The Office Worker

From the time he started working, Harlan spent most of his work days with his best friend, his computer. He would work on his assignments so seriously that he seldom heard the conversations around him. Even if he did hear what was being discussed, unless it was about a work project, he would not participate. Over time his colleagues stopped inviting him to join them on lunch or breaks, and generally left him alone. That was fine with Harlan, he was happy just doing his job, alone with his own thoughts.

Harlan was a man of habit who lived a very structured life. He set up his clothes in his closet in the order that he would wear them, which was pretty much the same each week. It got so that his co-workers could tell what day it was by the outfit Harlan was wearing. He was also extremely frugal, not wanting to waste anything. He lived close enough to the office that he would seldom drive his car to work, even in the winter. He wore glass frames from so long ago that others would refer to them as "Buddy Holly" glasses. The corduroy pants he wore were referred to as "Roys" by the jokesters in the office, since the cords had worn nearly off.

The urge started shortly after Harlan literally ran into Sheila, a pretty brunette secretary who worked on the fifth floor in one of the executive offices. He was coming out of the cafeteria, putting his change into his pocket, when he bumped into Sheila, who was distracted by a friend calling her name. He nearly spilled his drink, but managed to juggle it safely back in his hand.

"Sorry," Sheila said to him, smiling.

"That's okay," he managed to stammer out, blushing at the rare sight of a girl smiling at him. He continued on his way and went back to his desk to eat his lunch, but couldn't get her smiling face out of his mind.

In the weeks following that encounter Harlan would look for her whenever he went to the cafeteria. When he saw her he would feel a tingling in his body and butterflies in his stomach. He didn't know what to make of the effect she seemed to have on him, but continued to seek her out. One day he saw her leaving the cafeteria just ahead of him and decided it was an opportunity to see where she worked. He stayed on the escalator past his floor, and followed at a distance behind her as she proceeded to her fifth floor office.

Now he had another place in the building to go besides his office and the cafeteria. He began to spend his breaks and some of his lunchtime walking the corridors on the fifth floor, hoping to see her. He would walk through the hallway passing her office a couple of times on his rounds. He would keep his eyes straight ahead, or toward the floor in front of him, until he neared her office when he would glance in hoping to see her.

It went on like this for months, Harlan working diligently as always, but now taking time to seek out Sheila. Most of the time he didn't see her. If he did, she didn't acknowledge him, as was the case with most people. On a few occasions, however, she did look at him when passing, and smile or nod a greeting. On those days his spirits would be lifted and hope renewed. He noticed she didn't have a ring on her left hand, so imagined that she was available.

Harlan had only had two dates in his whole life. One was for his high school junior prom when one of the school's female nerds asked him to take her. She was one of those, like Harlan, who was shunned by the "in crowd." She and Harlan were lab partners once in Biology, so at least had conversed with each other. She convinced Harlan that the prom was something that they should experience. It was a disaster. They hardly said a word to each other all evening, and didn't dance, not even once.

The other date was when he and his cousin double dated with two girls his cousin knew. They went to hang out at the mall and then take in a movie. Harlan and his "date" spent most of the time just walking behind his cousin and his girl watching them hold hands, flirt and joke around with each other. A mismatch if there ever was one.

It wasn't that Harlan didn't like girls, but he was usually preoccupied with his studies, or spending time on the computer. He didn't think of himself as ugly, but he knew he wasn't a handsome jock either. He was thin, about five feet eight, with dark hair that he parted in the middle but otherwise didn't style. He always thought his nose was too pointy, but otherwise he never really concerned himself with his appearance. The real problem was that he was not blessed with the basic social graces that most people have. He had trouble relating to people and taking an interest in everyday conversations. When he did try, he would usually stammer and stutter and come out with something inappropriate. Or he would find that he didn't know what to say next when the inevitable awkward pause would come. He had just about given up having any kind of relationship, until he ran into Sheila.

He decided he would take the next step with her. He thought for weeks about what he would say and how he would say it. He practiced in his mind day after day, especially when he made his rounds on the fifth floor. One day he decided it was time to take that step. He was too nervous to eat lunch that day, so spent the first fifteen minutes of his lunchtime at his desk rehearsing his lines. As he rode the escalator up to the fifth floor his heart pounded faster and faster with each floor he ascended.

The first time he passed by her office and glanced in, he noticed her at her desk eating a salad. He thought his heart would pound through his chest as he approached her doorway the second time around. This would be it, now or never. He slowed as he neared her door, and turned into her office, walking straight to her desk as he could feel sweat beginning to bead on his forehead.

Sheila looked up from a magazine she was reading while she ate and noticed him approaching her desk. She smiled and with a puzzled look said, "Hi, can I help you?"

