PULVERIZE*
DREADFUL - EVENT #1
Priyanka could have been the manager of The Amorphophallus. The calculation is rather simple.
If Jada had actually quit like they had spoken about and then if Dalton had actually slid into the Assistant Manager position for a quick six month tenure until he discovered his everlasting disgust toward people and then if Corporate actually completed yearly reviews like they promised and then if the maintenance team actually gave a shit about their jobs enough to change the air filters on a semi-regular basis so that residents stayed in the complex for more than a year without suffering from a chronic cough and then if . . .
The path of Priyanka’s ascension to management included enough if-then statements to make any programmer develop systemic seizures.
In truth, Priyanka’s delusions weren’t far off. She was the first leasing agent hired at The Amorphophallus when they opened four years ago, claiming to be Oak Lawn’s leading luxury apartment complex. The competition was steep as the neighborhood catered to a younger, affluent crowd hellbent on spending three-to-four nights a week getting trashed at the local bars to minimize the suffering of being a younger, affluent crowd with a hopeless future. Yet The Amorphophallus stood higher than the other giants with its curious name, a slightly less unappealing design than its forefathers, and the allure of an offer that no other complex dared to match: three months of rent for FREE when you signed a year-long lease. Oh yes, the word FREE was scrumptious, causing widespread brain cell death that led to not seeing beyond the greatest four-letter word ever conceived.
Of course, there was a catch hidden within the contract that dozens signed during the initial scramble of filling out the building. The total rent package would skyrocket by 35 percent the second year, and in subtle ways. The complex would increase trash fees and pump up the water bill, while tiptoeing the rent price up just enough to avoid people bitching to corporate.
While the word FREE worked wonders on people, the opposite is true whenever an individual is forced to pay out more money. After a stellar first year, those pesky lease renewals were sent out for consideration, and the residents pieced together the plainly stated subterfuge. Word spread fast as residents watched the neighbors they hadn’t spoken to leave in droves. Moving vans and shirtless bros populated the sidewalks each weekend for two months as over two-thirds of the complex left for something better, something that maybe had the word FREE mentioned without as many consequences.
For those who stayed, Corporate rewarded them with a hefty backtrack that seemed to quell the quiet riot that had taken place. With time, and a more normal-looking leasing agreement, The Amorphophallus settled into a rhythm of typical turnover and minor incidents that any complex expected.
As it stands, all is well within the kingdom (except for the delay in replacing air filters, as that remains a top-tier complaint).
As for Priyanka, Senior Leasing Agent [ID # 063991], she spends her days tucked behind a computer, pressing the same button with vigor as some artificial intelligence spits out what numbers to fill in on upcoming leasing renewals. Corporate bored them three quarters to death with a presentation about how the program would save time, money, and eliminate the guesswork that went into yearly rent increases. Great. Wonderful. Everyone clapped.
Priyanka’s work existence was reduced to that single button click. Sometimes, to add some zest, she drummed her pointer finger against the mouse in a pattern that matched her favorite song (“TiK ToK” by Ke$ha). Occasionally, people called to inquire about any open apartments. Priyanka ceased her clicking and directed them to their website that handled everything. (Corporate bored them two-thirds to death on a separate day when they reviewed improvements to the website. Wow. Amazing. Everyone clapped again.) Two times during her four-year stint at The Amorphophallus, Priyanka gave prospective residents a tour of the building, but that only happened because the website had crashed, with Corporate citing “an unpaid intern” as the “most plausible suspect.”
On days when her button clicking jumped to the thousands, Priyanka wondered what her manager did. She wondered why the leasing office had seven cameras propped into different crevices. She wondered why she still had a job and why they paid for her rent to compensate her for a dismal salary.
Priyanka could rationalize or, at least, make peace with those thoughts by concluding that wasting time on contemplation of such a dead-end topic was as meaningless as plain pizza. (With so many options to choose from, why did so many insist on picking the most played-out one?)
What really ate through her skin was why she had endured this tedium for four years now. Priyanka had enough intelligence to put herself through college and earn a bachelor’s degree in accounting. All she had to do was stick around another year and she would have become a certified CPA. From then on out, easy money. Sure, she’d get swamped during tax season, but you learned to adapt and overcome.
