current

Pain is my Fear Escaping

by Glen R. Krisch

1.

So this is my life. Wanting tangential pain and misery. A struggle to fight through, a challenge to overcome. A defining moment.

I want multiple spiral fractures leading to necessary bone graft surgery that takes a year to recover, and all the while, to know I'm lucky to be alive. I want cancer. Nothing lethal. Recurring bouts with the Big C would be fine, I guess, but remission would be compensatory. I don’t want to die, not today. My schedule is clear in the coming year. Maybe then, who knows? Besides, I have too much pride to die until I've finished everything I've written in my day planner.

And if I can't have cancer, then maybe at least an infected abscessed tooth that swells my face to double its size and requires stomach tube feeding. I've never eaten through a stomach tube before. These days it seems you're not allowed to die until you've eaten through a stomach tube.

An accident would be the ideal struggle to overcome. An accident—how debilitating and clarifying in the very same breath. My brains scrambled, leaking from my ear. My bones splintered, littering the street. The pain, the anguish, the sympathy, the struggle, the heart-rending setbacks, the final uphill push … and then on to something resembling recovery … and adoration. That would be perfectly fine.

My life is fairly limited. I'm in pursuit of something anomalous, enigmatic. If I were to be completely honest, I would have to admit that I've lived myself into the proverbial corner (sitting cross-legged, my back against the wall, eyes darting about in manic self-preoccupation). Accidents, for the most part, are out of your control. But lifestyle choices—smoking, binge drinking, ultra-low caloric diets, extreme lethargy—these are choices, and completely controllable. I've decided to take control of my choices, to leave myself open for that most serene and pure moment to come to my door, for it to devastate me, for it to leave me in its wake, a blubbering mess on the floor.

The thought that I might inadvertently allow myself to become a victim of a preventable life-threatening condition is one that brings the walls of my world claustrophobically close. So I live a clean life, a life unsullied by vice or vigor in any amount. I obsess over moderation. Moderation doesn't give you cirrhosis of the liver, and moderation doesn't give you pustule-oozing track marks up your arms from dirty syringes, nor whiplash from forcing your Honda through a 90-degree turn at sixty miles per hour. I focus so much on living a moderate life that I've become accident-phobic, with just a touch of obsessive-compulsive disorder and a dash of other assorted neuroses thrown in for good measure.

And as I've said, I don't want death. Not today. And don't ask me about tomorrow. Tomorrow I could very well end my day laid up in a hospital bed with a catheter shoved up my nether regions. Ask me tomorrow and you might just get an answer you don't really want to hear.

I find myself trying to justify my life to people who really don't give a shit.

Manny, my neighbor from the next apartment, I hassle while he's checking his mail.

"Geez, Manny, don't you ever consider yourself lucky to be alive?"

Manny's agitated. He wants to get back to his apartment so he can watch his soaps. He's tapping his fingers against the wooden frame of the massive beehive mailbox, tapping a subconscious Morse code for anyone who might hear and decide to be humanitarian enough to pull him away from me. Manny won't be that lucky. It's almost one in the afternoon, and anyone who's not at work is on something. Disability social security crystal meth horse tranquilizers. Manny's mind is on his soaps. My mind is on my own issues.

"Every morning, first thing I do is look in the mirror, I say that to myself. 'Man, Manny, you're lucky to be alive. You're one lucky sonofabitch.' Yeah, I gotta go, see you later," he says, but I step in front of him, cutting off his escape. Nowhere to go.

"If that's true … doesn't it get a little old?" I say, and he knows he's fallen into my trap. He's said exactly what I wanted him to.

"Come on, man, you know Erica Kane's back on," he says and is all antsy-footed, like a kid with a full bladder. He looks like he's going to bull me over, and he could without a doubt since he's much larger than me, but Manny's spineless. I don't budge, he doesn't bull.

"You do know that Erica Kane died eight years ago, right? That thing on the T.V. is just a second-rate clone."

"Susan Lucci might be dead, but Erica Kane will never die!" He looks like he's going to bite my head off, but then his expression drains, as if he remembers he's not the surly type.