Harlan tried to pull up a smile, but could only muster what he was sure was a foolish grin. "Hi," he said, "I'm Harlan, I ran into you a while ago in the cafeteria. You probably don't remember."

"Uh, oh yeah, sorry about that."

"That's okay." Here was that awkward pause again. "Anyway, I was wondering if you'd like to go out with me some time." This was not going the way he practiced.

"Oh, thank you," she replied, "but I'm kind of seeing somebody. Thanks though."

Harlan could feel the stares of the other girls in the office who were watching the encounter. He heard what sounded like a giggle and when he turned his head he thought he saw Sheila roll her eyes at one of her friends. When he looked back at her she had that same smile on her face as she looked at him.

"Yeah, sure," he said, regretting making this futile attempt, "sorry to have bothered you."

He spun and left the office without giving her a chance to reply. As he strode down the hall he could hear muted laughter escaping from Sheila's office. He was anxious to get off the floor as soon as he could, so ducked into the stairwell rather than walking around to the escalator. Actually Harlan was used to taking the stairs, viewing it as about the only exercise he could get. He stood for a few seconds with his back against the closed door as though he could prevent his embarrassment from following him through. He wiped the sweat from his brow and started down the stairs, cursing himself. That's when he first heard the voice.

They're laughing, the voice said. They're laughing at you, it said again.

Harlan looked around to see who was there, but no one was. He looked over the handrails, both up and down the stairs to see if the voice came from conversations of others on the stairs, but again saw no one. Now, doubly shaken, he ran down the stairs to the third floor door and opened it, quickly bursting through. He almost collided with his boss, Joe Danton.

"Slow down Harlan," Joe said. "Your work can wait for you to finish lunch."

"Sorry," was all Harlan could manage as he hurried down the corridor to his office. He spent the rest of the day trying to concentrate on work, but continuing to replay the encounter with Sheila in his mind. How could he have been so stupid? Of course someone that pretty would already have a boyfriend. He never should have approached her. Now she and her friends would have a good laugh at his expense.

Because of the distraction he wound up staying late to complete working on a portion of a project he needed to get done that day. By the time he finished no one else was left in his office, or perhaps even on his floor. After shutting down his computer he grabbed his coat and started walking down the hall toward the stairwell. With his thoughts on the Sheila disaster and his work, he had forgotten about the voice, but remembered it now as he approached the door to the stairs.

Sometimes on windy days you could hear the wind whooshing through the stairwell, especially if the door wasn't completely closed. As Harlan approached the door he could hear the moaning of the wind from the stairwell, but thought he could hear something else. In addition to the usual low moan he thought he heard a droning that sounded like "Harl, Harl." It wasn't until he opened the door and started down the stairs that he realized it was the voice calling his name.

Harlan, Harlan, they were laughing. Laughing at you, it said as he descended the stairs, again looking around but seeing no one. You can't let them get away with that. You must teach them a lesson.

Harlan felt the hair on the back of his neck and his arms involuntarily rise as he ran down the rest of the stairs, practically jumping the last landing entirely. As he walked out of the building he told himself that he imagined the voice, and the depression that the encounter with Sheila had brought on trumped his concern over hearing voices. The next day he almost didn't go to work from embarrassment, but his reluctance was only exceeded by his aversion for taking time off when he didn't have to. He horded his time like some people did money.

So he walked to work dreading the possibility of running into Sheila. He was sure his co-workers were aware of his stupidity by now. He guessed he would find out soon enough. After walking into the building he passed the elevators, as was his usual custom, and headed for the stairwell. Almost as soon as he put his foot on the first step it started.

Everyone knows, it said. Everyone knows and it's their fault. They laugh and tell everyone how you made a fool of yourself. You have to stop them.

Harlan took the stairs two at a time, not bothering to look around for the source of the voice, knowing he wouldn't see anything. He burst through the door to his floor and the voice stopped as soon as he did. He proceeded to his office, not knowing what to expect. When he walked in, he felt as though all eyes were on him and that people smirked as he walked by. He mercifully got to his desk, hung up his coat and turned his computer on.

He opened his desk drawer to get a pen and noticed something yellow peeking out from under a notepad. He pulled on it and saw that it was a folded old newspaper clipping. He carefully unfolded it since it was partially torn, and read the headline, SHOOTING AT STATE OFFICE. The clipping was from 1970 and the story told how Daniel Greene shot three women on the fifth floor of this very building. Two of the women died, and Greene proceeded to a stairwell after shooting the women, and shot himself.