She had all intentions of completing that fifth year until a professor—no; they had a name—Professor Tufts pulled her aside three months before graduation and explained how he expected more from her. As a woman, Priyanka had been given advantages that the men, especially the white men, would never be privy to. Not to mention her being Indian. (“Aren’t all of you supposed to be good at math?”) So as a woman AND an Indian, Priyanka needed to “either button up or take her shirt off.” He said how she already had two strikes, so try not to pick up a third, yeah?
Professor Tufts’s primed speech was tired and timeless, laced with a laziness so pervasive that you almost applauded him for being exactly what he looked like.
Priyanka listened to the words with no reaction. She returned to her seat and watched as her other classmates snuck in just after the bell. She watched as many tried not to have their heads bounce off their desks during Professor Tufts’s lecture. She watched as their faces melted into nothingness, as if death itself was a better alternative to sitting in the classroom.
For those remaining three months, Priyanka continued to take detailed notes and email them out to her classmates. She still showed up to the clubs she was involved in. To those who didn’t know Priyanka, the words of a tenured corpse did not break her.
Priyanka most certainly had not gone to the office and made a last-minute change to no longer pursue that fifth year. The secretary grumbled and groaned about how she was cutting it close, but Priyanka didn’t care. So what? Her life had been shattered. See—a brief lifetime of words and jabs and having to prove she was more worthy than her peers had ruined her.
They had won, picking off her armor piece by piece until she lost every defense. Why did that always seem like the eventuality?
So now, Priyanka stretched her pointer finger more than any other. The muscles flexed and contracted. Her tendons grew in strength. Priyanka didn’t know if that’s how the body worked, but fuck it, let her get one small win.
The fountain ran diligently in the middle of the expansive leasing office, always shooting out chlorinated water into the pool below. A modern marvel. The tiles glistened with their once-weekly waxing, which the maintenance team took seriously. The desks were ornate with fanciful swirls and decorations etched into the heavy wood. Someone told Priyanka that each desk had cost Corporate eight thousand dollars. When she inquired why they’d spend so much and on so many, she was told that they only wanted the best for their residents.
Not their employees, the residents.
It struck her as odd when she considered how no residents entered the leasing office. No one dared to sneak open the doors and step behind the curtain. The Amorphophallus was built for housing, not fraternizing, especially with the help. My oh my, Priyanka felt like she lived in a post-apocalyptic hellscape with how muted the hallways got. Yes, people used the pool and congregated in the gym, but no one spoke to each other. It’s as if any exchanged words would cause combustion—and not the desirable kind. What a bizarre notion to consider: dozens upon dozens of individuals living in proximity and none of them befriending one another. None of them engaging in camaraderie for the betterment of mental health. None of them exchanging pleasantries or idling in chit-chat about the weather.
So if not for them, then who?
It is for . . .
It is for . . .
Priyanka slams her finger against the mouse faster, ratcheting up the speed that Kesha’s masterpiece radiates in her head.
It is for . . . him.
On Wednesdays, the leasing office stayed open until 7 p.m. to accommodate the working class. If they had any complaints, suggestions, feedback, grunts, cheers, fears, or otherwise, they had a body to blither it to. The issue, as with most things relating to this abysmal place, was that residents had a portal to pay rent, lodge any dissatisfactions, and sign pending legal documents. Ergo, there was no need for the late hours.
Four months ago, Priyanka’s manager voluntold her to work these dreadful Wednesdays, citing how she could further display her exemplary customer service skills.
The first few Wednesdays went by like a snail trying to do the worm. She survived but found herself bored nine-tenths to death as the button clicking barely kept her vitals pumping.
Then.
Then, then, then.
The delivery guy showed up. With an armful of misshapen boxes and an ass like two big-ass scoops of shaved ice, he strolled into the leasing office as if his last name was Mr. Phallus.
“Evening,” he said like a cowboy walking into a saloon.
Priyanka stopped her clicking and looked up from the computer. “More packages?”
The man stopped, turned, and peeked over his trove. “Whaddya mean?”
“Someone already came by during lunch,” Priyanka said, pointing to the stack in the side room. For all the technology and non-human interaction that The Amorphophallus specialized in, the complex employed archaic methods for packages. High-level summary with unnecessary wordage axed: packages delivered > leasing office leaves note in mailbox > resident rips note in half and tacks to wall > leasing office places package near elevator for anyone to snatch. Priyanka bit back the urge to question the process.
