Martin Misunderstood Read Free Page B

squatting in front of the
bumper. He was dressed in gray coveralls, his
name emblazoned in red script over his heart.
Daryl worked on the assembly line as a quality
checker. Every tenth bottle of Urine-B-Gone had
to be spray-tested. For eight hours a day, the man
grabbed bottles and pumped their triggers until a
thin stream of blue liquid shot out, and yet
Martin – who worked in an office and had to
wear ties to work – was considered the loser.
    'I filed a report,' he lied. He shoved
the rest of the papers into his briefcase.
'The police are taking these injustices very
seriously.'
    'You know who you should use?' Daryl stood
As Martin did. 'Ben Sabatini. He got me fixed real
good on my truck. Remember I scraped against
that tree and it cut a line into the paint? He had
me fixed up the next day. Got one'a them
Chrysler 500s as a loaner. Damn, them things are
sweet! Ben even worked it so I didn't have to pay
my deductible.'
    Martin stood there. He really didn't know
what to say. 'We should get to work.'
    'Yeah,' Daryl agreed. 'Let me know if you need
Ben's number. Best guy in the business.'
    'Thank you,' Martin responded, gripping his
briefcase handle so hard that he felt sweat
dripping down his fingers.
    Daryl glanced down at Martin's hand. 'You're
bleeding again, man.'
    'Yeah,' Martin agreed. 'I'll take care of it.'
    The two men split – Daryl toward the factory
entrance, Martin toward the front office. Instead
of going to his desk, Martin went to the men's
room. He washed his hands, wondering what
kind of diseases the open wounds were exposing
him to. The employees were expected to clean up
after themselves, so the resulting lack of
cleanliness was unsurprising.
    He found a bottle of CleanAway in a cabinet
by the door. Martin sprayed some on to a paper
towel and tried to clean the handle of his
briefcase. To his dismay, the leather started to
come off. He stopped rubbing immediately, but
the chemical kept eating into the handle. He was
reminded of a beetle on a corpse as the fake
leather started to peel back, exposing the bone
white of the plastic underneath. This would have
been fascinating but for the fact that Martin had
paid almost three hundred dollars for the
briefcase.
    Tentatively, he touched the exposed edge of
the plastic handle. It was sharp as a knife, able to
make a thin surface cut into the pad of his finger.
Martin watched blood seep out from the flesh.
Death from a thousand cuts.
    Martin had never been good at cursing, despite
Evie's excellent example. He mumbled under his
breath as he left the bathroom and walked
through the factory floor, briefcase held close to
his chest with both arms. The machinery was not
yet running, so he could hear his footsteps
echoing around him. He took a detour down a
long row of shelving to avoid Daryl, past the
stacks of plastic Sani-Lady sanitary disposal
units, then went out the back door.
    There was a bubbling stream behind the
building, tall trees swaying in the wind. During
his early years at Southern, Martin had often
come out here for a break, taking advantage of
the solitude. Now that there was no smoking
allowed in the building, that small slice of peace
was gone. This was where everyone went during
their breaks, as evidenced by the thousands of
cigarette butts that littered the concrete. A
dilapidated picnic table had two coffee cans full
of more cigarette butts. Martin had proposed
several weeks ago that a section of the area be
cordoned off for non-smokers. His suggestion
had been met with the type of ridicule he had
come to expect. His insistence that the suggestion
box was meant to be anonymous had only made
them laugh harder.
    The Dumpster was usually overflowing, so he
was surprised to find that it had been emptied.
Martin opened the briefcase and took out his
report, two pens, his business cards and a yellow
legal pad, all of which he placed on the only semiclean
part of the concrete he could find. He tried
to open the Dumpster's metal door, but it