Foliate Oak September 2015

Fiction

J Pop Metal
By Santino DeFranco

After he parked the car he sat for several minutes before finally pulling his baseball cap low to cover his eyes. He couldn’t be seen. He didn’t know what would happen if he was seen, but he knew it would be detrimental. Would it ruin him? He didn’t know. Would it ruin his marriage? Most likely. On his drive there he thought about turning around and heading home. He’d tell her the movie he said he was going to watch was sold out. Would it be sold out? he wondered. Maybe the theater was disgusting. Or he had a stomachache. He didn’t know the right answer, but he knew it would involve a lot less explaining than the alternative of being found out. Exposed.
        
His emotions oscillated. Excitement and life and youth and sexuality intoxicated his stomach. Filled his groin. They quickly dissipated as fear and shame and guilt replaced them. Going home’s the right thing to do, he thought. But he didn’t go home. He drove all the way to the other side of town, to the old warehouse, where he sat in front of the building in the parking lot. His body raged with excitement. He had to go in. He was going to go in.

When he exited the car, he quietly shut the door and swiftly walked to the entrance. His collar popped high on his blue windbreaker jacket. He looked like a caricature of a burglar or CIA agent in a B-movie. His balding head felt warm under the cap. Sweat seeped from his pores as he approached the door. His moist hand reached for the door handle. He pulled it open and went in.          

The music--loud music--blared through the large speakers. There were more people inside than he thought capable, based on the number of cars in the lot. He handed a man a twenty-dollar bill and walked into the forbidden scene. The crowd of other middle-aged white men, just like him, stared at the stage just as he did. Their eyes glued to the young looking Japanese girls on stage. I shouldn’t be here. When he saw the underage girls his stomach flared. He didn’t know if it was the fear or excitement or guilt or shame or lust that he felt. He just knew he felt. He hadn’t felt in a while. There were three girls on stage. The youngest couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen, he thought. Then again, they were Japanese, and maybe they were thirty for all he knew. He never could tell the age of Asians. The stage girls were clad in short maid-looking dresses with red stockings pulled up to their thighs. Garter-belts held them up. He imagined where the garters attached. Each had hair with streaks of colors woven into their heads. Was it their hair? Dyed, of course. Or were they weaves or extensions? Their little bodies exuded such femininity, but their voices shrieked like banshees as they belted their words into the microphones. Then the femininity returned as they covered their mouths and in pretense acted submissive and shy.

He stood at the edge of the crowd, of at least a thousand, and watched the trio on stage when something bumped him, jarring his concentration.
            
“Oh, shit! Sorry, bro,” the man said. Beer splashed on his foot.
         
A man about his age with thick plastic glasses stood wide-eyed back at him as if to say, don’t punch me. I beg you, don’t punch me. Look at me, do I look like I can fight?
           
“It’s no problem. No problem at all.”
           
“Is this you’re first time?”
           
“Huh?”
          
“First time at a Jap Pop Metal concert?” he yelled as the guitars swelled from the speakers.
           
“Yeah. Not yours, I presume.”

“What? Just because I’m wearing a small red dress you think I’m a regular?” he joked. But he wasn’t joking about the red dress. Or the red and black fishnet stockings he wore. Or the black gloves. Or the chopsticks that stuck out of the wig he wore on his head—one black, one red. He wasn’t a tranny, though. He was just a J-M-popper.
           
“I’m Jim,” the dress wearing man said.
          
“Hank.”
         
“Let me buy you your first JPM concert beer, Hank! I feel like I’m popping your cherry!”
        
“Sure.”

Hank had first heard about Japanese pop metal while surfing the web. He didn’t even remember where it was. Facebook? Twitter? He clicked on the link because he saw some hot Japanese girls in school outfits and wanted to investigate before his wife returned home. The link took him to a video, though, and he watched. He sat there in awe as the young girls mixed the Japanese pop music with heavy-metal lyrics and guitars. The mess before his eyes blended into one cacophonous sound that delighted him. At first he didn’t know if it was just the girls and their childish giggling and promiscuous clothes and wild hair that kept him watching, but then he found himself humming the tunes later in the day and went back for a second and third and fourth dose of the group’s single Hate the Nanny. He Googled the band and learned of an entire sub-culture of Japanese Pop Metal followers, J-poppers, or JPMers. Many of the hardcore JPMers, like Jim, dressed the part as well. Hank couldn’t imagine himself, a grown-ass-man, dressing like a Japanese schoolgirl in goth, but after seeing Jim in his dress, the only thing Hank felt was pure jealousy.

