Tales in Hot Pink is a semi-weekly column by our fearless leader. Like all management, he is not required to tell the truth, represent himself accurately, or trouble himself with reality in any way. And, in keeping with our corporate style, he is not bound by good taste or specific subject, so he may ramble wildly from topic to topic. As his employees, we encourage this, because the day is long and we are frequently bored.
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Sunburn
I walk as stiffly as possible, to minimize any movement the clothes I'm wearing make. The secretary smiles at me briefly when I arrive, but her face soon goes white with horror. It's the same face I get when I show her the sales figures for my book. But this time, when she gives me that look, I'm unable to smile back reassuringly and pretend nothing's wrong. I can't smile back. I can't allow my face to move. "Good lord," she whispers. "Morning," I say, but I try not to use my lips. Without lips, morning sounds like "orning." Orning is not a word. The spellcheck tells me so. I awkwardly make my way to my office and quietly close the door, hoping desperately for no one to bother me. As always happens when I hope desperately for no one to bother me, someone knocks on the door and comes in to bother me. "Tom?" Don asks uncertainly. "Es?" I respond. I have my hands placed palms down on my desk. I have no intention of moving for the next eight hours. Not to answer the phone, not to turn on the computer, not to go to the file cabinet. I will not move until it's time to go home. The pain would be too excruciating. "Did you paint yourself red, or is that---" "Sunurn," I confirm. "I an ery adly sunurned." Don, baffled, looks over his shoulder to the secretary for a translation. "Sunburn," she repeats for me, able to use her lips. "He is very badly sunburned." "Badly sunburned?" T.R. says, peering into my office through the window that I have been meaning to paint black. "It looks like he's been fried in hot oil." And then, as always happens when I hope desperately for no one to bother me, everyone files into my office to bother me. "Even his eyes look red," Don says. "Can you die from sunburn?" the secretary asks fearfully. "Let's wait and see," T.R. suggests. "Do you want me to get you anything?" the secretary asks. "Skin lotion? Aloe?" "Aloe?" T.R. repeats with astonishment. "This man needs morphine." "An a artini," I say. "A what?" Dave asks. "Morphine and a martini," T.R. clarifies. "I think I've got a little of both in my desk." For a moment, I am no longer the center of attention, and T.R. recognizes it. "Probably should have kept that to myself," he admits regretfully. Satisfied with the confession, all eyes turn back to me. If it had been any other time, I would have arched my eyebrows and raised my voice and insisted that everyone leave my office at once. But it isn't any other time, and I am well aware that arching my eyebrows may mean that I won't be able to lower them again. I'm also afraid to raise my voice because there's a possibility that even my vocal chords have been burned. Instead, I open my mouth and whimper, "ill e." "What'd he say?" Don asks. "He wants somebody to kill him," the secretary says. "I'll do it," T.R. offers quickly. Don and the secretary flash him an angry look. "I was just kidding," T.R. tells them, not sounding very convincing. He points at me defensively. "Anyone can see he's going to die anyway. In a few hours, all that skin's going to start peeling. He's going to look like a vampire at the end of a horror movie." I decide if I can't get sympathy, I want quiet. "Eave e alone." I say, but instead of it sounding angry, it sounds pathetic. "What?" Don asks. "He wants us to leave him alone," the secretary says. "Okay," Don agrees, leading the party out the door. "I'm not sure I want to see his face drop off anyway." T.R. pauses before leaving. "Want us to come and get you for lunch?" he asks. "Ere are u going?" "Hot dog place around the corner," he tells me. "The one with the picnic tables outside." He and I look at each other, and he realizes that if I could move, I would throttle him. "Right," he says, suddenly realizing how bright and warm it gets at the hot dog place with the picnic tables outside. "My bad." He closes the door. I close my eyes very slowly and begin my busy day of not moving.
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| A collection of more diseased madness below. Check
out a few, and then buy The Reluctant
Prophet. We won't tell
anyone what you spent your grocery money on. No one needs to
know. We can keep it just between us.
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