Writing Exercise #1

“Have you been laying eggs on my desk all week?” asked Delbert Smidge, his question as baffling as his taste in clothes, a gray satin jacket with an elastic waistband that performs a Heimlich Maneuver grip around his ample belly.

The jacket was so old that even the stains of cheesesteak grease and cheap newsprint had faded over time. For all his sluggish style, I must admit, circa 1983 fashion worked well for Smidge. Like his histrionic hairwhip, the jacket had the unintended consequence of revealing instead of concealing. It belong to him in the same unfortunate way that Bob Dole’s limp hand both explained his past and helped shape his present.

“I guess by you silence, you are either deaf or ignoring me,” Smidge snickered, his voice full of self-congratulation. He was a hostile and harsh boss. This was borne not out of some stern style of managerial excellence, but out of fear that his brother, who owned the business, might shut down the company and leave Smidge jobless. In six years, the business that Smidge captained had turned a profit just once.

Like Smidge himself, that old jacket no longer added value, but hung on for dear life, the beneficiary of someone else’s charity. Or is it the desperate need for a friend that kept both Smidge and the jacket so close?

Quite frankly, I was surprised that Members Only still has members, but any investigation on my part into the cult of 80s garb will have to wait. After all, it is only three days until the Concrete Technology Convention in Atlantic City, and if we are to make a lot of sales, we have to focus.

My name is Ramona, and I am Mr. Smidge’s Marketing Director at Beck and Call, a specialty advertising company based out of Keyport, New Jersey. You know, we are a company that sells all those giveaways that other businesses use to attract customers.
My title is probably more impressive than it is. I am Beck and Call’s only other employee. I answer phones (Smidge says he can’t be bothered), design layouts (I have an Associates in Design), and attend trade shows, which are our primary source for business (thanks to my flirtatious ways and 36c breasts).

Specialty Advertising has changed a lot in the six years that Smidge and I have been together. Why just last week, the company in Oaxaca that makes all those foam beer can coolers shut down their plant and will re-open in a month as North America’s sole provider of foam cell-phone holders that fit into your car’s cup holder.

The difference between the two products is more than the distinct diameter openings and the object it cradles. It’s about the future; about creating a need in a mind that doesn’t even know your product exists. Beer coolers were yesterday. Cell phone holders are tomorrow. And Smidge’s jacket is forever (hee hee).

“Boss, did you get the double-stick tape we need for AC?” I asked.

“But what about my question?”

“What question?”

“About laying eggs on my desk. Aren’t you curious about what I mean?”

Actually I was very curious. Ever since he borrowed from the library Catch-22 on audiotape, Smidge is always coming-up with these stupid questions. And I giggle as he carries on the witless banter with me. It is actually one of the things I like about the little shit: his inability to know when someone is laughing at him and not with him.

“I don’t have time, boss. I’ve got orders to fill and you still haven’t fixed the copier.”

“But these eggs, they aren’t ordinary eggs,” he giggled

“They’re not?” Damn, he drew me in!

“We’ll yeah they are…normal eggs, that is. But do you know what an egg is?”

Is he fucking serious? He asks me if I want to know what he was talking about and now I have to answer his questions?

“They are eggs, boss…from a chicken, I guess. Hey, did you order two rooms at the Econo Lodge? There is no way in hell, I’m bunking with you again.”

“They’re periods!” he exclaimed, gleeful and by the looks of the slight bulge in his Hagar slacks, maybe even titillated.

“What?”

“They are periods. Chickens drop eggs, just like you do. The eggs you eat are unfertilized chicken periods,” Smidge was red with excitement. “What I was getting at is were you on the rag this week, you know, laying eggs on my desk?”

I hope his brother does close this shit hole down. That little bastard makes me wear low top blouses at the convention, screams at me, and subjects me to listen to his douche bag comments.

Let’s see what kind of business he generates without me, when all he has is his lousy personality, bad hairwhip and that Goddamned jacket.

Fucking Smidge.

Fucking eggs.

Fucking Members Only jacket.