As the two men approached the beer counter a woman behind the bar spoke in a Japanese accent.

“What you like drink?”

“I’ll just have a Coke,” Hank replied.

“No Coke!” The woman snapped.

“You gotta have a beer, man,” Jim replied. “Besides, all they have is Sapporo and Kirin, anyway. Well, they have Sake, too. But that’ll get you into some trouble if you know what I mean!”

“Sapporo’s fine,” Hank replied as he looked up at the woman and noticed something was amiss. He stared at her as if he’d seen Elvis reincarnated from the dead. She recognized the look and coyly placed her hands to her mouth and fake laughed.

“That woman’s not Japanese,” Hank said.

“Yeah, that’s a true statement,” Jim said.

“Why do they dress up like that? I mean, she had fake-slanted eyes.”

“For us, man! They know we’re just as fine with fake Japs as we are real Japs. This is the Midwest. How many Japanese girls you see working at concert venues?”

“Well, damn.”

After the beers were paid for Jim asked, “What’d you tell your wife?”

“Huh? Oh, shit, yeah…the wife.”

“You seem too nervous to be here with her approval.”

“Fuck, man. I told her I was going to see a movie by myself. To get out of the house. She’d kill me if she knew I was here. I think I could bang a hundred hookers and get caught and she wouldn’t care as much as this. At least that she’d somewhat understand. Where’d you get that outfit? You’re a big guy and those are women’s clothes.”

“I got the dress at the band’s website. They know most of their fan base are guys like us, so they stock our sizes. The rest of it I got at a drag store for cross dressers.”

                                                          ***

On his way home, Hank stopped at a gas station and bought a soda to pour over his shoe to mask the beer smell. He figured he could rinse it off when he got home and it would be a believable story.

Sharon was already in bed when he opened the door and snuck passed his daughter’s bedroom door and into the bathroom.

“Hank, that you?” Sharon called from the bedroom.

“Yeah, honey. I’ll be in in a minute. Some asshole spilled soda all over my shoes as we were walking out of the theater. I’m gonna rinse them and I’ll be right in.”

After he shut the bathroom door he unbuttoned his shirt revealing a newly purchased t-shirt with the faces of three Japanese girls on the front. His hands warmed and his face reddened. Electricity flowed through his muscles and seeped into his bones. He felt ten years younger. Ashamed. Exhilarated. Warm. Alive.

Santino spent most of his adult life as a professional MMA fighter. Now, he’s retired from professional competition and teaches English at a community college in Phoenix, AZ. He has been previously published in Curios Literary Journal, AZ Weekly Magazine, and Vice.com. He holds an MFA from NAU, and is married with two children.

* * * 

Seven Days
By Nihar Wahal

Sunday afternoon.  Zeph sat in the park, eating his hot dog.  A violinist started playing at the other side of the park, followed by a flock of birds heading south.  He stared at the change he had left in his hand.  Fifty-three cents.  He would need to get some more if he wanted to eat a dinner.  Licking mustard off his fingers, he made his way down to the department store and sat down about a block away, setting out his cup.  People scuffled by with mittens and light coats, heading to the store to cash in on the sale on blankets.  He heard every "ding" as person after person walked through those sliding doors, but he refused to think about them.  Now was not the time to fantasize about living normally as a part of society; now was the time to get another forty-seven cents to buy a burger off the dollar menu for dinner.  He watched people from all walks of life walk by his life: teenagers with steaming cups of Starbucks, businessmen with folded umbrellas occasionally glancing up to check the clouds.  Money fell into his cup as he watched them walk by with expressionless eyes and felt the chill as the sun slowly left to bring life to the other half of the world.  Thirty-eight cents.  Nine cents short.  It had been a slow day.  No food today.  Zeph walked by the storefronts, making his way to spend another night in the house of cheap wine, stale bread, and an ever-judging statue.

Monday morning.  Zeph shuffled out of the church into the dark damp air, inhaling sharply, trying to guess what the day would be like from its scent.  It would be another hour or so before the janitor came in to tidy up after yesterday's mass, another half before the sun came out, a quarter before mothers would leave the house taking the children to school and fathers would head out for a long day of meetings and presentations and powerpoints and good-job-on-that-report-Joe's... But Zeph didn't care.  This time was reserved for him, for the birds hunting for worms to bring to their chicks, for the violinist in the park across town yesterday whose melodies carried through the still air and through the still time.  Zeph exhaled slowly, feeling his chest fall as his lungs compressed and shoulders fell forwards slightly.  The air lacked the humid smell of rain.

