Event in Progress

Chapter Three

 At 7:29, McKnight clocked in for his eight hours of hard labor. Okay, that wasn't strictly speaking true. He worked data entry inside a ten story office building, but the company he worked for only leased the fourth and fifth floors in the middle of the structure. Said company had the magnanimous name of Visions and Dreams, a registered non-profit organization that specialized in getting kids with special needs (see also: retards) to one of its four camp properties scattered around the United States. Because of the mission that Visions and Dreams was so dedicated to upholding, there were literally thousands of generous donors across the US who were more than willing to crack open their wallet as long as they got a tax deductible receipt for the hassle because nothing got you nothing, you know.

McKnight had entered the building two minutes earlier than he clocked in, had ridden the elevator to the fourth floor, and had exited through the lobby with the Visions and Dreams logo plastered over the wall. The logo was a giant italicized V, only instead of slanting the normal direction the V slanted backwards so the right arm could form the back of the D that was attached to it. For some reason, seeing the VD there on the wall made Sean McKnight think of venereal disease. Not exactly the kind of VD you'd associate with snot-nosed little kids getting to ride horses or climb a rock wall (translation: "special kids" strapped in the crater of a swayed-back pony or pulled up a rock wall with a harness), but McKnight couldn't help thinking it. He was too tired to censor his thoughts now.

Sean had walked past the receptionist's desk in the lobby, through the main corridor and then to the locked door at the end of the hall. He had a key card that he kept in his wallet for the sensor on the door, and all he had to do was press it against the electronic reader. He'd take it out of his pocket to do that, although if he wanted to he could just turn around and slam his ass up against it and it would read it through his pants and his wallet and everything. For some reason, he didn't feel comfortable with actually doing that. After all, someone might come around the corner and see him do it. Someone like Tiffany Narthrup.

Tiffany was a goddess if ever one had taken the time to visit Earth. McKnight was almost in love with her, just the same as he was almost in love with the Raven's Tail barista, Christine. McKnight supposed that in reality he was just almost in love with every single girl on planet Earth, and possibly those that existed outside this solar system too. It came with the territory when you're pushing thirty and there's still no ring on that finger. You got a little desperate, and truth be told sometimes it was Tiffany Narthrup who kept Sean up late at night, and not just Christine Swan.

Because of the off chance that perhaps Tiffany would be there, even though she worked on the fifth floor and not the fourth floor where the Revenue Processing Department was located, and also despite the fact that she didn't start work until eight, McKnight never did the ass press against the electronic card reader. He always took out his wallet and held it against the reader all prim and proper like, just like he did that morning. He noticed the tattered edges of his wallet as he pressed it against the reader. One of these days he'd have to get a new wallet, he told himself again. But he also knew he'd never get around to it. That took effort and energy. Two "e words" with definitions he no longer remembered.

When he pressed the card to the reader, the reader beeped and the light on the indicator changed from red to green. There was a soft click as the lock disengaged and Sean pushed the door open. He stepped inside and walked past the cubicle farm that grew on the right side of the door like a bad case of tuberculosis. Yes sir, with metaphors like that he wouldn't even get a job writing spam e-mail advertisements for erectile dysfunction, let alone get a real book published.

McKnight made his way to the Mail Table. It was called the Mail Table because that's where all the mail was opened and also because this was Revenue Processing, not Creative Services where people had imagination.  The mail always came to the Revenue Processing Department first. It was because the donations needed to be processed so the donors would get a receipt in a timely manner (see also: so the largest checks could be deposited to earn interest sooner), but sometimes McKnight wondered if it was also so that if a letter laced with anthrax arrived it would only kill the lowly Revenue Processors and not someone important, like Tiffany Narthrup who in addition to making the coffee in the cafeteria also occasionally sent out all-staff e-mails reminding everyone to conserve water because there was a drought in Colorado and also to not leave dirty dishes in the sink anymore and please remember to empty the fridge every Friday so there would be enough room for everyone to put their microwaveable dinners in there.