"Okay, okay, Manny, I'll let you get back to your television. Just answer me one more question."

"Fine!"

"Have you ever slipped at the top of a flight of stairs?"

"Yes, I have, damn-it-goodbye!" He makes another effort to jut by me, but I counter his move with a side step of my own. Manny's fuming. That's when he gets tactical. He pats his shirt pocket, his eyes brightening. His savior—one crumpled, stale cigarette in a half-forgotten pack. He flips the butt to his lip and smiles as he lights it. He's nodding as I shy away, like Vlad Dracula caught outside under the rising sun.

"That wasn't the question, Manny." I know Manny's going to win this battle. I have to act quickly or risk losing the upper hand completely. "The moments after you catch yourself, those ebbing seconds when your vertigo begins to fade as you stand atop the flight of stairs … my question, Manny, is how does that feel?" I'm out of breath from speaking so quickly, but I try to hold my breath to avoid Manny's smoke just the same.

"Don't you have anyone else to pester?" He takes a step closer to me, a step closer to his apartment.

"No. No, I don't, Manny. Please." I know I'm pleading, but the smoke is thickening.

He has the advantage, but Manny's the sort of victor who would never rape or pillage. "If I'd almost fallen down the stairs, I'd feel both good and bad, I suppose. Good, 'cause I didn't break my neck. Bad, from all the adrenaline and embarrassment. Is that what this is all about? Adrenaline?"

"No, I'm afraid adrenaline ruins everything. Anticipation definitely ruins everything … and do you mind not blowing that in my face?" I say, swiping my hand through the air.

"You're always telling me you want cancer."

"Is that so wrong for me to want? I've never overcome anything. No one has ever looked at me and thought I was a stronger person than they could ever imagine themselves. I want pity and compassion. I want tears of empathy." I cover my nose, but I still get a whiff of his smoke. I'll have to wash my nostrils with astringent to feel halfway normal.

"Now that's just about the most selfish thing I've ever heard," Manny says, shooting another jet of carcinogenic air at me, weapon-like. He's all the way around me now, at his door.

"Selfish would be to pursue something like that actively. Giving myself cancer. Now that would be selfish," I say, pointing at his cigarette.

Manny's looking over his shoulder at me, the cherry on his cigarette brightening as he drags. He fumbles a hand down the frame for the doorknob, then suddenly pulls it away, as if bee stung.

"Damn it! Splinter!"

"Ha! That's what I'm talking about Manny! Hurts like hell, doesn't it? Accidents aren't selfish. They're self-revelatory! Incongruous with man's expected path, a stumbling block of fate. I want to get to a stumbling block and climb over to the other side, that's all." I'm inching towards my own door, wondering if I should go inside right away and risk contaminating my apartment with his smoke.

"You sick dope," Manny says as he sucks on his newly splintered finger.

"That's your opinion. Now, back to what you were saying: if you were to now douse your splinter in vinegar, now that would be selfish. Do you know what I mean, Manny? Doesn't it make sense?"

Manny scowls, stepping into his apartment and slams the door. In no time at all, the volume on his TV increases.

I hold my breath until I'm clear of his cigarette smoke. I slip into my apartment as quickly as possible. The first thing I do is check the assorted air purifiers I have strategically aligned throughout my apartment. I find little debris in the filters, but decide to change them for prudence sake. There could be unseen particles lurking, waiting to infect me with their poison.

I microwave a half-gallon of water that I've already personally purified through double reverse-osmosis. I usually have ten gallons of the stuff in reserve at any given moment. Once the water is hot enough, I submerge my hands for a requisite five minutes. I then go through my ever-increasing routine. I start at my scalp and work my way down. I shave the stubble from my head so it is as slick as a bowling ball. In case I've nicked my skin, I apply an astringent to my tingling scalp to prevent any possible infection before it can take root. I scrub my face raw with a sterilized cotton cloth that I've pulled from a hermetically sealed bag. I scrub from scalp to chin until I'm seeing stars. I use cotton swabs doused with the same astringent to cleanse my nostrils of any airborne pathogens. I work my way down, body part by body part, scrubbing, sanitizing, preening.