          

Monday evening.  Mondays were the worst.  No one went out on Mondays.  All the sales ended in the weekend, and no one ate out on Monday evenings.  He looked down at his cup:  one dollar, forty-one cents.  Not bad for a Monday.  He had a somewhat-full stomach and some money left over.  Down the road, he heard the violinist busking.  Perhaps he should try to save up for an instrument.  Buskers could earn a lot more than simple panhandlers.  People mindlessly walking by musicians still drop money for them.  Picking up an instrument would be good.

          

Tuesday afternoon.  Tuesday afternoons were great.  All business lunch meetings happened on Tuesdays, and everyone wants to look good in front of their boss.  Zeph laughed inside; the same people who ignored him or rudely told him to get a job and stop being lazy suddenly put on such a charitable show.  Marionettes dancing on strings.  That's what they all were.  Puppets putting on a show.  Still, he kept his smile plastered on his face.  They were paying him, after all.  He provided a service - he made them look good, and they payed him in return.  He glanced down at his cup: twenty-four dollars, eighty-three cents.  He could eat a larger meal in the early evening and save the rest of his money, perhaps look into picking up a violin of his own.  Or a jacket.  Winter was coming, and he could probably pick up enough to buy a jacket during the weekend sale.

          

Wednesday night.  Zeph lay on the cold, hard, marble church floor.  It was not a good day.  He had fallen sick from yesterday's meal.  Today was a blacksmith pounding away a piece of red-hot iron on the anvil of his head, the piercing blows and roaring forge penetrating his ears and mind, the spark flashes burning his eyes.  His chest and stomach together tumbled like a pebble being washed down a river.  Next to him lay a bottle of Advil and his cup with six dollars, eighty-three cents.  Far off in the night, the violinist practiced a new song, a lullaby.  Sleep would come soon and provide a temporary release from the pain.

          

Thursday noon.  The sun was high in the blue sky when Zeph awoke.  The headache had subsided somewhat, but the churning in his torso remained.  He took some Advil, went outside, and set up by the shopping district.  People normally didn't go out on Thursdays, but he needed to get out of the musty church.  The dead air inside did nothing to help his sickness; hopefully, some fresh air would do him well.

          

Thursday early evening.  Zeph's eyes widened as the sky opened up and drops of water began to fall.  The few people who were milling around quickly went to their cars and left, and those who were still shopping suddenly found the store they were in particularly interesting.  Even the violinist's sounds stopped as he stopped busking and packed up his instrument to protect it, but Zeph simply stared at the rain in confusion.  The sky had been completely clear in the afternoon.  He silently cursed himself for not noticing the clouds roll in as he hurriedly stood up to leave, bending down to pick up his cup.  Twelve dollars, eighty-three cents.  He had enough to buy food for dinner, but that would mean staying out even longer and having to walk back in even worse rain.  Getting out of the wetness was more important, so Zeph sighed and reluctantly made his way back to the church.

          

Friday morning.  Zeph groaned as he dizzily stood up.  Any good that the fresh air did for him yesterday was more than offset by the cold rain.  Even now, its steady patter sounded off to him as a warning, warning him of the dangers of going outside again, warning him of the growing pain in his torso and head, warning him of the lack of money in his cup, warning him of the life he lived and the life he could have had, warning him of the insanity that slowly crept into his head each night he stayed in the dark, damp church.  Zeph yelled out in frustration and collapsed.

          

Friday afternoon.  Zeph gingerly shook his head as he got up and struggled to remember why he was still in the church.  He had heard the rain and yelled, and then emptiness.  Shrugging and popping a few Advil, Zeph quickly headed out of the church and down to the main square.  Even though there was still some light rain, lots of people went out on Fridays, and Zeph could not afford to stay inside and recover.  As he sat down and set out his cup, Zeph eyed the clouds overhead.  He looked at their varying shades of grey and shapes, observing them, trying to catch a glimpse into the future they held for him, how much more water they had left to give, how much longer before the slow front would finally push them away.  His divination drew nothing positive, however, and drooping his head and leaning back against the wet wall, Zeph hoped he might get enough money by the end of the day to buy a warm jacket before the rain got worse.  He needed that jacket.  No matter how horrible the weather became today, he would stay out and collect as much money as he could and buy that jacket.

