Just One of Those Days

Screaming around the corner in my Aston Martin DBS, I reach for the .45 in my glovebox. I unleash a hail of bullets through my rear window, expertly dispatching the wave of ninjas on bullet bikes pursuing me. Three down, a million to go. The wave just kept growing, crashing closer and closer to me with every passing moment. Ninjas pour out of every doorway, window, storm drain, and manhole. A cluster of shurikens tear past my head and imbed themselves in my windshield. Cursing under my breath, I punch the gas, aiming for the rising drawbridge up ahead. 

I suddenly remember the emergency supermodels I keep in my trunk and hope they haven’t been turned into swiss cheese. I also remember that I’m incredibly hungry from all the ninja fighting. Tapping a few buttons on my GPS, it flips around to reveal my secret sandwich compartment. Turkey and swiss, my favorite. Taking a bite out of the sandwich,  I grab a Monster from underneath my seat, tear the top off with my teeth, and chug it down. Satisfied, I concentrate on the looming drawbridge. I need to gain more speed to make the up coming jump, so I eject the supermodels from the back. 

“Sorry, Ladies. Maybe some other time.” 

I blow through the gate, race up the bridge, and make like The Dukes Of Hazzard. As I soar over the chasm, the oil tanker passing underneath the bridge spontaneously combusts, punctuating my escape. Blowing through the fire and flame, I come to a strange realization. My toes are wet. Wait, why are my toes wet?

My right eye pops open to reveal the answer. Chuckles, my Saint Bernard, is furiously licking my toes, signaling that he needs to be let out. I roll over in my bed, glancing at the cheap, plastic alarm clock that sits on my bedside table. 8:40. Jerking up in bed and kicking my dog in the process, my heart sinks. I was supposed to be at work at 7:45 this morning.

I fly out of bed, sprint down the hall, and leap into the Chinese prison cell I call a shower. I attempt to shower and eat the Pop-Tart I grabbed from the kitchen on my way over here at the same time. Two minutes later, I sprint back down the hallway, scrounge a dress shirt and “casual” slacks from my bed room, and explode out the door. 

Twenty minutes later, I park my Ford Pinto in front of my work and race inside, expecting to find my oddly sweaty boss waiting for me. There’s no sign of him anywhere, however. Maybe this will turn out to be my lucky day. 

I try to rush past the front desk in an effort to avoid “Chief Receptionist Officer” Mildred. A fine spray of Starbuck’s Mocha Java moistens my face as she sputters out some sort of an insult of me, my family, friends, or my life in general. 

As I approach my cubicle, the smell of my boss’s cologne hits me like a brick and leaves me dizzy for a second. When I recover, I come to the horrible realization that my boss is waiting for me inside. I brace myself for impact and walk in.

There sat my boss, Mr. Smith. Overweight, overpaid, over dramatic, and unfortunately, over everything that happens in the company. And now, he’s in my poor office chair in all his sweaty-ness, tapping his pudgy fingers on my desk. The look on his face suggested that I had just murdered his dog. For some odd reason, Mr. Smith picked me as his stress reliever.

“Anderson! What did I tell you about this Steven’s report?!”

In his obese, whale-like fingers, Mr. Smith held a copy of the report. Except, I hadn’t worked on the Steven’s report. I’m Andrews, not Anderson. Even still, my brain told my mouth to say something along the lines of “Sorry sir, it wont happen agian.” but my mouth had other plans. I watched, horrified, as they formed the words, “My name’s Andrews you fat idiot!”. 

The look on Mr. Smith’s face goes from furious to shock, then to the gritty re-boot of the furious phase. His face changes from a unnatural pink to a deep burgundy. It’s time for me to exit the building, and fast. I bolted out the door, down the hall, past Mildred’s Mocha Java mist, and into my car. 

Starting the engine, I recall the dream I’d had this morning, just as the front door of the building explodes open. Mr. Smith flies out, spewing profanity and spit in every conceivable direction. I slam into gear, punch the gas, and scream around the corner in my Ford Pinto. Mr. Smith tries to chase me down, but his weight catches up to him and he collapses in the road, completely winded. 

Twenty blocks away, I realize that if I’d just kept my mouth shut, I’d still have a job. Sighing, I turn on the radio and slump back into my seat. I think to myself, my day isn’t even half way over and I managed to lose my job! I didn’t even see the school bus full of annoying little seventh graders going on a field trip. I did when it rear-ended me though. 

“It’s just one of those days...” I say quietly to myself as I turn up the radio, lock the doors, and proceed the bus driver screaming at me for “running into his bus”.