Finally, when I'm soaking my feet in a tepid bath consisting of sea salts, bleach and additional purified water, mixed in a 1:3:5 ratio, I'm feeling as close to normal as I can get. I dry my feet and feel like I can take a deep breath without risking bodily harm.

I grab a chilled glass of hand-squeezed, homegrown orange juice and then sprawl on the floor in a luxurious yoga pose. I stretch and meditate to lower my pulse until it's half the average man's.

My thoughts venture inward. Biologically inward.

Peel away my skin and you see my blood circulating. You see the occasional narrowing of an artery. You see scar tissue marbling my muscles and ligaments, hindering my movements, causing aches and stiff muscles in the morning. Minute tears repaired with the body's own form of glue and plaster. Peel away my ribs and sternum and you see my heart and you wonder why it beats, this sheer engineering marvel thrumming away without pause. Something so efficient it's raised to the scariest power. If there's a God, you think the heart is His only creation, with everything else stemming from this creation. Peel away my heart and you see my soul, so desperate, lost, small. A trivial and forgotten trinket buried so deep you wonder if I've relegated it to vestigial status. Like the third eyelid. The appendix. The prenatal tail.

I soon sleep, and my eyes roil through torrents of obsession. Cancer, scars, sub-dermal hemotomas, surprise-you're-dead aneurisms. When my dreaming mind returns to the thought of peeling away my skin, of actually using a knife to slice off thin sheaths like the fibrous skin of an apple, I feel relief, contentment. Peeling away to find the core of me. Within my sleep-sluggish thoughts, I realize this desecration of my body would be anything but inadvertent, and completely against the moderate standards to which I live my life.

I nearly rise from the depths of my slumber, burdened with lingering disappointment, but something happens. That forgotten trinket from a long ago time, my soul, sweeps up from its hiding place, reaches out with its tiny baby hands and clutches my mind. It pulls me downward through ethereal depths of dreamless sleep. Pulled away into a lightless ever-furrowing tunnel of emptiness.

2.

The Golden Porker. That's where Nichelle works. My girlfriend. An idealistic beauty so understanding and possessing the sweetest personality, I don't really deserve her. But who am I to argue with her intentions? Maybe I'm her pet project. Perhaps an insouciant balm for her psyche. Whatever. She makes me happy. I won't ruin it by questioning her intentions. Maybe tomorrow, if my day planner has a free moment, I'll think about it.

The spinning pork grinders sit at eye level behind the cash registers, maybe to remind the customers of their own mortality. I can at least hope for that intent. It sure isn't pleasant. Clumps of raw pork flesh flop down from a chute and into the wanting, spinning maw of the steel grinders. How this display benefits the company and is positively reflected in its bottom line, I haven't the foggiest idea. I would never eat at the Golden Porker, and much to my relief, neither would Nichelle.

I'm trying to listen to Nichelle, who's standing across the garish golden counter from me, when a batch of particularly loud pork bones shatter in the grinders.

"What did you say?" I crane forward, and Nichelle leans in to me, her gold and teal Golden Porker bonnet slumping, nearly covering her crystal blue eyes.

"I said, I'm glad to see you made it out of the house today."

Somehow, my simply walking away from the safety of my apartment has brightened her day. Agoraphobia would be a limiting factor in anyone's life. It's been almost a month since I've left my apartment, a month since my conversation with Manny in the hallway. Crowds inherently possess a whimsically uncertain nature, a nature with which I'm generally uncomfortable interacting. There are too many variables to consider with crowds. Too many germs, too many unseen surveillance cameras, and don't get me started about the unshielded UV rays. To me, crowds are inseparable from chaos. You can't have one without the other.

"I think I'm over my weirdness. Well, I'm hoping, at least." I sneak a kiss before her supervisor can see. A crowd has formed behind me, waiting their turn to order.