          

Saturday morning.  Zeph lay groaning on the floor.  His head was exploding, his chest had an elephant on it, and his stomach twisted and turned more than yesterday’s winds.  The bottle of Advil was uncapped and knocked over, the precious red pills spilling out onto the white marble.  His cup held forty-two somewhat soggy dollars, enough to get a passable jacket, but Zeph could not leave the cold white floors to get the warmth.  It was too hard to get up, too hard to get out, too hard to get on… so he stayed in his easy discomfort, in his small room, in his sepulcher.

          

Sunday afternoon.  The priest sat in the park, absentmindedly rubbing the cross hanging from his neck.  A violinist played Amazing Grace across the park, making the priest smirk.  No one would know who that man was from the morning.  The police said he looked like a homeless vagrant who decided to end his life with some pills.  A typical open-and-shut case.  The priest oversaw his burial and prayed for his soul.  The gravediggers stood silently by their shovels, watching the priest’s performance.  No one from the church chose to stay for the unknown man’s burial.  The only attendees at the ceremony that morning were the priest, the gravediggers, and the birds flying south overhead; the only eulogy was the sound of the violin carrying through the still air and through the still time.  He stood up and made his way back to the old church, ready to prepare for the evening Mass.

Nihar Wahal is a confused teenager, eager to exit high school but scared to enter college. Aside from writing, he enjoys creating music, performing at open mic nights, and hanging out with his friends. He spends his time curled up with his guitar and a hot mug of tea.

* * *
No Expiration Date
By Ian Woollen

This should be a poem, titled: The Man Who Became a House. That’s what Ben’s younger siblings called him. Teasingly and fondly. Without old Ben holding the fort in Terre Haute, Rick and Beth would have no homeplace for holiday gatherings. Their parents died a decade ago. Departing in a fireball collision with a coal train on a sleety New Year’s Eve. Everyone else, including the cousins, had fled Terre Haute for points west.

  Except for The Man Who Became a House. He didn’t get that memo. Or the memo about finishing school, or combing his hair (a wild tonsure now), or learning to drive. After a couple drinks, Rick and Beth, both forensic pathologists, play at locating Ben on the spectrum. The geek spectrum. The loser spectrum. It’s not much help. He defies categories. Thus the poetry of Ben. His every-day is every day.

Rick and Beth act like twins. Long united in an effort to survive and thrive, despite their parents’ lack of parenting. Same college. Same graduate school. Same lab work (with archeologists to analyze skeletal DNA). A few behavioral differences. Beth is gushingly devoted to her Adult Children of Alcoholics group. Rick acts more stoic, wears sunglasses all day, believing he gains an advantage if his eyes are masked. Beth promises to care for The Man Who Became a House when he gets too old to stay in the place. Rick insists that their brother will need a clinical facility, and besides, he would never leave Indiana.

Ben reliably pays the bills and oversees maintenance on the old dwelling, a stone 1850s farmhouse, engulfed by the suburbs. The parents bought it in 1970 from an elderly, childless couple and renovated most of the history out of it. Pouring concrete in the dirt cellar and knocking out walls and turning the attic into a bar. Ben claims to have a sixth sense for knowing when the windowsills are starting to rot, when the hot-water heater needs replacing. Lying in bed upstairs, he can feel the plaster lathe crumbling, little by little, in the dining room ceiling. He paints the porch every three years. Each spring, he plants petunias and marigolds in the flower boxes, just like his mother.

We, us, Ben’s neighbors, the Greek chorus, we call it a labor of love. We cite Ben as an example of true devotion to one’s parents. We knew his folks as decent people overall, even with the alcohol problem.

Ben interacts reasonably well with the public. He ushers at church and volunteers as a re-enactor at the Underground Railroad Museum. Ben effectively plays the mean plantation-owner who comes in search of his runaway slaves in the historical drama performed every Saturday at 2:30 p.m. from April through November. When asked about taking the role, so at odds with his temperament, Ben explains, “Nobody else wants it, and, heck, I kind of look the part.” Hulking shoulders, intense monobrow. A gentle giant.