The man continued forward into the side room. Priyanka heard the thud, thud, thud as he tossed the packages down without care. When he reappeared, he said, “Had a few more for ya.”
“Oh, okay.”
And that’s how her first encounter with Deli Man went.
Like clockwork, Deli Man showed up each Wednesday with a varying number of packages. He trotted in, said a warm regard you’d hear in a saloon, and went about his business. He seemed to be familiar with the building. Priyanka would watch from the window as he’d pull up, stack his arms to the heavens, and navigate around Cat’s shit that was always left on the sidewalk. Mrs. Rosewater couldn’t be bothered. It would have been more concerning if the poop wasn’t there.
The most impressive portion of his routine was how he’d extend his pointer finger under all those boxes and punch in the gate code. Even though Priyanka dominated in pointer finger dexterity, she ventured Deli Man was a top ten contender. No doubt.
Their conversations were minimal, boiled down to the lifeless greetings you’d save for hated coworkers and homophobic uncles. Still though, Priyanka looked forward to their encounters. It broke the monotony, sending the concept spinning through space.
All was superb until she muttered “I’ll miss you” three weeks ago as Deli Man left the leasing office, strutting like a sharpshooter after snagging a ten-point buck.
Miss him?
Miss him??
Priyanka returned to her mouse tapping and tried to block out her embarrassment. Maybe he hadn’t heard her say it. Better yet, maybe he didn’t mind her saying it. Best yet, maybe he missed her too. Say what you want about The Amorphophallus, but they had the crispest AC in the city, so Deli Man must have missed the building (and maybe Priyanka) when he left.
For the next two weeks, she did the healthy thing and completely ignored Deli Man when he came into the office. When he left, Priyanka scolded herself and paced around the fountain until any anxiety burned away.
“Next week,” she said. “Next week. Next week.”
True to her word, on this current Wednesday, Priyanka powers through her worry.
“Hello,” she says.
Deli Man enters the office, using his magnificent ass to push open the door. His upper half is covered in boxes, but he does his darndest to extend a hand from underneath and give Priyanka a wave. “Howdy.”
That seals it. He truly is a cowboy who moonlights as a delivery driver.
“H—” Priyanka chokes on the first syllable and doesn’t finish the rest. She clicks the mouse fifteen times like a jackhammer pulverizing concrete and tries again. “How are you?”
“Well,” Deli Man says after his thudding is complete in the other room.
“Oh, good.”
The silence between them widens until it becomes as unbearable as bad acting.
Priyanka swallows hard. She searches for something to say. Anything. Anything. Anyt—
Deli Man is gone. Out the door and making a beeline for the van. Goodbye forever. Back to solitude.
Priyanka runs to the window, watches him lift the van’s overhead door, and get lost inside. She taps a finger against the glass, urging him to come back. She needs a do-over, a chance to rectify her wrongs. If not, the heaviness will crush her for the next week.
By the grace of a higher power, Deli Man appears from the van’s backside with three packages cradled in his arms. He pulls the door shut and makes haste to the gate. Once there, Priyanka watches as he pokes in the code and then tugs at the door.
No luck.
He tugs again.
Nothing.
Deli Man looks around as if someone off-camera needs to step in and help him out. Instead, he hits the intercom button. His voice rings out from the console nearby. “The code ain’t working.”
Priyanka sprints ten feet to the console and slams her palm against the button. “Zero, zero, zero, zero,” she says. “Is that what you put in?”
“Just like every other time,” his staticky voice says in return.
The solution careens into Priyanka like a punch from a heavyweight. “I’ll just let you in.”
She scurries from the office and makes two sharp turns before she reaches the malfunctioning door. “Hi, how are you?” she asks.
“Just fine.”
As Priyanka pushes open the door, a hissing noise pierces her ears like air being vacated from a room. She instinctively presses her hands against her ears to minimize the sharpness. It comes and goes before she can even complete the simple motion. “Did you hear that?” she calls out.
“Yup,” Deli Man says, looking around. Stepping closer to the street, he continues, “Where’d the truck go?”
