Dead End Job
Nov. 9th, 2018 12:06 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
favoritebean_writesThis job was getting to me. In my dreams, I would show up to work already deceased. In reality, I had taken a gig playing a Grim Reaper at a haunted house run by Cheezy Ridez Amusement Center downtown. The haunted house was only supposed to run until November 2nd. After our attraction was awarded as the “Best Attraction for Cedarpine, 2018” by the press on Halloween, the board of CRAC Inc. reconsidered.
Something about this place and my assigned persona gave me the creeps. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I felt as though I was dying on the inside. Dreaming about death certainly didn’t help.
I often wondered if the building we worked in was cursed. This job was certainly taking its toll on other employees. I was sure that my prop was cursed. When customers- even the repeats- saw my scythe prop and my costume, they looked genuinely terrified to see me. The makeup alone took 90 minutes to apply, and the effects team always did a convincingly good job. My robes were the sort you could find at any Halloween store, but my red contacts made the makeup pop. Then, there was the very realistic looking scythe, my prop.
When we opened in mid September, I found myself relishing every moment that a customer would come toward my corner of the maze. I would brandish my scythe, and most would jump. Some would choose to ignore me, which triggers protocol A: follow them until you get a response.
For every scream, my scythe would vibrate, as if were alive, and actually trying to harvest souls. At first, I ignored it, thinking that maybe I was just really getting into the act. When I had to follow customers who ignored me? My scythe would HUM! It was cool, but very eerie.
As the weeks wore on, I became less enthused about my method acting bit part, and fell into the disgruntled camp. The vibrating scythe began to grate at my nerves, and by the weekend before Halloween, I was just phoning it in.
On November 1st, management pulled us into an “All hands meeting.”
“We’re continuing the haunted attraction for the rest of 2018!” one grey haired suit proclaimed.
This proclamation was met with a collective groan from those of us who had looked forward to hanging up our costumes and taking up new gigs for the holiday season.
“There’s no groaning in meetings,” Ace, the assistant manager said, “Unless you’re a zombie, and this is the apocalypse.”
The grey haired suit laughed, and walked out of the meeting, while at least twenty other sets of eyes rolled toward the ceiling.
“Hey Ace?” Pete piped up, “Some of us have job commitments lined up at Santa’s Workshop already.” Pete was a friend of mine who had spent the last several weeks chasing people around with a faux chainsaw while dressed in a scarecrow costume. He had been looking forward to his next gig as Santa at the Cedarpine Outlet Mall.
“Yeah? Well, get out of ‘em,” was all Ace said. “I guarantee you that if you stay with this haunted house, CRAC Inc. will double your salary until the end of 2018. You guys literally KILLED it, and I invite you to look out the window now. You’ll see a line up of people waiting to get in to the haunted house. It’s four blocks long!”
Everyone stood from their chair, and went over to the windows to peek. Sure enough, the line was big. Were there even this many residents in Cedarpine? There were at least 900 people queued up.
When the meeting was adjourned, many had taken CRAC’s offer to stay. I told Ace that I would need to call up my wife, Emily, first. She and our son Vincent each had complained that I hadn’t been around much.
Ace laughed at my request. “A real man wouldn’t need to call up his wife,” he said, “a real man would just do as he pleased.”
I was positive that I was going to turn in my notice after that.
“A REAL man doesn’t arbitrarily make decisions for the entire household,” was my reply.
I walked over to the makeup and costume department. On the way, I called my wife.
“They want us to work until the end of the year. Doubling our salary, supposedly. Said I said I wanted to check in with you first,” I said.
“Well, you know what I think. This job is no fun for you, and you’ve kind of turned into someone else at home. I mean, I think that if you love this gig, keep it. But we don’t need the money, and I am fine with you finishing up after tomorrow. Lucien, I think you’d feel better if you just passed on the offer this time.”