                                                                   *

But during their recent Christmas visit, Rick and Beth noticed things slipping around the house. Dead bulbs in the dining room chandelier, trash bags piled up in the pantry. Mice droppings and a cracked window in the laundry room. Out-dated food in the refrigerator. Rick and Beth, suitcases packed for the airport, finally decided to address it with their older brother. They gathered in the front parlor. Like the once-in-a-blue-moon family meetings their parents held, when sober.


Rick said, “I know we’re all getting on a bit. You’re going to be sixty next year. Have you ever given any thought to…when you might need some help.”

Ben said, “With what?”


Beth said, “Oh, you know, stuff around the house.”

Ben said, “No, they wouldn’t understand.”


Rick said, “Understand what?”

Ben said, “The house talks to me.”

Beth said, “What do you mean?”

Rick interjected, “Sure, right, your sixth sense thing. But the helper would just be for daily type chores.”

Ben said, “No, the house talks to me.”

Beth said, “What does it talk about? Mom and dad?”

Ben said, “No, farther back. The long past.”

Rick said, “Jesus Christ…”

Ben said, “Not that far back.”

                                                                        *

Rick and Beth conferred via Skype. Different time zones. Beth’s tired face plastered with wrinkle cream. Should they involve the minister? Social services? Beth and Rick had been trained by their functional alcoholic parents to view their older brother as harmlessly eccentric. Part of the family’s complex dance of denial, Beth insisted, and that’s why Ben is finally breaking down. Rick countered that her theory sounded too ACOA. It’s probably early onset dementia.

  Rick, an electronics buff, suggested that on their next visit (after the annual conference in Chicago), he could surreptitiously install a tiny video camera that would yield more information on what exactly was happening.

Beth cautioned, “What if Ben’s sixth-sense feels the camera? What if he finds it?”

Rick countered, “We play dumb. We say it must be left over from Dad spying on Mom. We blame it on them. Just like with everything else.”

                                                                    *

Rick successfully hid the camera in the tall bookshelves of the front parlor. Still full of their father’s law books. The live-feed also gave a partial view into the dining room and front hall.

The video footage only complicated matters. Ben ritually appeared at the same hour every day, dressed in his plantation-owner costume. Speaking in a chant-like tone, he moved slowly from room to room and recited a list of ‘I remember…’ scenes from historical events in the house. Long-ago scenes from the 1850s that he could not possibly know in such detail.

“Do you think it’s some kind of memory-palace thing?” Beth asked, on their next call, “Or more like a reverse memory-palace. The house is remembering things through him.”

“I think he’s whacked,” Rick said. “It’s giving me nightmares.”

They watched for another week. Same thing. Ben was apparently convinced that the stone house had been a stop on the Underground Railroad. He repeatedly mentioned two runaway slaves from Mississippi who were afraid of being returned to their plantation after the passage of the Fugitive Slave Act. They committed suicide and were buried in the cellar. Under the modern-era cement.

This would explain the noise, when Ben was not visible on-camera, of a shovel or a pick-axe digging in the basement. And perhaps the trash bags.

“Heck, we didn’t check what was in those trash bags,” Beth said.

“Wish I hadn’t made him toss them,” Rick replied. As forensic bone specialists, they were slightly intrigued, but mostly weirded out.

Rick added, “We’re going to have to get him committed.”

Beth agreed in principle, but she argued for a more strategic approach. Align with Ben. Take him seriously. “We don’t want him to see us as his enemy. Let’s recruit some archeologist friends. Do a proper excavation in the basement, and console him when nothing is found, and then institute some changes.”

Rick reluctantly went along with the gag. Only, it wasn’t a gag. Beth made it happen, enlisting a crew of Indiana State graduate students and a few neighbors. It rained all week. We worked together under the guidance of the director of the Underground Railroad Museum. We discovered two complete skeletons buried together in a rotted coffin. We also found a parchment text, written in flowing, quill-pen script, inside a rusted tin that described the situation almost exactly as Ben had imagined it.

Ben was the hero! Picture in the newspaper with his hair combed. The community rallied and raised money to restore the house to period style, as an annex for the museum.

Six months later, Ben moved out to Denver to live with Rick. As his caretaker. These events had triggered something mysterious for Rick. Nobody could figure it out. No medication seemed to help. He went into a severe depression. Slept all day, wearing his sunglasses. Deleted his social media accounts. Got one D.U.I. and then a second. Lost his teaching job.

