The Progress Update

Jordan leaned forward in his chair. "You enjoy working for us, don't you Mr...Andrews?"

"Of course," Kev said. "It's just --"

"That's good. You see, we've got a lot of team players around here, and I need you to be one of them. I need you to work with me to make sure that I'm in the loop on your projects. I need a winning attitude from you." Jordan reviewed his notepad.  "You know, I've heard some people saying they think you're, well, arrogant."

Kev held up his hands. "Who said that? I get along with everybody."

"Look, Mr. Andrews, I'm not here to point fingers. As your new boss, I just want what's best for the company. Now, if you want to follow up with me in about a week, we'll see how your progress is going. Just leave the times that work for you with my secretary, and she'll work something out."

<*>

Kev returned to his desk, feeling the stares of his co-workers on him. He eyed the 20-year service award pinned to his cubicle wall. He moved the newspaper off his keyboard, the headline announcing: JEWEL CASE MOGUL DEAD, LEAVES BUSINESS TO SON.

Everyone in the office knew what was coming even before the old man's death, and now, on the first few days with his new boss, Kev actually missed the old bugger for the first time in 20 years. The old man had been tough all right, but he had started the business and knew how to run it. His son, this kid -- Jordan -- knew jack-all about the jewel case industry.

"Progress updates?" Kev said aloud to himself. "Freakin' progress updates?"

<*>

Matilde, the department secretary, had made cupcakes for Kev's birthday later that week. He was turning 55. Everyone gathered around at lunch hour to enjoy the treats, sing happy birthday and present him with a signed card. As they sang, Kev wondered which one of the twelve smiling faces had called him arrogant.

"We got you something," Matilde said. "Actually, it's a corporate gift. Came from the big man." Matilde pointed to the ceiling and giggled. Kev wondered whether she referring to God or to Jordan. Either way, he didn't like the giggle.

Kev made a smile and thanked them for passing it along. He tore open the wrapping paper.

Ten Qualities of an Effective Team Player for Dummies.

Great.

Kev wanted to ask his cohort what they thought of the corporate gift, but they had all drifted back to their desks clutching partially eaten cupcakes. He had been left with his book, his card and an empty table scattered with crumbs.

<*>

"That's why -- and this hurts me more than it will hurt you -- we're going to have to let you go, Mr. Andrews." Jordan motioned for the straight-faced woman from Human Resources, whom Kev had never seen before, to present the letter of termination.

And so progress update number three concluded with a bang. After all the reading, forced-joviality and a real, earnest effort to join the Cult of Jordan, it had come down to getting fired during progress update number three. Kev had known something was terribly wrong as soon as he walked in to see the woman from HR sitting there.

"But the book. Why'd you give me that book if you were just going to fire me?"

Jordan held up a hand, as if to stop further questions. "I know, I know. I feel your pain. The book is yours. Keep it. Now, I'll let security give you an extra ten minutes to clean up your work space and pack up your belongings. After all, you've been of service to this company, and to my father, for many years."

<*>

Sitting on the curb with his bankers box stuffed to the brim beside him, Kev wept into his hands. He couldn't remember the last time he had cried as a grown man. 

It was then and there that Kevin Andrews vowed to bring down Jordan and his jewel case empire.

This story was an exercise from the book Now Write! (Screenwriting), whereby the writer is required to create a scene originating from the problem-maker (protagonist) from events observed in real life mixed with imagination.

Workout for 02/13/13

Complete as many rounds as possible in 45 minutes of:

Run 800 meters

80 Squats

32 pull ups

32 dips

Score: two rounds + 800 meters + 60 squats

Birds of a Feather: A Saturday Afternoon Short

The bell above the bookstore door dings. Good, Mary thinks, a customer! She puts her book down and straightens her sweater, only to see a pigeon waddle in, one of those seven-foot ones.

"What do you want?" Mary asks. She goes back to reading the Adventures of the Big Man and his Little Sidekick.

There's a commotion outside. Lights and sirens wail, and a team of riot police march up the street, banging their shields. Must be some sort of protest going on.

"Oh, that's a coincidence," the pigeon says lifting a pointed wing. "That's just the book I wanted to pick up. Is it for sale?"

"Don't be silly," says Mary. "You don't read. You can't read, for goodness' sake. Your eyes are on either side of your head."

The pigeon shrugs and begins milling about the store, pretending to browse the books on the shelf, but Mary can see in her peripheral vision that the bird is keeping one eye on her. Why won't a real human, just for once, come into the store and buy something? It's been nothing but birds lately. No wonder she's so into the Little Sidekick books. They're so much fun. So...fulfilling! Much better than real life.

"You know, there's a whole series," says the pigeon.

Mary puts down the book again, sighing. "A whole series of what?"

"Those books. The Big Man series."

"Yes, but don't you mean the Little Sidekick series?"

The pigeon pauses. "Well, that depends on how you look at it." The woman appears confused, so the pigeon continues. "If you're a Big Man sort of person, you might call them the Big Man series. If you're a Little Sidekick type, you'll call them that."

"I've never thought of it that way," Mary says.

"Ever wish you could fight bad guys just like Big Man and Little Sidekick? It would be a thrill, don't you think?"