“Me too, actually. Thanks, Emily. I love you,” I said. I felt slightly relieved after hearing her voice.
“Love you too, Lucien. See you tonight!” The phone disconnected, as I entered makeup.
An hour later, Pete pulled me aside just before we were to set foot into the haunted house to take up our roles of Reaper and Scarecrow.
“Hey Lucien, are you staying on after tomorrow?” He asked. He was fidgeting a little, wringing his hands.
“No,” I said. I picked up my scythe from the props table. “I’m hanging this gig up after tomorrow. What about you?”
“I don’t want to stay, but the pay is good. I mean, $35 an hour? You know how bad it is for us actors. This is actual money, and I need to save up for a new transmission,” Pete confessed. “Santa’s Workshop is only paying $20.”
My eyes widened. Something was wrong. Pete relished his Santa gig every year.
“Follow your heart, Pete. Not your wallet. Besides, you can always come back here if you get tired of playing Santa,” I shrugged.
Pete shivered. He reached for his chainless chainsaw.
“You’re right though,” he said as he placed the tool on his hand and began to strap it in. “I’ve committed to Santa, so I’ll go. What about you?”
“I’m going to interview at a bar on Saturday. They need a bartender. It’ll be like college all over again,” I said. I found it hard to smile. “This place has some sort of oppressive feel about it that I can’t shake. Especially when I pick this thing up,” I waved my scythe. It vibrated.
Pete let out a yelp.
“What the? You’re terrifying, Lucien! Watch that thing!” Pete gestured toward the scythe.
“Sorry,” I muttered. We went to our designated stations in silence.
I felt utterly exhausted after my shift was over. I didn’t even bother removing my makeup. I took out the contacts, hung up my robes, and replaced my scythe. Then I made my way to my old Civic in employee parking. In my head, I thought about how the extra income could get me a newer car. This one had over 300,000 miles on it. Maybe it was time for a new one. But honestly, I was so over this gig, and the extra money wasn’t compelling. I was busy running numbers in my head that I failed to notice the STOP sign ahead.
On November 2nd, the alarm woke me from a dreamless slumber. I felt refreshed for once. I rose, and thought about how I was going to tell Ace that I was finished.
Emily had decided to take aim at my head with the alarm clock. She hurled it across the bed at me. I stepped aside as it clattered to the floor.
“What was that for?” I asked with a grimace. Emily had narrowly missed me. She didn’t answer. She threw herself on the bed, and began to sob. I scratched my head trying to recall what happened after I left work. I found that I couldn’t remember.
“Em? Emily? What’s wrong, sweetheart?” I ran to the other side of the bed, and tried to console her. She did not respond to my touch, however. She only continued to cry.
“Mom?” Vincent, our son, had entered the room. He was in his pajamas, his Pikachu plush clutched in his right hand. With his left hand, he tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes.
“Mom? Where’s Dad?” Vincent said a little louder.
“Right here,” I said. I held up my hand to wave. Vincent jumped at the sight. I glanced at my hand, which looked skeletal. I’d forgotten to remove my makeup, sure, but never had my hand looked this bony.
“Aaargh!!!” Vincent shouted and ran from the room.
The phone in my pocket began to vibrate. In a state of confusion, I pulled out my phone, wondering why I was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. I answered the call.
“Ace?” I said. “It’s only 7:30, what’s up?”
“Just making sure you’re coming into work today,” Ace piped over the phone.
“Why wouldn’t I?” I asked. My voice croaked.
“Well, after last night, I figured you might not be up for the job. Say, can you come in a little bit early? We’re adding some to your script.”
“Yeah, whatever. I can come in.” No point staying here, I thought to myself. My wife was giving me the silent treatment. My son thought I was some monster. Might as well go to work early.
“Great. See you then. Oh, and Lucien? I hope you reconsidered, and will stay through the end of the year.”
“Didn’t say I was quitting for sure, did I?” I couldn’t remember if I had.