Beth’s theory: finally acknowledging the unspoken possibility that their parents’ New Year’s Eve crash was a double suicide too. She composed a poem and posted it online:

you think it’s just a matter of thinking
old pain must have an expiration date
you think you know what lies underneath
the foundations of our story
but there’s always more
than what you think

 Ian Woollen's recent publications include: Bartleby Snopes, The Smokelong Quarterly, and Curbside Splendor. A novel, UNCLE ANTON'S ATOMIC BOMB (Coffeetown Press, 2014) was a finalist for the Balcones Fiction Prize.

* * * 
Favor Returned
By Ajay Tulsiani

At my office, cars are parked in the compound outside the building. There isn’t any basement or another structure with floors and inclines where employees can conveniently park their cars. Instead, the vehicles sit idly in the open air, their headlights staring at whatever lies ahead. After traveling by train, I walk from ten minutes from the station, enter the office's premises, then past the parked cars before entering the building.

At noon I was leaning by one car, looking at the sky above, trying to ‘admire’ life. The book titled ‘Learn To LOVE Yourself…’ said so. Other tips were to eat fruits, go for morning walks, and adopt a pet. I bought a potted plant last week. Cheered me up for a day. The water spray cost a hundred rupees. With enthusiasm, I woke up the next morning and ensured that each leaf glistened with water drops. Like I was bathing my own kid. Three days later, the kid died. I hadn’t watered it. At least the plant found peace.

Admire life. I look at the cars around. Red, maroon, green, grey. The chairman of the company comes in an open jeep. He can afford to drive an open jeep in the city. No one dares to question his choice.

I’m advised everyday by some colleague to buy a car. Even my intern smiled at me yesterday and asked me to learn driving and buy some second hand car. She thinks I am poor. It hurt me enough to not talk with her since then.

It’s not that I have a driving phobia. Wish I had. It’d give me an official reason to not buy a car. I’m not a miser. As much as I try, I cannot wipe off the fog of indifference around me. I long for affection towards anything. Two people have called me a moving corpse. I have no friends. Somehow the colleagues aren’t what I am looking for. They crack jokes with each other, and the office floor is filled with banter. They celebrate birthdays. I don’t like birthdays. It’s an excuse to treat the other person like shit for the remaining three hundred and sixty four days. To be fair the colleagues are polite. I don’t like when they pick on each other. But they never pick on me so I’m safe.

A few of them are smoking around me. They're planning to go for some movie. There was a time when I had friends. Went for road trips where we’d sing songs.

A motorbike’s drilling sound stops my thoughts. A senior rides in the premises. His biceps bulge beneath the sleeves of his striped shirt. The rhythmic beats of his Bullet roar as he stops before the security cabin just to the left of the gate. He’s wearing a black helmet with a golden eagle embossed at the front.

To avoid him, I go in the canteen and sit in some corner. I’m not really hungry. I have a sandwich at Rs Eighteen. I’ll have a heavy lunch. But what’s the point? The saved money will just rust in my wallet.

I don’t have any friends to throw any random party. That isn’t bad actually. I was always a loner. But of late it’s like I don’t want anyone. I want time to freeze. The self-help book says depressed people are afraid of responsibility, to take a risk in their life. Stupid book. What do I have to be afraid of losing? It'd be nice if my imaginary sorrows would betray me and chase someone else. Someone like the intern who called me poor.

A familiar giggle annoys me. “Hey, Donk,” says Ishita. She sits in front of me with her water melon juice that has a fancy pink straw with two loops. She brings the straw from her house. For some reason she calls me Donk, though that’s not my name. I asked her once for the reason, and she said, “I get this feeling that your personality goes with Donk.”

Whatever. I hate her. We are supposed to work on some power-point presentation together. She’s been trying to talk to me since the past two days. I suggested we divide the work and complete it in separate cabins away from each other. Later, we could combine the work. She giggled, shook her head and left. Strange.

“So how are you?” she asks.

I say in a faint voice, “Fine.” I don’t ask a question. Her face is tiring enough for me to listen to her voice.

“You shouldn’t be fine,” she says. “You should be great.” She spreads her hands as if she’s speaking to an audience. “This world is there for you. Waiting for you to experience it. Live each day. Celebrate each day. Who knows you might die tomorrow?”

I pull out my cellphone from the trouser pocket hoping for someone to call. A savior of a salesman. She snatches my phone and says, “You should stop this habit. You need to put the gadgets away while eating. Look at me. I switch off my cell phone whenever I eat or work or talk with friends. And look how cheerful I am. That’s how you must be.”