Harlan read and re-read the story convinced he had never seen this clipping in his desk before. The story said Greene was a quiet loner who no one would have predicted could do such a thing. No motive was evident for the shooting and no suicide note found. Harlan couldn't shake the feeling that the article was connected to the voice he was hearing in the stairwell.

At lunchtime Harlan took a chance and went to the cafeteria hoping he would not run into Sheila. Unfortunately he saw her from a distance and figured she saw him first since she quickly detoured and went a different way. That was just fine with Harlan since it avoided what would otherwise be an awkward moment. After he paid for his lunch and was leaving the cafeteria he could feel the stares of two girls passing him by and was sure he heard their whispered laughter. His face reddened as he seethed inside.

That evening Harlan put the newspaper clipping in his pocket as he left his office. When he entered the stairwell the voice started almost immediately.

Harlan, you know they're laughing at you, you've seen it. It's all her fault and now they're all in on it. You're their entertainment. You need to put a stop to it.

"Greene, is that you?" Harlan asked. "I've got the clipping," he said, pulling it out of his pocket. There was no response, and after a minute or so, Harlan started descending the stairs.

How long can you put up with it, Harlan? the voice resumed after Harlan passed the next landing, ignoring Harlan's attempt at conversation. What will it take? You have to do something. Don't let them get away with it. You know what you have to do.

"I'm not a killer. I'm not a killer!" shouted Harlan as he ran down the rest of the stairs and through the door.

That night Harlan read the article over and over again. He tried to research more information about the incident on the web, but it was too long ago and he could find nothing. The more he read the article, however, the more he became in touch with how Greene must have felt. He imagined that Greene was the subject of ridicule by the girls he targeted and could understand Greene's feelings.

The next morning he entered the stairwell and the voice again started as soon as he did.

Harlan, Harlan, they're all laughing at you and it will get worse, you'll see. It will get worse unless you do something.

"Greene," said Harlan, "is that you, Daniel Greene?" There was silence then. "Why did you do it? I got the article you left. Why did you kill those girls?"

The voice remained silent as Harlan stood there listening. Someone opened the stairwell door and glanced quizzically at Harlan as he passed by him on the stairs. Harlan knew he couldn't stand there forever, so proceeded to climb at a slow pace. Above him he could hear the other person leave the stairwell at the next floor. As soon as the door shut the voice began again.

Harlan, they're laughing, those girls are laughing. You must stop them. Others will be laughing too. You must teach them they can't laugh at you and get away with it. You must do it. You'll see.

"Greene, talk to me," Harlan shouted, but then heard a stairwell door below him open. Deciding it was useless; he climbed to his floor and walked to his office. As soon as he entered, he felt something was up, but couldn't put his finger on it right away. He hung up his coat at his cubicle and turned on his computer. While he waited for it to cycle on, he walked to the front of the office to get a cup of coffee. He thought he detected some smirks from people at their desks, but paid no attention. On the way back he glanced at them and began to notice that everyone seemed to have on gray pants and a pink shirt or blouse.

That's when it hit him. He himself had on his gray corduroy pants and a pink shirt. They were mocking him. He knew he was predictable, he felt comfort in routine. But he didn't think anyone else really noticed. This was what he wore every week on this day, and they were making fun of his habits. Prior to the "Sheila incident" he was practically invisible to others, which was how he preferred it. Now he had drawn attention to himself and would be the butt of jokes. Rather, those girls drew attention to him and have made others see him for a fool.

He seethed the rest of the day at his desk, hardly able to concentrate on his work. His thoughts drifted to what the voice has been telling him. Perhaps Greene was right; it wouldn't stop until he stops it. He didn't leave his cubicle all day, skipping lunch and breaks. He waited until everyone else left before venturing out. In the stairwell, as soon as the door shut behind him the voice began.

I told you Harlan, I told you what would happen. It will only get worse. You have to do something. You need to take care of this, the sooner the better. You need to stop them. Stop them now.

Harlan took his time descending the stairs, no longer afraid of the voice, but now listening and considering what it said. As he listened the urge to follow the voice's advice took hold. Maybe he should do something after all. He didn't deserve this treatment. He wouldn't continue to take it. He couldn't. If he had a gun, he would take care of it tomorrow, but he didn't have one, and would have to look into buying one. Yes, he would do that this weekend. He came to the first floor, but something, some feeling, took him past the door he would usually take to exit the building, and he continued down the stairwell to the basement. When he got to the final landing, instead of going through the door there, he walked to the opposite wall that took him underneath the rising stairs he just descended. He noticed something in the darkened corner and when he investigated further, saw that it was a handgun.