“That’s my man!” Ace said, and hung up. I could hear him laughing as the call ended.
I pocketed my phone, which seemed awfully splintered for some reason. Then I set off for work.
When I arrived, many of my coworkers were already in costume. They looked eerily convincing today. Pete waved at me, looking particularly dead in the eyes.
“Last day, Pete?” I croaked again. Maybe I’d better go to the doctor and have my voice checked, I thought.
“Somehow, I don’t think so. Didn’t you hear about the crash last night? Some guy in a Civic crashed into the mall. Plowed right through the workshop after hours. Guess Santa’s Workshop decided it wasn’t worth setting up here in Cedarpine.”
“They catch the guy?” I asked. This was a bizarre twist, I thought.
“No, he was already dead. Some guy named Lucien something. Whatever, we’re getting paid, right? Guess we’d better get to that meeting.”
I raised my eyebrow, or what should have been one. How many men named Lucien lived in Cedarpine? Suddenly, I experienced what could only be a waking nightmare. Commuting home, I was preoccupied with numbers. I didn’t see the semi coming from my left, or the STOP sign. I looked up, too late. A skull with red eyes glared back just as his truck made impact with my car.
The horror played in slow motion. I saw the airbags deploy, but the car continued to move with no sign of stopping. The skull smiled back at me. If skulls could talk, I could have sworn that it mouthed, “I’m finally free!”
Moving sideways, the semi continued to push my Civic for blocks. Eventually, we reached the nearby shopping mall, but the semi continued to plow ahead, crossing a parking lot, and eventually crashing into the mall itself.
The skull glowered at me, as my car careened its way through the empty food court. I switched the shift knob out of gear, and stomped on the breaks of the Civic. What was left of my car skidded to a halt right in front of an ornate white and red chair that was flanked by six-foot high candy canes. I blinked.
The dream ended, and I looked down at my hands. There was no flesh on them. Ace strode up to me, clapped his hand on my shoulder, and I shuddered.
He whispered in my ear, “Good job, son. Don’t worry, no one knows except management. Just keep playin’ your part. Oh, and don’t tell anyone. For taking out that workshop last night, we’ve decided to award you a bonus and an employee of the month plaque. Everything okay at home?”
Two and two finally came together. I was dead. The alarm clock tantrum, the silent treatment from Emily, and Vincent’s scare were because I was dead. The car crash? No dream, that happened. My jaw creaked open.
“That’s, right, son. Like I said, good work! Don’t worry about your family. They’ll move on without you. In the meantime, you can stay at CRAC Inc.’s corporate housing. Scarecrow Pete’s already there. You’ll be neighbors. Just do me a favor and, you know, don’t drop the façade? No one needs to know you’re already dead.”
I somehow thought that death would be a more profound but peaceful experience, and not this weird scary ordeal. I’m convinced my part was scripted by CRAC Inc. as a ploy for employee retention.
It’s now November 8th, and I’m so resigned to this job that I haven’t even bothered going home. I just hang out in my little corner of the maze. Ace came by two days ago to give me keys to my new apartment. He also expressed his condolences saying that my funeral was the Monday, the 5th. He was sorry I couldn’t take the day off to attend, but maybe it was better this way.
I don’t even care, really. I just sort of feel resigned to this spot, holding my scythe as if it were part of my very being. I do get a small thrill now every time I brandish it at passers by now. It’s almost like this scythe was made for me.
Something about this place and my assigned persona gave me the creeps. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I felt as though I was dying on the inside. Dreaming about death certainly didn’t help.
I often wondered if the building we worked in was cursed. This job was certainly taking its toll on other employees. I was sure that my prop was cursed. When customers- even the repeats- saw my scythe prop and my costume, they looked genuinely terrified to see me. The makeup alone took 90 minutes to apply, and the effects team always did a convincingly good job. My robes were the sort you could find at any Halloween store, but my red contacts made the makeup pop. Then, there was the very realistic looking scythe, my prop.