I haven't kissed her lips in God knows when. I don't know what's gotten into me, but ever since I woke up this morning, I feel different. Not afraid to breathe or to walk down the street, not afraid of the germs in my girlfriend's mouth.

"I think I've figured it out," Nichelle says as she pulls me around a corner, away from the milling lines waiting to order their ground up pork.

"Figured what out?"

She's so close to me she's running her cool palm over my freshly shaved scalp, sending gooseflesh capering down my back. "My attraction to you. It's like you can be a different person on any given day."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I'm somewhat offended. Instability of personality is not a moderate quality, and thus not a trait I would attribute to myself.

"Oh, it's not a bad thing. If I wanted a predictable boyfriend, I wouldn't be dating you."

"I'm not following you …"

"Let's just say, your 'weirdness,' as you like to call it, is somewhat affable, but it certainly puts a damper on some aspects of our relationship," she says. I'm hoping her mass of auburn hair is blocking everyone's view of us; she is gently running her lips along the curve of my neck.

"Really?"

"Your moods go in cycles. Up, up, up one moment, into the dumpster the next. Sure, I like your fastidiousness, your punctuality … but I like you in this mood even more. Judging how long your moods last, I'll have this 'you' for quite a while. Until I'm sick of this 'you' that is. Then you can change into a whole new you, which is fine by me. Understand?"

For some reason I feel like I've just learned Nichelle has been cheating on me. It's as if she's cheating on me, and I'm also the other man. This disconcerting feeling is fleeting. Her kissing my neck has erased my short-term memory, and it's all I can do to keep my mind straight long enough to get her back to her apartment. It's an apartment I haven't seen in a month; a place I didn't know I was missing until I'm finally inside its welcoming walls.

3.

I applied at NowStop at Nichelle's insistence. The last couple of weeks she's made it perfectly clear that she's becoming bored with this 'me' and would greatly appreciate some sort of transformation on my part. Changing jobs (or just getting one in the first place) is so much easier than trying to change some kind of internal aspect of my personality. Besides, I'm happy with who I am. I make my play for the NowStop job, hoping to appease Nichelle's whimsy.

I'm at the job interview, the sharp scent of drying astringent following my every move. "I'm totally unqualified for this position. I'm only here since my government check's running out soon." These are the first words from my mouth as I take a seat in a comfy chair. I shove a finger up my nose as if I'm mining precious jewels.

Bob Andrews is a district manager for NowStop International Incorporated. NowStop is the largest convenience store corporation in the world. NowStop recently outbid Disney and Annheiser Bush for the naming rights to the current war in the Middle East (NowStop Terror 2017). They also have a multitude of movie spin offs from NowStop products: "Breakfast Burrito Bonanza," (one of the most successful westerns to date, becoming a genre unto itself, spawning sequels and theme parks), and "Cheddar Fries, Live!" (The Academy Award winning cartoon musical starring the voice of Dabney Coleman).

Bob Andrews pauses for a moment and again looks at the anorexic resume that I had crumpled into a ball before tossing on his desk upon entering his office. Bob sighs and nods, still looking at the paper wad that is my life, replete with coffee stains and misspellings. Just as soon as I'm dismissed, I can tally NowStop as a company unwilling to take a chance on me. At least I can tell Nichelle I gave it an honest try.

I clear my throat. "I have no skills."

"I can see that. Skills can be taught," Bob says, looking at me from over the edge of my resume. For a second his eyes linger on my gleaming smooth scalp, at my total lack of eyebrows and my fair, nearly pigmentless skin. But only for a second. He dismisses my appearance and stares once again at my resume.

"As a teenage runaway I sold drugs to make a living." Which is utter bullshit and something I wouldn't know the first thing about. I'm trying to make an impression, and good old Bob isn't biting.

"Interesting …" Bob can't take his eyes away from this list of lies and insinuations that I typed with my toes.

Interesting?

"I steal from stores just to see if I can get away with it." From inside my pocket I pull out a candy bar and stack of unscratched scratch-off lotto tickets I'd just bought from the nearest NowStop. He doesn't need to know I paid for them. I drop the items on his desk, to little effect.