Harlan picked it up and examined it. It was a Colt .38 caliber pistol. That sounded familiar. He took the newspaper article out of his pocket and confirmed that Greene had used the same type of pistol that day in 1970. It felt comfortable in his hand, and the longer he held it, the more in control he felt. It had the right feel. He had the right feel. This was right, this is what he needed to do, what he wanted to do. Tomorrow would be the day. Tomorrow he would put a stop to it all.

Make it right Harlan, make it right. Show them they can't do this to you. Show the ones who started all this. Show them and the rest will know.

Harlan nodded as he caressed the gun feeling its weight and power. He put it in his coat pocket and ascended the stairs to the first floor. As he walked out of the building he felt calm and confident. Now he was in control, he would take care of the situation and shut them up.

The next day Harlan entered the building with the gun in his coat pocket and a sense of peace in his mind. As he entered the stairwell the voice chimed in:

Be strong Harlan, be strong. You know this is the only choice you have. You need to take care of this now. You need to end it. You have the power to show them, to stop them. Do it. Do it now.

Harlan felt emboldened by the voice. He would do it, and he was convinced it was what he had to do. He would be the subject of scorn forever if he didn't take action, and he wouldn't stand for it. Those girls would pay for how they treated him, and the others would learn a valuable lesson: Don't mess with Harlan.

He went to his cubicle and put the gun in his desk drawer before hanging up his coat. He started working as he normally would, waiting for the right time. At lunchtime he didn't leave his desk, he wanted to avoid contact with people as much as he could today. He needed to focus on his task. About fifteen minutes after most of the office emptied to go to lunch, he decided it was time. He knew Sheila and her friends would be in their office eating their salads or whatever, from his many sojourns to their floor before the incident.

He calmly took the gun out of his desk drawer and put it in his pants pocket, keeping his hand over it. He wouldn't take the escalator, too many people. So he walked around to the stairwell to climb to the fifth floor. As he entered the voice began, stronger than ever.

Now is the time Harlan, now is the time. Get them all, wipe away their scornful smiles and silence their mocking laughter. Kill them. Kill them!

The voice's words echoed in his head as he quickly climbed the stairs. By the time he burst through the stairwell door to the fifth floor corridor, he broke into a smile, looking forward to completing what he needed to do. He walked purposefully to Sheila's office and entered it without hesitation. As he anticipated, Sheila was at her desk eating a salad, just like that day. The other three girls were there too. Sheila looked up as he entered, and had that same stupid smile on her face. He thought he heard titters from one of the other girls.

As Sheila was about to say something Harlan took the gun from his pocket, pointed it at her and pulled the trigger. The sound of it caused him to shut his eyes, but he didn't hesitate. Over the screams of the others, he turned and pointed the pistol at one of the girls on the other side of the office and fired. As the others tried to run or dive for cover, he calmly turned toward each one and pointed and fired. He then turned and walked out of the office toward the stairwell.

Well done Harlan, well done, the voice said as he entered the stairwell. He sat down on the stairs, waiting for his heart to stop pounding. As he sat there reveling in his revenge, he could hear the sirens from outside and footsteps pounding in the corridor he just left. He had to move, so got up and started to descend the stairs.

Just before he got to his floor, he heard the stairwell door above him open and voices shouting, voices that were obviously building security. Another door opened a few floors below him with similar voices. He sat down, his back against the door to his floor. The voice was silent now, and said nothing to help or encourage him. He could hear the guards getting closer to him from above and below, shouting cautionary warnings to each other, taking their time, but meaning business.

That's when he decided to end it all. That's what Greene did, and what he would do. He did what he had to do, but they'd catch him, and his life wouldn't be the same. He put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Click, click. He stared at the gun in disbelief. He had lost count of how many shots he had fired, but now he realized he was out of bullets.

Just then guards appeared on the stairwell above and below him, both pointing guns at him.

"Freeze," they both said almost simultaneously.

He dropped the gun and stared at them not saying a word. He would take the lead from the voice, and remain silent. Yes, that is what he should do now. He would no longer say anything to anyone. They would think he was nuts after what he did, and if he didn't talk, that would confirm it for them. Then maybe he'd be put in an institution. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad. Perhaps his fellow patients would like him, respect him for what he did. Maybe he could finally fit in and get along with those around him. Yes, that's what he would do. Not say another word. He was in control now. He would be in control from now on.

THE END

Bio: Anthony R. Pezzula is a retired former employee of New York State who has taken up writing in his retirement years. His work has appeared in The Writers Post Journal, the e-zines Midnight Times and Fictionville, and The River Poets Journal. Mr. Pezzula lives in upstate New York with his wife of thirty-three years (whose voice is the only one to which he pays any attention).

E-mail: Anthony R. Pezzula

Comment on this story in the Aphelion Forum

Return to Aphelion's Index page.