When we opened in mid September, I found myself relishing every moment that a customer would come toward my corner of the maze. I would brandish my scythe, and most would jump. Some would choose to ignore me, which triggers protocol A: follow them until you get a response.
For every scream, my scythe would vibrate, as if were alive, and actually trying to harvest souls. At first, I ignored it, thinking that maybe I was just really getting into the act. When I had to follow customers who ignored me? My scythe would HUM! It was cool, but very eerie.
As the weeks wore on, I became less enthused about my method acting bit part, and fell into the disgruntled camp. The vibrating scythe began to grate at my nerves, and by the weekend before Halloween, I was just phoning it in.
On November 1st, management pulled us into an “All hands meeting.”
“We’re continuing the haunted attraction for the rest of 2018!” one grey haired suit proclaimed.
This proclamation was met with a collective groan from those of us who had looked forward to hanging up our costumes and taking up new gigs for the holiday season.
“There’s no groaning in meetings,” Ace, the assistant manager said, “Unless you’re a zombie, and this is the apocalypse.”
The grey haired suit laughed, and walked out of the meeting, while at least twenty other sets of eyes rolled toward the ceiling.
“Hey Ace?” Pete piped up, “Some of us have job commitments lined up at Santa’s Workshop already.” Pete was a friend of mine who had spent the last several weeks chasing people around with a faux chainsaw while dressed in a scarecrow costume. He had been looking forward to his next gig as Santa at the Cedarpine Outlet Mall.
“Yeah? Well, get out of ‘em,” was all Ace said. “I guarantee you that if you stay with this haunted house, CRAC Inc. will double your salary until the end of 2018. You guys literally KILLED it, and I invite you to look out the window now. You’ll see a line up of people waiting to get in to the haunted house. It’s four blocks long!”
Everyone stood from their chair, and went over to the windows to peek. Sure enough, the line was big. Were there even this many residents in Cedarpine? There were at least 900 people queued up.
When the meeting was adjourned, many had taken CRAC’s offer to stay. I told Ace that I would need to call up my wife, Emily, first. She and our son Vincent each had complained that I hadn’t been around much.
Ace laughed at my request. “A real man wouldn’t need to call up his wife,” he said, “a real man would just do as he pleased.”
I was positive that I was going to turn in my notice after that.
“A REAL man doesn’t arbitrarily make decisions for the entire household,” was my reply.
I walked over to the makeup and costume department. On the way, I called my wife.
“They want us to work until the end of the year. Doubling our salary, supposedly. Said I said I wanted to check in with you first,” I said.
“Well, you know what I think. This job is no fun for you, and you’ve kind of turned into someone else at home. I mean, I think that if you love this gig, keep it. But we don’t need the money, and I am fine with you finishing up after tomorrow. Lucien, I think you’d feel better if you just passed on the offer this time.”
“Me too, actually. Thanks, Emily. I love you,” I said. I felt slightly relieved after hearing her voice.
“Love you too, Lucien. See you tonight!” The phone disconnected, as I entered makeup.
An hour later, Pete pulled me aside just before we were to set foot into the haunted house to take up our roles of Reaper and Scarecrow.
“Hey Lucien, are you staying on after tomorrow?” He asked. He was fidgeting a little, wringing his hands.
“No,” I said. I picked up my scythe from the props table. “I’m hanging this gig up after tomorrow. What about you?”
“I don’t want to stay, but the pay is good. I mean, $35 an hour? You know how bad it is for us actors. This is actual money, and I need to save up for a new transmission,” Pete confessed. “Santa’s Workshop is only paying $20.”
My eyes widened. Something was wrong. Pete relished his Santa gig every year.
“Follow your heart, Pete. Not your wallet. Besides, you can always come back here if you get tired of playing Santa,” I shrugged.
Pete shivered. He reached for his chainless chainsaw.