"Great."

Great? What was he talking about, Great? Why wasn't he pointing to the door? Why couldn't he please just call security to escort me from the premises?

"I haven't had a serious job in seven years." I violently break wind.

Bob Andrews squeezes his nose and speaks, goose-like, "You should be re-energized by now."

I have to get out of here. I pull myself from the clutches of the overly comfy chair and run to the windows behind Bob's desk. Of course, they're locked. I wouldn't exit this way anyway, for fear of falling.

Recklessness is not a moderate quality to say the least.

To maintain my seemingly unstable personality, I pretend I'm checking the soundness of the glass with my shoulder. I gasp at the stoutness of the building's construction before returning to my seat.

"I want cancer."

"How refreshing. I like employees who are up to a challenge."

"Employee? I am not your employee."

"You sure are. I think you will be a great asset to NowStop and will contribute to our bottom line while increasing our shareholder value."

"But …"

"There are no buts about it. You will manage our NowStop at the northwest corner of Parker and 3rd Avenue starting Monday. Your drug dealing background proves you'll do anything to survive, while your thievery will prove useful when dealing with shoplifters."

"Don't I have a say in this?"

"Um, no. NowStop will gladly take the tax break for hiring one of our unfortunate downtrodden citizens. And you'll show up to work every day ready and willing with every fiber of your being to add as much as possible to our bottom line.

"Jesus Christ will be happy to have you aboard."

"Jesus Christ?"

"Yes. He's our new CEO. We were able to clone the Lord our God from blood excretions deposited in the Shroud of Turin."

"Is that legal?"

"Anything is legal if rich people want it to be."

"Jesus Christ …"

"That's Mr. Jesus Christ to you. You best remember that for now on."

4.

The northwest corner of Parker and 3rd Avenue is five miles from my house. That would be a short commute for most people. For me it takes an hour one way. I don't drive; I've never learned and don't want to, either. But Nichelle seemed exciting about this new 'me' and as a result of her excitement, I'm walking to work, bleary-eyed from little sleep. I can't help the goofy smile on my face.

At the intersection, I head for the NowStop. I'm opening the door before I realize I'm at the southwest corner. I look across the street, and to my astonishment, there's another NowStop. My NowStop. Actually, two other Now Stops are on two of the three other corners of the intersection. The fourth corner is charred black, and when the wind blows, black sooty clouds whorl about like tiny tornadoes.

When I get to the proper store, a part-timer named Stan teaches me the rudiments of the convenience store's operations in a matter of a couple hours. Stan's nice enough, but he lets his fingernails grow long and yellow, while he keeps vast quantities of filth stored under the nails for reasons I have yet to figure out. He leaves me alone to let me get accustomed to merchandise stocking. I welcome the solitude. A customer looking no more than an inch or two taller than a dwarf approaches Stan a moment after he leaves me. The customer's fingers are thick, short and fidgety, while his jowls look like swollen water balloons. He is very animated and excited, almost too much so. His twitchy head seems to flick off tiny beads of grease. Seeing this customer, I'm doubly glad for Stan's departure.

There's a stack of boxes for me to unload and shelve. Before leaving, Stan had tried giving me a box cutter, but I stepped away from him like he was trying to snub a lit cigarette into my nearest eyeball. Just think, me with a razor blade? Like that's going to happen any time soon. So I tug on the packing tape of the first box of stock for a good minute before it tears free, pulling carefully to avoid any sharp cardboard edges I might expose.

I raise an eyebrow when I realize what's in the box. Highway mourning crosses. The display I'm stocking is empty, and from the number of cases of replenishment goods, NowStop can't keep the merchandise on the shelves.

I inspect the merchandise as I organize and stock the display. There is the three-foot virginal white plastic cross. It has slotted grooves on the horizontal bar so you can slide in a name to mourn. The deluxe cross is four-foot tall and made of white-painted pine imported from Canada. It comes with a little slip of paper with prepaid postage on it. The instructions indicate that after sending in the little slip of paper, about a week later the mourner will receive a brass nameplate emblazoned with the name of the recently deceased. Seems kind of silly, but I guess you can't really mourn properly with the deluxe four-footer until you get the brass nameplate. It just wouldn't feel official.