“What if I get an important call?”

“Is any call more important than your life, Donk?”

I hate that name.

She continues talking. “I have told all my friends that if I’m not answering then I’m busy. My priority is myself…do you know I have thirteen groups on watsapp? …school friends, college friends, yoga class friends, dance class friends…I love talking with them, interacting with different types of people.” She laughs then continues, “My friends have assigned a nick name for me. Don’t tell this to anyone, it’s a secret. I’m actually embarrassed, but they call me butterfly. Because I’m so cheerful.”

“You are indeed.” If I argue, she’ll continue exercising her mouth. Besides, she’s my senior, and I can’t fight with her. Not sure if I would if our designations were reversed.

“You know something? I think there’s something wrong with you,” she says.

According to the self-help book one must talk about their problems, experiment with friends, meet different kinds of people. Maybe I should give it a try. Her cheerful nature is what I need. I raise my glance to her face and say, “I’m just a little depressed.”

“See.” She nods like a parent who’s caught her child’s mischief. “I knew there was something that was bothering you. This butterfly can sense negative vibes around it. My friends call me whenever they need any advice. They tell me I should start a practice of counseling people, you know one of those freelance writers who work for magazines where they address problems of the common people. Something like that.”

“Have you done a course?” I’m terrible at small talk.

She laughs before saying, “You don’t need a course for that. It’s God Gift, Donk. I’m mature way beyond my age. All my friends agree on this. You can call me your mature friend from now on, O.K.”

“Thanks.” I smile. She’s made me smile. Wow! I feel a sudden surge of energy that erects my spine. She thinks too high of herself, but she loves herself. She’s capable of being happy. We’re polar opposites. I stare at her round cheeks and continue smiling. The way she holds the glass of watermelon juice and brings it to her mouth, so happy. As if it’s an accomplishment.

“See, I made you smile,” she says.

“You sure did.”

“I’ll take a leave now. I got work to do.”

“You can sit. I mean it’s Friday, I’m sure you can sit for a few minutes.”

“No wonder you’re in depression,” she speaks loudly enough for others to turn around. “You’re getting paid for work and not to chit-chat. Go to work, lazy person. Then your depression will run away. Come on, get to work, lazy Donk. From now on I’ll call you lazy Donk.” She turns around and walks away.

I get up only when she leaves the canteen. The waiter tells me to lift her glass. Employees are supposed to dispose used vessels in the trash tray next to the washroom. Ishita knows this, still the butterfly preferred to fly away. With indifference I pick her glass and dispose it.

Four hours later Ishita irritates me again. In my cabin, I have stuck a quotation: rather be alone than alone with people.

My colleagues tell me I should date someone. Easier said than done. Women aren't just lying around waiting for any guy to hit on them. Besides, the thought itself is tiring. It's been three months since I downloaded new porn. 

Being a twenty-five-year-old I’m supposed to be at the prime of my life, upload pictures on Facebook and let the flame of my youth burn permanent memories of thrill in my life. Instead, something unknown is bothering me. At one time I was happy. Maybe I had too many hopes from destiny. 

Immersing the mind in work kills time. My work is to make power-point presentations of sitcoms telecast by the office. I work for ALM TV Channel. 

The power-point presentation includes a synopsis, descriptions of the main characters, some information about awards won by the sitcom and feedback by the audience. We generally write standard complements that the story is unique or the character is the favorite of the women in the country and make our own feedback.

The sales team shows the presentation to channels of foreign countries. If the channel heads like the presentation, they proceed to future meetings and decide whether they want to purchase the sitcom for their country’s local channel. We dub the show in their language and sell it to them at a price, and a tiny fraction of it forms my salary.

I am typing the description of the protagonist. In the sitcom her husband beats her and she cries to God. She begs God to bless her husband with peace and happiness. The husband gets cancer, and the wife prays for his health. Later, the doctor falls in love with the husband.

This is the story, and I have to write a one paragraph description of the three characters.

“Such a bland presentation,” says Ishita, standing behind me. When did she enter the cabin? Can’t she knock? After a heavy sigh, I turn around.

In a sleepy tone, I ask “What?”

“Your presentation, Donk. It’s so bland and boring. See,” she grabs a chair, slides it besides me and sits on it, “if you show this to the boss he’ll get very angry with you. And that’s not good, Donk. You can’t be so casual at work.”