“You’re right though,” he said as he placed the tool on his hand and began to strap it in. “I’ve committed to Santa, so I’ll go. What about you?”
“I’m going to interview at a bar on Saturday. They need a bartender. It’ll be like college all over again,” I said. I found it hard to smile. “This place has some sort of oppressive feel about it that I can’t shake. Especially when I pick this thing up,” I waved my scythe. It vibrated.
Pete let out a yelp.
“What the? You’re terrifying, Lucien! Watch that thing!” Pete gestured toward the scythe.
“Sorry,” I muttered. We went to our designated stations in silence.
I felt utterly exhausted after my shift was over. I didn’t even bother removing my makeup. I took out the contacts, hung up my robes, and replaced my scythe. Then I made my way to my old Civic in employee parking. In my head, I thought about how the extra income could get me a newer car. This one had over 300,000 miles on it. Maybe it was time for a new one. But honestly, I was so over this gig, and the extra money wasn’t compelling. I was busy running numbers in my head that I failed to notice the STOP sign ahead.
On November 2nd, the alarm woke me from a dreamless slumber. I felt refreshed for once. I rose, and thought about how I was going to tell Ace that I was finished.
Emily had decided to take aim at my head with the alarm clock. She hurled it across the bed at me. I stepped aside as it clattered to the floor.
“What was that for?” I asked with a grimace. Emily had narrowly missed me. She didn’t answer. She threw herself on the bed, and began to sob. I scratched my head trying to recall what happened after I left work. I found that I couldn’t remember.
“Em? Emily? What’s wrong, sweetheart?” I ran to the other side of the bed, and tried to console her. She did not respond to my touch, however. She only continued to cry.
“Mom?” Vincent, our son, had entered the room. He was in his pajamas, his Pikachu plush clutched in his right hand. With his left hand, he tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes.
“Mom? Where’s Dad?” Vincent said a little louder.
“Right here,” I said. I held up my hand to wave. Vincent jumped at the sight. I glanced at my hand, which looked skeletal. I’d forgotten to remove my makeup, sure, but never had my hand looked this bony.
“Aaargh!!!” Vincent shouted and ran from the room.
The phone in my pocket began to vibrate. In a state of confusion, I pulled out my phone, wondering why I was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. I answered the call.
“Ace?” I said. “It’s only 7:30, what’s up?”
“Just making sure you’re coming into work today,” Ace piped over the phone.
“Why wouldn’t I?” I asked. My voice croaked.
“Well, after last night, I figured you might not be up for the job. Say, can you come in a little bit early? We’re adding some to your script.”
“Yeah, whatever. I can come in.” No point staying here, I thought to myself. My wife was giving me the silent treatment. My son thought I was some monster. Might as well go to work early.
“Great. See you then. Oh, and Lucien? I hope you reconsidered, and will stay through the end of the year.”
“Didn’t say I was quitting for sure, did I?” I couldn’t remember if I had.
“That’s my man!” Ace said, and hung up. I could hear him laughing as the call ended.
I pocketed my phone, which seemed awfully splintered for some reason. Then I set off for work.
When I arrived, many of my coworkers were already in costume. They looked eerily convincing today. Pete waved at me, looking particularly dead in the eyes.
“Last day, Pete?” I croaked again. Maybe I’d better go to the doctor and have my voice checked, I thought.
“Somehow, I don’t think so. Didn’t you hear about the crash last night? Some guy in a Civic crashed into the mall. Plowed right through the workshop after hours. Guess Santa’s Workshop decided it wasn’t worth setting up here in Cedarpine.”
“They catch the guy?” I asked. This was a bizarre twist, I thought.
“No, he was already dead. Some guy named Lucien something. Whatever, we’re getting paid, right? Guess we’d better get to that meeting.”