Stan comes over to me just as I'm finishing stocking the crosses.

"Were you able to help that customer?" I ask, trying to sound pleasant. I wouldn't want tension to develop between me and any of my coworkers. Think of the stress. Think of the resultant release of free radicals careering through my soft tissues, seeking out my innocent nuclei. Colliding with them, corrupting them, causing them to mutate and reproduce out of control. I make a mental note to double up on my Vitamin E when I get home tonight.

"Oh … the man I was just talking to? He wasn't a customer. That was Father Banks from the Hillside Church just up the street. He's going to bless our bottles of artesian drinking water. We'll be able to sell holy water next to the highway crosses and silk flowers," Stan says, a glimmer lighting his eyes. He is obviously very proud of his ingenuity.

"Good idea. It’s a natural," I say, truly impressed with his merchandising genius.

"Products will always sell better when they can target multiple demographics."

"You can bless things with it and quench your thirst!"

"Exactly!" Stan says, trembling with excitement.

5.

I'm nearing the end of my first shift at NowStop, the late rush hour commute thinning to a trickle. I'm contemplating how uneventfully the day has progressed when Bob Andrews enters the store. He's carrying the largest briefcase I've ever seen, more of a case to enclose a week's worth of vacation necessities than everyday business accoutrements. He's wearing an expression none too pleasant.

"Hello Bob." I'm standing behind the counter with a pile of already read magazines in front of me. I dog-ear an article on the aesthetically pleasing—but uncompromisingly dangerous—hobby of fly-fishing. I may never risk my own life or limb on such pursuits, but I've occasionally lived vicariously through tautly written essays, and with mild embarrassment, the occasional self-indulgent personal narrative.

"Good day, ass-wipe," Bob says with a level, nearly bored tone. He hefts his monstrous briefcase to the counter, shoving my magazines to the floor. "Been slacking on the first day on the job, have we?"

"No, not me. I was simply taking a break."

"People taking a break are stealing directly from the pockets of our shareholders. NowStop considers taking a break to be an act of time theft. You should know this after watching the videos earlier."

"I missed out on the videos today. Instead, I took a long lunch. I'm not used to working on my feet all day. Remember, I haven't worked in seven years."

Bob chooses to ignore my excuses, staring into me with such focus that the rest of the store falls to the wayside. "Listen, I've been watching you on the security cameras for two hours. You haven't acknowledged a single customer, and you've read five magazines cover to cover."

"I read that fast? I was not aware of that."

Bob sighs then opens his briefcase, blocking his face. I wonder if his expression has changed any. He closes the case again, and his face is like stone.

"Follow me for a minute," Bob says, checking his watch. "I need to show you something important."

I step around the counter, and Bob grabs the sleeve of my shirt as if I'm a toddler who can't keep up. He pulls me to the front door, and pushes me outside, the tinkling sound of the bells above the door muffled by the traffic's din. I suppose what he needs to show is vitally important if we're doing it on the shareholder's time.

Commuters and shoppers inundate the intersection. The other two NowStops are busy compared to mine. Each franchise carries with it discernible differences, like variant flower species within the same phylum. One franchise is understated, a few poster-sized ads in the windows, a classy-looking NowStop sign above the door drawn in some Euro-type script. It's hard to believe the other store is part of the same company. Garish pink neon tubes flooded with spectral light flash at each and every passerby. I can hear high-powered fans encouraging the fragrant scents of roasting peanuts, puffed and buttered popcorn, hotdogs warming under heat lamps—all spread like some grand Diaspora of convenience store enticements. A seventy-foot inflated clown stands tall atop the outlandish NowStop variant. It shakes in the gusting wind thrown off by the rushing cars.

"So, what am I waiting to see?"

Bob looks at his watch again and holds up one finger. "Okay, keep your eyes wide, but don't stare too hard, or you might damage something."

