Zombie Tales: Primrose Court Apt. 502 Read Online Free PDF Page B

to date me.
    I got off the elevator on my floor,
humming the tune to some bluesy number that had been playing in
there. I tried to remember the words but quickly gave it up, words
were not my thing. Numbers were my thing.
    I made my way to my cubical eating my
entire sandwich except the bottom crust; I tossed that into my
wastepaper basket. I booted up my computer and made sure the
spreadsheet on my screen looked like I had been working hard. My
screensaver was set for twenty minutes, more than enough time for
me to hit the restroom, but still have proof that I had returned
from lunch and started crunching the sales figures
again.
    I gave Marcy a little wave as I passed
the reception area. She looked right at me but pretended that she
didn't see, putting her hand up to the headset she was wearing and
turning in her plush leather office chair.
    Bitch.
    I had been there for her. When she and
Julio from the mailroom broke up, I was her shoulder to cry on. I
bolstered her self esteem. I helped her understand that Julio's
need to screw other people had nothing to do with her. And what did
I get for all my trouble?
    Nothing, that's what.
    I didn't force myself on her. I mean,
that's what you're thinking, right? That I tried to make a move on
her while she was crying in my arms. Well, that's not how it
happened at all. I was a perfect gentleman. After she had somewhat
recovered from her falling out with “Don Juan” Julio, she started
badmouthing me all over the office, said I tried to take advantage
of her. There is no doubt in my mind that it was because she had
seen my crappy studio apartment and had second thoughts about me
and her.
    She played it off like I was relentless
in my pursuit of her to the point of bordering on harassment. Like
I got nothing better to do than beg dumb chicks for sex, so much
for being the nice guy.
    So that day was much like
any other. I enter the men's room at the end of the hall to do my
business with my copy of USA Today under my arm; well truth be told it wasn't my
copy; I didn't actually have a subscription. I routinely stole the
copy from the waiting area, but who cares? Who really expects to
have up-to-date reading material when they’re sitting in a waiting
area anyway?
    My usual stall was empty, thank God.
This restroom only had three stalls, two the size of my linen
closet and one fit for a king. It was the handicapped stall of
course, set aside by society for those less fortunate. But being as
there were no employees on our floor confined to a wheelchair, what
was the harm in me staking claim.
    I settled in. I'll spare you all the
embracing details, but suffice to say, I visited my local Mexican
restaurant the previous night. I didn't eat there, mind you; I
can't stand the ethnic music they play and watching all the white
patrons attempt to apply what they remember from high school
Spanish class is enough to turn my stomach. I ordered to go and
went home to watch Jersey Shore.
    I know, I know; what kind of single
young professional would waste a Tuesday evening watching Jersey
Shore? I watch it like some might watch a disaster movie. The
people portrayed on that show are shining examples of everything I
find wrong with America today.
    It was just another bunch of self
centered shallow kids cashing in on their fifteen minutes of fame.
Not one of them took the time to learn about their
heritage.
    And fuck their heritage
anyway. Mussolini sided with Hitler in World War Two, didn’t he?
How the fuck did Italy get off so easy on that one? As far as I'm
concerned, Italian Americans in the 21 st century are a joke. They
think they can embrace the word 'Guido' like the blacks embraced
the word 'Nigga' and everything is going to be alright. Why
shouldn’t those kids have to go find jobs and work for a living?
America's fixation on the blacks pretty much ended when Bill Cosby
retired, but this new fixation on Italians made me question what
this country is all about. Don't even get me started on