I Hate My Friends

CHAPTER 1

The rusty old station wagon arrived at the curb, but she did not shut the engine down. Michael "Mickey" Mustard could tell from her brown bags under her brown eyes, her messy brown hair pulled loosely into a top bun, and the pale red spots of previous acne spotted under her pale skin which she typically covered in makeup, that she was inconvenienced by his request to deliver him to work. It was early in the morning so she had no reason to get ready, for she was likely to arrive back home and fall back asleep. He himself was equally exhausted, but his work consumed his weeks and he had no time to spend with her, Rachel, before and after his hours were completed. Their one car they shared was typically left for her to run her daily errands, she was not employed at this time, leaving Mickey as the sole provider for them. She parked the car between the road and the parking lot of Big Barry's Discount Auto Sales separated by white cement posts connected by a white chain, clearly painted over the years from burning under the Utah summer sun. Though the city's winters were well known, with their tall Rocky Mountains and high elevation, the summers were notoriously hot, and he being a sweaty man to begin with, he despised his time melting outside for potential clients. He leaned over and gave his love a kiss on the cheek and stepped out of the car. Rachel never exited the gears and immediately drove off as soon as the door clicked shut.

He walked around the corner into the freshly paved blacktop, ignoring all inventory around him. He wore a pair of tattered black dress shoes, the laces fraying at the ends, black slacks that had not been properly dry-cleaned ever, and a sweat-stained blue collared shirt with a red and blue necktie, once again worn in and not re-tied in a while for he knew not how to proper tie his tie. At the front of the entrance stood a small canopy with a green and white pinstriped roof. Standing underneath the covering was a gaggle of salespeople gathered underneath the structure, clearly too small to cover the entire staff as they were cramming into each other fighting for shade, which was worrisome since it was already far too hot in the morning. It was peculiar to him that the staff was all ready to go, gathered with one another, ready to pounce. He knew he was on time today by observing the digital clock during his ride to work. He pushed his greasy hair back with his hand, the top of his head was grown out and he was in need of a haircut, he approached his colleagues with his hands in his pockets and a toothless smile as he stood on the outside of the shaded area.

"MICKEY MUSTARD," the dealership PA announced, "PLEASE REPORT TO THE MANAGERS DESK, MICKEY MUSTARD."

Hearing his name distressed him and he looked for sympathy from his fellow salespeople but their eyes stayed locked forward, uncaring. He huffed in a short breath and pivoted towards the lime green building. With his hands back in his pockets he sulked his way up the concrete steps and entered. The showroom floor had been freshly waxed and the dealership's most prized cars were sitting on the grey tile shining equally against it. He weaved through a grouping of round black tables, which were vacant at the time since no salesperson had started a deal yet. The manager's office was hidden by a black glass partition which erected from the floor all the way to the ceiling, and behind it he could see a shadowed silhouette standing with hands on hips, eerily staring out, undoubtedly staring at him. He turned the corner to find the figure to be his boss, a tall lanky man with short blonde hair and a dirty brown sole patch. He stood nearly a foot taller than Mickey and looked down on him as if he were a nuisance bug.***

"Mickey," his superior addressed him, "can you explain to me why you were not at our sales meeting this morning? You are aware that we have them every Wednesday, right?"

Mickey had forgotten about the sales meeting entirely, in fact when he was not on the premises he would blot out his place of employment entirely, if one were to ask him where he worked in a social situation he would have to slightly scramble to remember. His days were long at the dealership and he wished to not think about it in his off hours.