I don't know what he's talking about, so I squint most of the sight from my field of view.

"Which of those two NowStops grabs your attention?" Bob asks. He put on his sunglasses, dull heavy things that aren't too flattering.

"That's easy. I'd say the NowStop with the clown could be seen from the upper atmosphere."

"That's right. And if you'll notice, customers tend to gravitate to the more interesting building of the two. Salespersonship is all about presentation."

"Salespersonship?"

"You know what I mean. Don't be wise. People have ears. They hear everything."

Politically correct gobbledygook. Infecting everything. Steering the evolution of our language as well as our behavior. For a moment, I see the fear articulated in Bob's movements, the fear of the unseen surveillance. I'm surprised to find a commonality with someone so different from me. I empathize with him. I understand his fear; I have lived with it my entire life. Intrusion without personal recourse. These days you can't fart in the wind without ten different government agencies knowing about it, people buried in bunkers somewhere in the Nevada desert dissecting your bodily effluence for traces of antiestablishment agenda.

And no, I can't take a piss in a public restroom. Don't ask why because it would take all day to explain my reasoning.

Bob quickly mutes his expression, getting control of his anxiety. As soon as his face becomes an emotionless stone wall, my empathy also disappears.

"This might seem like a dumb question, but why are there three NowStops at this intersection?"

"To see which one wants to survive."

Suddenly, from between my squinting eyelids the simple afternoon daylight ratchets up to insane levels of brightness. My pupils contract painfully and I close my eyes. After a few seconds, I hear a tumultuous crashing, like lightning falling in on itself. Another crashing swallows the first. Subsequent calamity trembles across the ground, shaking me where I stand. A blazing heat warms my face.

"What the hell?"

"NowStop is eliminating a redundancy," Bob says, and from his voice, I can tell he's smiling.

Once the heat dissipates, I chance a quick parting of my eyelids. Bob folds his arms across his proud and puffed out chest.

They've eliminated the understated NowStop. All that remains is a charred and smoking lot unlikely to grow anything green for generations. The sun is back to being the brightest light in the sky.

"Okay. That's enough. Follow me."

I robotically follow Bob, even with bystanders running around in all directions and sirens screaming, drowning out all other noise. We reenter the store.

"I need for you to understand the significance of this NowStop franchise reaching and exceeding all expectations of profitability."

"What just happened out there?"

"NowStop manages its assets however it deems necessary."

"You destroyed that store?"

"I suppose." I'm back behind the counter by the cash register, while Bob is facing me with his briefcase once again open in front of him. "Don't worry. The store was empty of customers."

"Outstanding."

"The exact details of what just transpired are a matter of corporate privilege and not a matter I'm at liberty to discuss with someone lower on the chain of command. But understand, we would never intentionally harm one of our customers," Bob says, as if he's speaking into a microphone, as if he's making a public statement. "All other assets, including employees, we manage as we see fit."

"Yeah, I think I'm out of here." I carefully pull the pin of my name badge free from my shirt, placing it on the counter. I'm ready to bolt for the door.

"I'm afraid not. As an employee of NowStop, you no longer have self-determination." Bob's pulled something from his briefcase, but I don't care what it is.

"Bullshit. Out of my way." I normally don't like to curse, but sometimes I get so agitated. A choicely placed curse word can be an important and necessary stress release. Can't have those free radicals building up, flying chaotically through my soft tissues.

"Really, do you think I'd just let you walk out that door with this store unattended, the profits that are the lifeblood of this institution bleeding out of the brick and mortar like the guts of a squashed bug leaking from the tread of your shoe?"

"Didn't you hear me? I quit, Bob. I'd like for you to move aside so I can walk home. I'm calling the authorities on this."

"Come on, you're too small an individual to exact such change. Besides, our practices are no longer just our own. A majority of corporations now employ our innovative corporate initiatives. Our stock's value is evidence that our methods are necessary for the running of a modern business. You would have to be blind to not see proof of NowStop's influence. Listen to the news. Everyday, apartments blow up, unexplained or blamed on a gasline leak. How many times have you heard of a carwash burning down—a carwash, for God's sake? A brick building flooded with soapy water … and it burns down? Sometimes you just need to shake things up a bit, start fresh. Excise a malignant redundancy. Cauterize a parasite of profitability.