I raised my eyebrow, or what should have been one. How many men named Lucien lived in Cedarpine? Suddenly, I experienced what could only be a waking nightmare. Commuting home, I was preoccupied with numbers. I didn’t see the semi coming from my left, or the STOP sign. I looked up, too late. A skull with red eyes glared back just as his truck made impact with my car.
The horror played in slow motion. I saw the airbags deploy, but the car continued to move with no sign of stopping. The skull smiled back at me. If skulls could talk, I could have sworn that it mouthed, “I’m finally free!”
Moving sideways, the semi continued to push my Civic for blocks. Eventually, we reached the nearby shopping mall, but the semi continued to plow ahead, crossing a parking lot, and eventually crashing into the mall itself.
The skull glowered at me, as my car careened its way through the empty food court. I switched the shift knob out of gear, and stomped on the breaks of the Civic. What was left of my car skidded to a halt right in front of an ornate white and red chair that was flanked by six-foot high candy canes. I blinked.
The dream ended, and I looked down at my hands. There was no flesh on them. Ace strode up to me, clapped his hand on my shoulder, and I shuddered.
He whispered in my ear, “Good job, son. Don’t worry, no one knows except management. Just keep playin’ your part. Oh, and don’t tell anyone. For taking out that workshop last night, we’ve decided to award you a bonus and an employee of the month plaque. Everything okay at home?”
Two and two finally came together. I was dead. The alarm clock tantrum, the silent treatment from Emily, and Vincent’s scare were because I was dead. The car crash? No dream, that happened. My jaw creaked open.
“That’s, right, son. Like I said, good work! Don’t worry about your family. They’ll move on without you. In the meantime, you can stay at CRAC Inc.’s corporate housing. Scarecrow Pete’s already there. You’ll be neighbors. Just do me a favor and, you know, don’t drop the façade? No one needs to know you’re already dead.”
I somehow thought that death would be a more profound but peaceful experience, and not this weird scary ordeal. I’m convinced my part was scripted by CRAC Inc. as a ploy for employee retention.
It’s now November 8th, and I’m so resigned to this job that I haven’t even bothered going home. I just hang out in my little corner of the maze. Ace came by two days ago to give me keys to my new apartment. He also expressed his condolences saying that my funeral was the Monday, the 5th. He was sorry I couldn’t take the day off to attend, but maybe it was better this way.
I don’t even care, really. I just sort of feel resigned to this spot, holding my scythe as if it were part of my very being. I do get a small thrill now every time I brandish it at passers by now. It’s almost like this scythe was made for me.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2018-11-10 07:37 am (UTC)“There’s no groaning in meetings,” Ace, the assistant manager said, “Unless you’re a zombie, and this is the apocalypse.”
Hahaha! Though I think groaning is a perfectly legitimate response to most meetings.
This poor guy, becoming Death instead of just being costumed like him. Somehow, he looped himself into the mix and became his own victim. :O
no subject
Date: 2018-11-12 08:05 am (UTC)I agree about groaning being a perfectly legitimate response to meetings.
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Date: 2018-11-10 04:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-11-12 08:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-11-10 05:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-11-12 08:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-11-11 03:19 pm (UTC)...By any chance, was it you who anonymously commented my entry this week? Someone said the were also a fan of Philip Quast, and I don't know who it was! 🧐
no subject
Date: 2018-11-12 08:00 am (UTC)As for your entry, I was logged in. I hope you find your commentator though.
no subject
Date: 2018-11-12 06:45 pm (UTC)My dreams are fortunately never graphic, but they sometimes imply things that make me uncomfortable (like, I know I have committed a crime and the dream deals with the consequences, or someone else did and I cover it up.)
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Date: 2018-11-12 06:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-11-11 05:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-11-12 07:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-11-12 05:00 am (UTC)Very well done!
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Date: 2018-11-12 07:57 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2018-11-12 12:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-11-12 02:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-11-12 08:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-11-13 12:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-11-13 02:06 am (UTC)