk out of my office.

The name of my company is Mnemosyne incorporated. We sell day-timers, calendars, and basically any other form of memory aid. Right now we're developing a variant of the post-it note, with a micro speaker in it, which beeps and squeaks out obnoxious reminders. Our big seller is Paradoxical Ink. It's a type of indelible transparent ink that becomes an opaque black exactly one year after it's applied. So if, for example, you have trouble remembering your anniversary, all you have to do is spray a small dot on your wife's forehead the day before said anniversary. And when, one year later, you notice a black mark on your beloved's countenance, you'll know it's time to pay a visit to your local jeweler.

I'm glad I have an office; a cubical would really not suit me. As I walk through the maze of carpeted boxes, I feel the most profound pity. I also feel vaguely superior like a knight among peasants; I know this is hierarchical and absurd, but awareness doesn't seem to attenuate the emotion, so I suppose I may as well enjoy it.

Everyone looks like they would rather be somewhere else. Scratch that, everyone would rather be somewhere else, but there is an insatiable demand for gimmicky memory aids, so we all show up to work. As I walk through the maze of desks, my employees start rushing about and trying to look efficient. My proximity seems to wind up a bullshit-cog in the back of their heads; I admire the effort, but it really is unnecessary. I don't care if they are unproductive. Paradoxical-Ink practically sells itself, and I have way too much money. I really don't mind if I subsidize some wasteful behavior. The job is not very satisfying, and after a certain point wealth is way overrated.

There's not a big difference between having ten million dollars and having billions of dollars, except having billions of dollars must be embarrassing; It's like having a twenty-five inch cock, because there really isn't much you can do with either that doesn't look ridiculous. The only option is charity; it's a kind of financial circumcision.

David's door is open, so I walk right in. He's sitting on a Japanese futon pillow and typing on his laptop with something resembling alacrity. David follows a philosophy of minimalism, thus his Office is pretty desolate. Just the futon, the laptop, and a poster of a Feynman diagram.
He doesn't believe in desks; he says they're obsolete. He has some pithy way of putting it, but I can't remember how it goes. I ask him why he doesn't have one. He responds "I don't believe in desks. I believe in desktops." Yep, that's it.

He asks me how my back is doing, and I tell him about my fears of becoming origami. As we talk I begin to miss the straps of my chair, and I realize that I dislike the act of supporting my weight; I don't really know what to do with this information, perhaps I can purchase a small crane to tow me about, or buy one of those little electric scooters on top of which those weird soulless-old-people navigate malls.
David is trying to sell me on a pair of shoelaces; he calls them Tie-Me's. They shout prerecorded imprecations at those who slip on their sneakers without lacing. I think it's an idiotic concept, so it will probably make us millions. The key to succeeding in the novelty business is to have absolutely no respect for the consumer. I tell him to begin working on a prototype immediately.

I'm back in my Office now strapped snugly in my orthopedic seat, and I can't help but keep thinking about getting a scooter. It will be blue, and I'll get R&D to supe it up for me, so it will constantly be reminding me to buckle my seat belt and shoulder check as I zoom past pedestrians. I could even weld my Office chair to the little scooter, so my spine will be able to relax and enjoy its retirement; I'll talk to my chiropractor about this next time I see him.

Someone's knocking on my door, so I yell for them to let themselves in. Its Alison, she tends to show up unannounced. Alison is exceptionally beautiful, as well as much younger than me. I would describe her as a trophy wife, because I think this implies that I love her only for her beauty, and she loves me only for my money, which is a pretty accurate description of the relationship. I am really infatuated with her though, at least with the parts of her that reflect light. She has these plump, red, waxy lips, and a body that it should be illegal for a man like me to touch. Her personality is not displeasing, and since we pretty much avoid conversation, we really do live quite happily together.

I wonder why she's standing in front of me looking so indigent. I hope she's not pregnant. Neither of us would excel at raising a child; I bet she's pregnant. She's not pregnant. It turns out it's her birthday, I know this because there's a big, black blotch above her left eyebrow. Why didn't I notice this yesterday? Maybe we need to reformulate Paradoxical-Ink.

She looks genuinely angry; I find this surprising given the nature of our relationship. Maybe she didn't marry me for my money. Maybe she genuinely desires my affection, but even as I think this I know it can't be true. I'll just have to buy her a fancy German sports car, or a necklace made of one of those metal's that are absurdly expensive yet, without extensive chemical testing, cannot be distinguished from steel. She's still staring at me, and I'm getting very uncomfortable. I begin to consider saying something, but she ultimately spares me the effort.
"I've been fucking Dave." She whispers, and then walks out of the room. I try to run after her, but my straps prove to be a major impediment.

Here is my blog. I'll post more soon. http://patrickverhagenstories.blogspot.c om/

[kidpaddle59]

This is a nice beginning , continue ! :)

[RIGg0rMORtis]

Nicely done! You had me laughing throughout the piece. The only real improvement I can think of is in the following sentence:

"He says that this could happen at any time, that in the middle of my daily jog I could fold in half like a manila envelope,and I would have to lie there, an unwilling contortionist, until some Samaritan calls my saddened but ultimately prophetic spinal adjuster."

Personally, I would cut out the part that isn't underlined. "Fold in half like a manila envelope" is some fantastic imagery (I actually winced when I read it), especially given the narrator's office job. It's definitely strong enough on its own and cutting the rest would give the paragraph a really crisp end.

Good work, keep it coming!

[BrianEtrius]

What's lacking in this piece is pacing. The story is dragged down by the constant use of the word I and sentences that don't flow due to the lack of sentence variety. In your first paragraph alone you're describing the room when you haven't even developed a reason why or a hook in the story. Also, since you're using first person, give more insight to your narrator, not just offhand quips about his pain. Talk about how he feels about his coworkers.