"You can't quit. NowStop insists that you remain at your post and do what is expected of you, what the shareholders demand of you."

I see what's on the counter, what Bob has pulled from his briefcase, and I can't help but wince. He coils a snaking leather whip with menacing frayed ends right next to the impulse caviar tins and assorted can't-live-without four-carat semi-precious stones displayed in crushed velvet boxes.

"I need for you to work with me here, for the betterment of all concerned. You have to understand, I'm under pressure, too. People are watching me, listening to every word I say. I've learned to move along with the genocidal tide that is the backbone of this company. I'm sure you will too. Maybe not. We'll soon see."

I can't say a word, and can't shake the feeling that I should just nod and smile agreeably. When Bob takes hold of the braided whip handle, I notice dried blood scabbing the leather's length in craggy droplets that looked like raisins.

Bob motions me around the counter, and I slowly saunter to his order, trying to come up with a way out of this. I can't get the thought out of my head that somehow all of this is Nichelle's fault. I had been perfectly happy with my life, but then she suggests a transformation on my part. Get out of the apartment. Get a job. Get a life. I thought I had a life, and because of her, I feel like I'm about to lose what little I had.

I certainly can't run for it. NowStop has its claws embedded in every microcosm of society I would encounter outside those doors. They have incestuously weaved themselves into the banking system, the media, pro sports franchises. They run circles around the courts with their lawyers, and I'm sure they have influence with the local law enforcement. Hell, they have even cloned the Son of God to sit atop their glittering corporation like a fancy hood ornament.

"I need for you to turn away for me to properly administer this corporal punishment," Bob says. He's locked the door and the store is empty. The whip twirls absently in his hand like a living thing. "If it makes it any easier on you, I don't enjoy this."

"Can I ask a question?" Running out of time.

"Certainly."

"Why did you hire me?" I'm stalling, trying to figure a way out of this. My mind is blank. I'm not used to this kind of stress.

"I had a feeling. I saw in you the potential of an employee who could make NowStop proud. Still do. All we need to do is exert a little pressure, tweak your sensibilities until they fall in line with the company standards. Once we do that, I'm sure all will be right with the world. I'm confident of it."

I turn and face the cash register, hoping I form as small a target as possible. There's a long moment of silence and inaction when I think Bob's pulled my leg about this whole whipping business.

Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have spent an hour reading magazines. Maybe I should have utilized my time to brainstorm for new merchandising strategies, like what Stan did with the bottled water. I'm thinking Bob and I are about to have a good old laugh about this when a bolt of electricity races along my back, ripping my carefully and perfectly pressed poly-cotton blended shirt. I yelp with pain before another lash snaps across my skin. I can feel blood soaking into the ordinary-colored fabric of my shirt.

Pain becomes all I am; nothing exists outside the boundaries of my pain. As Bob flicks the leather tassels against my skin, grunting with his effort to rip me to ribbons, the pain does seem to diminish. Maybe it's just shock.

It feels like the pain is lifting from my body. Like my soul is leaving me, drifting heavenward. That's when I know I will fall in line. I will do whatever Bob wants me to do. Whatever NowStop demands of my time. Because pain is my fear escaping. Pain is my defining moment, my clarion call. My cancer, my scars, my struggle to fight through, my challenge to overcome.

The lashings become a distant thing. Pressure only, for I no longer have any fear. No pain. I'm a new man. Ready for new challenges. Ready to manage this NowStop above and beyond any and all expectation.

Glen R. Krisch is currently finishing up his coming-of-age thriller, Nothing Lasting.  He's a sometime ultra-marathoner and full-time drone for one of the largest corporations in the world.  When not writing, he spends his time wrangling his two precocious sons, reading, or trying to set up a date night with his lovely wife.  He can be reached at kelcher_2000@yahoo.com.