Mary nods. Maybe she was wrong about pigeons after all. Maybe they do read. "Say, which one of the Little Sidekick -- I mean Big Man -- books do you need?"

"That one you're reading is the most recent?"

Mary examines the cover, then nods. The sounds of riot boots and sirens return. There is some sort of commotion. She can hear the door of the butcher shop beside them get kicked in followed by muffled yelling.

The pigeon ignores this. "That's the one."

She smiles. "You know, I'm almost done. How about I give you a call once it's finished and have you pick it up?"

"Deal!" The pigeon unslings a bag from his wing that Mary hadn't noticed before. He undoes the zipper and pulls out a bright red guitar. He jams a little riff. The sound is amplified by a small speaker in his bag.

That's  a unique way of celebrating, Mary thinks. Then she blushes. Of course he would use music to celebrate. Pigeons can't smile. "I'm glad you're happy," she says.

The pigeon hops up and down and riffs a little more, the piercing rock and roll filling the normally silent bookstore.

Mary hugs her novel to her chest, closing her eyes and taking in the sounds. She opens her eyes. "Don't you ever just want to go on an adventure?"

The pigeon admires his guitar a moment, as if caught by its beauty. "Of course," he says at last. "I do it all the time. Are you really up for an adventure?"

The pigeon is interrupted by shouting outside. The butcher is being dragged, kicking and screaming into the street. Mary cranes her neck. The police are trying to get ahold of his large knife.

"An adventure like in the books?" Mary asks.

The pigeon nods. "Like in the books."

Mary takes a deep breath. Not in a million years did she ever believe she would meet someone -- or some bird -- who thought the same way she did.

"Bundle up," the pigeon says. "It's cold out there."

Mary is already halfway to the coat rack. She does as she's told then pulls on her wool toque for good measure. Naturally, pigeons have layers of feathers to keep warm in winter.

The pigeon holds out his wing, the eye on the right side of his head looking deep into her soul, as if this pigeon knows her. Mary grasps the tips of the feathers. They're soft. This all feels like a dream.

They nod to each other, the pigeon holding his guitar and Mary clutching her book. The bell above the door dings as they push their way into the street.

#

"That one!" The platoon chief shouts to his heavily-armoured comrades. "Grab the freak in the bird costume!"

The bird-man and the old woman had caught them off guard, running out of the crack den like that. The platoon chief would be sure to leave that particular detail out of his report. This had been one of the biggest drug crackdowns in the city's history, so there was bound to be a few surprises. Not the least of which was the syringe-wielding junkie moments earlier. And now here were two, clearly high, individuals thinking they could charge a whole squad of riot police.

"Sir, this one says she's a bookstore owner caught up in the commotion," one of the junior officers says.

Panic suddenly grips the chief. Did they just make a wrongful arrest? He'd be fired if they ended up arresting some poor, old bookstore lady.

The chief makes his way over to the woman. He uses his thumb to lift one of her eyelids and shines a penlight into the eye, then the other. Her head lolls from side to side. She mumbles something about going on an adventure with a pigeon. In  her hand, she grips a wet, torn piece of newspaper.

An officer tries to take the newspaper away to make the arrest. "No!" the woman screams. "The nice pigeon is going to borrow this book after our adventure!"

The chief shoots a dubious look to the junior officer. "Are you kidding me, constable? Does this look like a bookstore keeper to you?"

The junior officer hangs his head, and they load the old lady along with the freak in the pigeon costume into the back of the paddy wagon and march down the road.

THE END

This story is part of Chuck Wendig's weekly flash fiction challenge. I listened to the Stone Roses' self-titled album while writing this.

Inspiration for the weekend

Face it: the weekend means opportunity for creativity. Time for creativity. Don't get me wrong; you should be able to perform for the standing armies of chimpanzees in your brain at the drop of a well-worn hat, but for most of us in modernity, we need that extra time without disturbances to hone our craft, sharpen the saw and let loose the blizzard of creamy mind-ooze that is the magnificence of our writing. And that time is the weekend. So, I decided to rub a little of this weekend's inspiration-fuel off on the interwebs.

I've been on a bit of a TV, movie and video game soundtrack kick lately. Halo 3 is a good soundtrack. Another good listen is music created for movies or movie trailers not by the primary composer but by a production company. That's right. No James Horner tracks. This music is by professionals who record tracks and sell 'em like ear-drugs for movie producers needing to get their next goosebump-inducing sound of epicness.

One of these obscure music companies is called Director's Cuts. While, you've got to actually pay for their songs, they're widely available on YouTube. Give them a listen. They should be great for getting that motivation going on a Saturday morning.

• Lion Among Men
• Shaft of Glory
• Perfect Ten
• Afterglow

Is it just me, or is there something double entendre-like about those song titles? Look again. I'll wait. Now, don't accuse me of reading too much into this, buuuuut, it looks like those guys are sniggering behind their tubas and violas when coming up with song names. After all, the viewers of the movie trailers or TV shows never knew the name or composer of the song. Until now...

What I brought you here to discuss today was one of the latest songs I've acquired in the rusty trap that is my cobwebby cranium bin. It's from a show I just discovered three years too late called Portlandia. The song is called I'll Take You There by a group called Easy Access Orchestra (enough with the inuendo!). Click the link, then check out the sketch the song is from:

Go write!

M.