“Your truck?” Priyanka says. She pushes open the gate and stands on the threshold.
Deli Man doesn’t respond. Instead, he drops the packages and races out into the street. He paces around the vacant spot and pulls handfuls of hair. “No, no, no,” he repeats. His pacing goes and goes and g—
“I wouldn’t worry about something so trivial,” a voice suggests. Distant, but approaching.
Priyanka moves from the threshold toward the street. She looks away from Deli Man, still creating a rut and mumbling his favorite word, and up to the end of the next block.
No one. Sure, there are other cars parked on the street and the sounds of traffic from the nearby tollway, but no person is within eyesight.
“Enough,” the voice says.
Deli Man stops moving and falls to his knees. He bites into his forearm and screams into the flesh. Without warning, he is lifted off the ground, his back arched at an impossible angle. The screaming fades, but a pained expression remains etched onto his face. Bloodshot eyes bulge from his skull as the capillaries break. His nose contracts as snot pours from it. His teeth are bared and grinding so much that it looks like his jaw could cut down a pine.
Deli Man no longer seems like a cowboy.
While Priyanka enjoyed her interactions with Deli Man, she doesn’t interact with rabid animals. She begins to backpedal toward the gate when the voice speaks for a third time.
“Consider this a . . . demonstration of sorts.”
A form takes shape before her, beginning as a pile of black ooze coming up from the concrete. It comes from some place else, somewhere meant to remain unseen.
But tonight is one of the many exceptions.
Priyanka battles against every instinct and remains glued to her current position. Something tells her that making herself an attraction in this moment will only lead to death. She is to be a messenger.
A savior.
The communicator.
An exact copy of Deli Man materializes before her. The Warden wipes away the excess ooze from its face and waves at Priyanka. “Watch this,” it instructs.
The real Deli Man continues to hover off the ground with death imprinted on his face. The Warden strides over to Deli Man and places a hand on his arched spine. With minimal effort, Deli Man’s body moves off the street and back onto the sidewalk toward The Amorphophallus. When the original and the reboot are ten feet away from Priyanka, Real Deli Man’s body falls to the ground, cracks of bones and skull bouncing off the hard surface.
“Not to worry,” The Warden offers.
Real Deli Man picks himself up and twists his spine once, correcting any damage. Blood no longer pours from the skin he had ripped into. Slowly, he pivots on his right heel and turns to Priyanka. His face carries a wide smile, free of damage and laced with fear of what’s coming.
The Warden positions itself right behind Deli Man, copying his stance. To Priyanka, the two have merged into one. This is the portion of the magic show where the audience would be asked to pick out the phony, to point at Fake Deli Man.
For this show, though, Priyanka will only observe.
Real Deli Man remains frozen as the arms behind him spread out wide like a preacher about to hit their main talking point. The arms continue upward in a controlled fashion.
The Warden enjoys this part of the show. The buildup always, always, always outshines the reveal.
Priyanka stares on as the arms come to a rest on either side of Deli Man’s head. It is impossible to tell which head the hands are on. The perspective is a perfect illusion.
The fingers flex inward and apply pressure to Deli Man’s head. His eyes roll back. His mouth falls open as his tongue wets his lower lip, in a display possibly meant to showcase the world’s most enjoyable massage. And yet, the fingers press further and further and fur—
Deli Man’s head bursts into a shower of bone, blood, and brain that races toward the darkening sky. It reaches its peak and falls unceremoniously to the sidewalk with a sound resembling a mop splashing into a bucket of dirty water. Deli Man’s body takes one wobbly step forward and then collapses. On impact, the hole in what used to be his neck shoots a string of blood far and high enough to drench Priyanka’s torso. She remains still, clenching every muscle in her body.
The Warden looks at its hands; the ones stained with the material that, until a moment ago, made up Deli Man. It brings them together in prayer and steps forward, resting its right foot on Deli Man’s once magnificent ass.
It speaks.
“Any further death will be blessed with more pain and torment. Tell the others where their domain ends and mine begins.”
Priyanka turns and rushes back into The Amorphophallus, not understanding any of what has just happened. Who would? As possible actions tumble over one another, all Priyanka can focus on is how fucking tired she is of them winning.
It’s time for a change.
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