Also by Jeff Dvorak
Topper McMullen Series:
The Trinity Murders
Sun, Surf, Suicide
Short Stories:
Hope on a Paige (Tales from the Dead Letter Office)
Don’t Cry for Me Margarita
Jeff Dvorak
Copyright 2012 Jeff Dvorak
Rarely does the incessant flashing of 12:00 on an alarm clock bode well for the owner, and as Jack lay dead to world, his body slowing burning off the alcohol from the previous evening, he was clearly no exception. Although drinking to excess was not a common occurrence for Jack, as a twenty-six-year-old self-professed and, unfortunately, others-professed slacker, he was well equipped to handle these situations, as long as he had a working alarm clock to alert him of the time. Today is not that day.
Normally a tosser and turner, he lay in a near comatose state. Face down, head to the side with a small spot of drool to mark his territory, he was quickly letting the day get the better of him. Usually for said slacker, this was not a problem. Many days had gotten the better of Jack in many different ways, but today needed to be different.
A week earlier his boss called him into his office and offered up a project with an accompanying presentation. The stakes were simple enough with two possible outcomes: succeed and get a promotion; fail and he loses his job. Once Jack heard the word promotion, nothing else mattered and he quickly reached his hand across the desk, sealing his fate with a semi-firm handshake.
Jack may not have known what he was agreeing to, but his boss did, which was why he was the boss, and either way it would be a win/win for him. He was of the opinion that Jack was a slacker, and although it wasn’t enough to cost Jack his job or affect the performance of the company, Jack always seemed to reside right under the first layer of his skin and it was enough to drive his boss crazy.
Either Jack would succeed and he could start to wean Jack of his “slackerness” or he would fail which would allow him to put a tragic end to a career that had sadly run its course because the truth was, Jack was a talented individual with a lot of potential but at some point you have to either fish or cut bait and that point had presented itself to Jack. As he lay there in a dreamless state, accompanied by loud snoring, the decision was quickly being made for him.
--
It had been Trina’s birthday and a few coworkers were going out to celebrate its passing. Jack had just put the final touches on his presentation and was reaching for his car keys to head home when Martha popped her head into his office to pass on the invite, which Jack happily accepted. He was on a high from getting his project done in time and was pretty pleased with the outcome, so why not? He could blow off a little steam, celebrate a friend’s birthday and pat himself on the back all at the same time; it was perfect.
And it was perfect, until pitchers of margaritas began to flow, which happened to be Jack’s Achilles’ heel. He drank and then he drank some more and then he drank some more, knowing full well that he was talented enough to overcome a night of drinking and still knock his presentation out of the park. They toasted Trina, there were laughs and stories, and at the end of the night, one of Jack’s coworkers drove Jack home in his car. He then handed Jack the keys and pointed him towards his front door and another good day, followed by a good night, had been put to bed.
Drunk or not, Jack was a light sleeper and what the alarm failed to do, the morning paper hitting the front door took up the charge, jolting Jack from his slumber. He knew what the sound was that woke him and he also knew that the paper was always delivered after he left for work, so he went from straight dead and buried to alert and panicked. He quickly turned to look at his alarm clock and that turned into straight out pandemonium. He looked down to his watch, which he was still wearing from the night before, and realized that his alarm was two hours late in projecting the time and he quickly jumped out of bed, knowing exactly the order of events that needed to take place.
First was Bruiser. He threw open the bedroom door and raced down the hall towards the kitchen but the stench reached his nose before his eyes reached the kitchen and he knew what he was going to find. Bruiser was his pride and joy. A Chihuahua he rescued from an animal shelter when he was only a puppy. They quickly became best of friends, but as he looked into the kennel, the expression on Bruiser’s face and the growl in his voice said they were anything but.
Jack opened the kennel door, hoping Bruiser would come bounding out, but he didn’t. Pissed at what Jack put him through, he held his ground and his growl. Holding his nose, Jack reached into the kennel trying to grab Bruiser by the collar, but his arm was not long enough. He wanted Bruiser to have the best of everything, so instead of buying him a kennel that was his size with enough room to move around and sleep comfortably, he bought him a mansion. Bruiser was given a kennel that would easily house a Great Dane, and as Jack strained for the dog, trying not to throw up from the smell, he realized that may not have been the smart play.
He finally had enough. Closing the kennel door, he grabbed the handle on top and headed for the backyard. As he opened the patio door, the cold hit him like a sock in the jaw. He didn’t remember it snowing the night before, but clearly it had been snowing all night. He realized the snow storm was probably the cause of the power going out and costing him those precious two hours and Bruiser his dignity.
This was no time to be a wimp and he quickly stepped out, barefoot, into the snow and if he wasn’t awake before, he sure was the second that first toe hit the ground. Pain quickly shot all the way up to his hip but he quickly put it aside to tackle the task at hand. He opened the kennel door and proceeded to dump the contents out onto the deck.
As everything came tumbling out, he had never seen so much dog crap before in his life. By his estimation, there was at least ten pounds, and since Bruiser tipped the scale at only eight, this was a feat he would have to ponder once he had a little more time to run the math. Out came a blanket, a plethora of toys that kept Bruiser company and happy, the ten pounds of dog crap and finally Bruiser himself. Unable to channel his inner feline, landing on his feet was not an option and he came out ass first, landing on his back on top of all that poo, which was not of the nugget variety.
Rolling around, trying to right himself, Bruiser successfully covered himself in the same poo that had recently left his body and he bolted for the open patio door. Before it could register with Jack what was going on, Bruiser had made it inside the house and successfully nudged the door closed with his snout.
As Jack stood there staring at the closed door, quickly losing feeling in both feet, he realized he shouldn’t have put off fixing that back door as long as he had. Just like he couldn’t explain the ten pounds of dog crap which sat melting the snow around him, he couldn’t explain the functionality surrounding his patio door. The door would neither lock nor unlock. It could be opened from the inside but not from the outside. There was a brain teaser in there somewhere and maybe when he took the time to contemplate the mountain of steaming poo, he would take a stab at the door paradox as well.
Of course, that wouldn’t help him at the moment. The dysfunctional door had never been a problem before. When coming out back, he would simply leave the door open. It was an easy enough temporary fix. Now he saw the folly in his decision. Against all hope, he sidestepped the doggie landmines and reached for the door, jiggling it for all it was worth, coming away with a sore hand for his troubles. He knew Bruiser was on the other side of the door, tickled as a Chihuahua in shit.
--
Knowing time was of the essence, he didn’t dwell on the problem but went in search of answers. A foot and a half of snow had already accumulated on the ground and it was growing by the second. If h
e didn’t act quickly, not only would he be in danger of losing his job, but he may lose his feet as well, so he soldiered on. Barefooted, he stepped off the deck, high stepping it through the snow in search of a window which could be breached.
He knew exactly where to go and he made his way to a window in front of his bedroom that he was positive didn’t have a working lock. As he made his way to the window, he realized why the unlocked window was never thought of as a problem: it was six feet off the ground. With Jack standing at five foot seven, this presented yet another problem in a day when problems were stacking up like cord wood.
Starting to lose feeling in other parts of his body, he quickly ran back to the deck and grabbed a patio chair and carried it back to the window. Fully starting to believe in his bad luck, he firmly placed the chair under the window and pressed down on it, shaking it back and forth to test its sturdiness. He would hate to step onto the chair, have it topple over and lose any more time as he lay passed out in the snow.
As soon as he believed in its capacity as a ladder, he stepped a foot onto the seat of the chair. A combination of age and