“My boss says official presentations should be subtle. I’ve taken the background from a previous presentation.”

“Yeah, you would’ve, I’m not doubting your integrity, but it doesn’t mean that the background has to remain same. You can always use a little innovation. What’s the point of hiring you if you’re not giving any inputs?” She shakes her head and continues, “Are you getting my point, Donk? Try to give your inputs to whatever work you do. Be more proactive at work. This background looks so depressing and—” She puts her hand to her mouth and stares at me for a moment. Then says, “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She places her hand on my shoulder. “I hope I didn’t hurt you. I’m so sorry, I forgot about your depression.”

“It’s all right,” I say. I’m not bothered by her comment as much as her citrus perfume. It’s too strong.

“Just a second, I’ll get something for you.” She goes out of the cabin. I crack my knuckles. It’s five. An hour left before I can go home, away from these people, back to my dead plant. Grabbing the remote I change the air conditioner’s mode to ultra cool. Anything to calm me. 

Ishita returns with a book, that she slaps on my desk. “7 Steps For A Happy Life.” 

“My best friend gave me this. I can guarantee this will help you very much.”

“Thanks, but I really don’t need this.”

“Keep it, lazy Donk. It’ll help you. Don’t bother thanking me. One day I’ll take a favor from you and settle the score. Let me tell you something. In this office, no one is a colleague. We’re all best friends, who support each other like a team. We’re a team, Donk. Remember this.” She intertwines her fingers to make a web and turns her two palms to. “The work culture here is very helpful. Can you see?”

“Yeah,” I turn my face to the laptop.

She sits next to me. “Now, regarding the presentation. This is just wrong, Donk. It’s not acceptable. Wait, I’ll help you.”

Ishita is good at power-point basics. The mouse cursor flies under her control, and the background color turns to light pink, each paragraph gets a black border, the Font Face grows to double. Her typing speed is good. She types an entire description, and I just keep staring. She taps the keyboard like she’s firing bullets from a machine gun.

I don’t approve her changes. She adds a golden frame to a slide, makes the font cursive, and brightens the actor’s photo. The font color is different for each slide. 

In the slide where the doctor needs to be described, she adds a stethoscope’s picture at the top right. Her changes weren’t childish. Just out of place for an official presentation.

And I’m glad I reversed the changes before showing the power-point file to the boss. In the cabin, Ishita is giving the presentation of another show. It’s about a woman who keeps a dove as a pet. The woman’s husband works in some other country. The sitcom's story is how the woman talks to the pigeon to compensate for her loneliness.

Ishita has used a chirping sound in one slide and applause in another. The furious boss removes his spectacles and shakes his head. “How could you even think of something like this?” I am sitting on the other side of the boss. The other chairs at the long table are empty. And I'm glad that it's only the three of us.

“Don’t you like this, Sir?” she asks. Her lips shrink. She is about cry. “If you want I can remove the animation, Sir.”

“Is that the only problem you see?” He looks at her and gently mops his forehead. Quicker than she inserted, he deletes the fancy photos in the file: the kitten at the top, the snake at the bottom.

What had she done? Even I had to bite my tongue to prevent a laugh. At times I'm very bad at not laughing. Where does the depression disappear to when you want it? 

The boss stretched a hand to me and says, “I explained this to Nitin the other day. Official presentations must be subtle. You’re not in college where you’re doing fancy designs just to impress the audience with your skills. I have to give this to the sales team who will be pitching the sitcom based on your presentation. The content must stand out, not the background.”

“OK, got it.” She nods. 

“Nitin,” says the boss. “Have you worked on the reviews of the list of shows that I had emailed?”

“I’ll do it right away, Sir,” I reply.

He shakes his head and says, “It’s like you guys don’t want to work.”

Slowly, I walk out of the cabin. Before leaving for home I type a sentence on the laptop, increase the font size till it stretches from one side of the page to the other. Then give the print command. I leave it on Ishita’s desk with the book she had given me. The paper says, “Seven Steps To Mind Your Own Business and my name is N.I.T.I.N.”

As I turn around, I see her come out of the boss’ cabin with the laptop in her hand. She studies the walls and the floor tiles. I walk past her. She doesn’t pass any comment. I walk to my cabin, pack my bag and leave.

Ajay Tulsiani is an engineer who likes to go on long walks, read books, and watch Animal Planet on TV.

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