Shooting Stars Read Online Free PDF Page B

clothes. They start to cheer when they spot Robbie in the back seat of the car. Initially I wanted him to sit in the front seat, but he pleaded to remain in the back. I rationalized it in my head, because he probably smells, as he always does, and I didn’t want that scent to latch on to my work clothes. Halfway through the ride he asked me to put on a chauffeur’s cap he had made out of black construction paper, and I almost kicked him out of the car for that. I look back at him, and he has a big I-told-you-so shit-eating grin on his face.
    “Thought I was bullshitting?” he says. He puts on his black shades and a microphone headset he found in a RadioShack dumpster, which is not plugged into anything, so it’s only for appearance. He hops out of the car and dives right into his routine.
    “Every little step I take. . . . You will be there. . . . Every little step I make. . . . We’ll be together.”
    I can’t believe my eyes. The senior crowd is going crazy, or about as crazy as a bunch of seniors can get, depending what medication they’re on, and their hands are in the air about as high as they can lift their arms given some of their physical limitations. And some of them look actually crazy, as evidenced by the one woman ballroom dancing with the plastic tree outside of the mall entrance. I couldn’t stay for any more, so I peeled off before his dance solo.

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    F inally made it to work . Since everyone actually started an hour and fifteen minutes ago, vacant parking spots are scarce. Even my often-frequented visitor’s spots were taken. I am a visitor; it’s not like I live here. Anyway, I had to scavenge through rows and rows of neutral-colored mid-sized sedans and minivans in the back of the parking lot for an open space. I have to park so far away from the entrance that I’m winded as I approach the door. My company’s building sits in a campus of eight other identical cold gray buildings. It’s the middle of a fierce northeast winter, but the building’s appearance looks frigid in the middle of July. The grounds are well kept—in my opinion, too well kept. It seems like landscapers are mowing the lawn or digging up some bushes to put in new bushes or shrubs every other day during the spring, but today they have salt duty to clear the pathways into the building. I wouldn’t mind a nice slip on some ice to get out of work today. Each company has a flag on its building, which I always found quite odd. It’s as if they’re all independent nations. I wonder what would happen if a corporate war broke out for turf in the complex. Would there be mayhem in the parking lot? Brawls with staplers and three-hole punches as weapons?
    As I walk past the brand-new sculpted sign with our new and undoubtedly expensive Schuster, Thompkins, and Dykes logo, which isn’t much different from the old logo except a snazzy underline under the three names (probably the reason I didn’t get a raise), I realize I forgot my ID badge at home. It’s definitely not on my belt loop, and I refuse to wear the badge around my neck. I gotta have some sort of dignity, instead of walking around all day with my name tied to my neck like a third-grader on a field trip to the aquarium. I probably left it right on the coffee table. Fucking Cliff got me off track with his bullshit this morning.
    Now, I’m going to have to deal with the security guard at the entrance who acts like he’s guarding the Oval Office. First of all, I’m not sure how qualified he is to be a security guard at the front entrance of a professional office. He’s young and overweight, so that goes to show he doesn’t make great decisions at an early age and lacks self-control. Second, what type of training does he have to defend us from anything? What if some Hans Gruber’ish terrorists storm into this place? What will he do? Unless he knows aikido or some other fat-friendly martial art like Steven Segal. He might even be too out of breath to sound an alarm.