How do I put this delicately? She didn’t turn any heads when she walked into the room. Don’t get things twisted, though. She’s not the brilliant young woman who gets a makeover and turns into a princess, either. She’s neither beauty nor brains. She’s utterly forgettable.

Almost impossibly dull. Educated, technically, though she skipped the majority of her classes, so the important stuff didn’t stick. Her dad had to get her a job because she couldn’t get anyone to tolerate her past an interview. He sits her at a desk in his office and has her do data entry, like a child given a disconnected video game controller to keep themselves busy.

It’s tragic, really. I’m racking my brain trying to come up with just one redeemable trait. Everyone has to have at least one, right? I just have to come up with one. But she’s making it impossible. I really tried here, you know.

She slept past her alarm and woke up her parents before theirs went off. Her mother weeps every day that this woman is still living in her house. Can you blame her? Her daughter is pushing thirty and still sleeping in mommy and daddy’s safety net. That’s Jen for you. Pathetic.

At 9:05 AM, Jen finally rolled out of bed. She quickly ran a brush through her flat, brown hair and swiped on mascara to try to bring life to her cold, dead eyes. She’s so thoroughly boring that she would make a morgue look like a nightclub. She has been out of high school for ten years and still hasn’t figured out why she never won Miss Congeniality. She ruined so many classmates’ high school experiences, and she didn’t even care. She just never has anything nice to say.

I would know. We used to be friends. It was a very, very rough time in my life. She was shady from the start, and her boyfriend kept calling me to ask if she was still over at my house. The thing is, each time I was away from home. She loved weaving me into her lies. One day, I ran into her at the mall with a strange man. That’s when I pieced things together. It’s a shame, really. I always felt bad for the guy for getting trapped in her web in the first place. At least he made it out alive.

She didn’t like that I knew. That wasn’t part of her plan, and she always got what she wanted — including when she wanted me dead for it. That was the worst part. Jen loved to scream her heart out whenever things didn’t go her way. And when that didn’t work, she just had to push. First, she pushed me a little past my limits. She would hurl every deep secret and insecurity at me until I was crying myself to sleep every night. She threatened to ruin my life with her lies. Right after she started doing that, she pushed me into a canyon on an ill-advised camping trip. I thought we were repairing our friendship when she was plotting my murder.

I would say I’ve been haunting her ever since, but I don’t think she has the emotional capacity to feel regret, much less feel haunted by her past mistakes. I bet that in a way, she still feels justified for what she has done. At least karmic justice gave her a small slap in the face, because her boyfriend found out she had been lying to him not long after my untimely disappearance. I think it’s for the best. He might’ve gotten pulled into an early grave, too.

Speaking of karma, Jen did something monumentally stupid — even for her. She actually signed up for a dating reality show. Or, rather, she allowed her desperate mother to nominate her and then gleefully accepted the prize. What she ended up getting was her heart broken. You see, he ran into her at the mall when he was out with his fiancée. Turns out he had been hiding her from production the whole time while cashing their checks. I guess everything works out in the end. Or, I mean, they could if she gets struck by lightning too. We’re almost there.

Her mouth forms a smile.

My heart aches.

It is another trial.

She betrayed my family.

Once hers.

She sought out a new home.

Left us in the dust.

She went away for months.

She claimed it was a must.

My heart hates the way she hurt us.

She acts like things are normal.

It made me murmur a cuss.

One I never do.

Man, I hate the things I feel.

Is it true?

Ken Eversauff was a broken man in a broken life and as was emblematic, he found himself sitting in a broken chair at the pub.

“Barkeep!” he hollered. “This chair rocks. I need a replacement.”

“Well, then, I sure hope you get one,” was the pub manager’s comeback.

Eversauff glowered at him. He felt himself a man who commanded respect, but one quick appraisal would tell the whole story: this man had the curse. It was the curse of the cosmic decree that legislated his highest achievable status—also-ran, squib, shū- shū, forever someone’s tolerated assistant. Eversauff knew better, always, and suffered the accompanied envies and indignations.

Standing five-foot four, wearing 54 kg, his stature embodied that curse, his cosmic decree; he propped it up as a persona. He wore his three-piece suit, angularly tailored, to portray past his fecklessness. He only fooled himself. His hair was thin but present in a gelled, straight style of shiny, dark porcupine needles combed tightly straight back. The whole package was as a self-appointed β-male peacock.

With mange.

Forever demoted into career-corners, he was an angry little man constantly on the look-out for an underling to suffer his angry little authority.

He rocked angrily on his chair, sipping his favorite drink. Who would change his chair for him? Certainly not he. It was the newest power struggle of an endless series of power struggles that daily defined his sense of self-worth.

He looked up and me come in. He waved me over. I took a seat opposite him which sat squarely, successfully, on its four legs. "I waited for you."

"Well," he said, "here I am."

“It was inconsiderate. You could have told me.”

“You should have assumed. Here, let me order you a drink”: apology in Y-chromosome code accepted, although I declimed the beverage.

“No, thanks, I’m in uniform." The drink came anyway, and Eversauff merely queued it up as his next. “You want back?” I asked him.

“Yes,” Eversauff answered.

“I can make that happen.”

“This is the meeting that’ll make that happen?” he prompted me.

“Yes it is, Ken.” I smiled at him. "We need a fourth-in-command.”

“Fourth?”

"Yes."

“What would fourth in command do?"

“All the things the others can't.”

“Or won’t,” Eversauff sneered, feeling the set up for another fall.

“Look,” I said to him with the tone of destiny calling, “you’d be lucky to get in at all. Do you know why it has prestige?"

"No. Tell me."

“Because it’s fucking prestigious, that’s why! You’re not gonna get higher than that. You can be a big shot. Finally, a success.” Eversauff simmered.

“Look, I did some pretty impressive work for the—”

"Stop. You're kidding, right? You’re nothing. Do you understand? Nothing!” I was right and Eversauff knew it. He fantasized about prestige—people would notice that.

“When does it happen?” Eversauff asked.

I put my hand on Eversauff’s sleeve and squeezed. “You accept?”

Eversauff freed his hand politely from my grip. “What now?” he asked me.

“Now you go to this address. When you arrive, No. 2 and No. 3 will meet you with all of your stuff. After that, I have a surprise for you, No. 4. Don’t bug me about it; just wait for it when it comes.”

A surprise? Eversauff beamed. This probably called for another drink.

And definitely a new chair.

What he didn't realize is that number 4 never wins. It doesn't place. It doesn't even show. But you gotta play what you get.

I don't know who put him in charge of this story, but whoever it is, they need a demotion ASAP.

What sucker looked at this guy's shining hairless head, heavily worn cowboy hat, and hooked nose, and thought, "Yeah, this one ought'a be a bestseller."

I mean, he wears jeans.

JEANS.

Only psychopaths wear jeans. That's my philosophy. The types that don't care if you shove your buttcrack in their faces or that all they can do is waddle around like they're on their way to the nearest bathroom.

Seriously. Who wear jeans?

But because appearances can be deceiving, let's talk personality. A middle-aged bald man with an enthusiasm for everything hoedown, who's a victim of man-jean-culture can be forgiven if he's an engaging individual who's inner compassionate soul and belly-jiggling humor appeals to the masses.

But no.

This guy's as dry as my mouth when I'm forced to speak publicly. He's as arrogant as an eleven-year old prodigy who's realized they're light-years ahead of their peers, and that even their future selves probably won't have the same mental capacity they do. This guy's as funny as my dad was when he scolded me for stealing his high-end cigarettes.

Like, who hired this guy?

You know what? Fuck it. I'm filing a complaint.

That damned fool walks about with an aura of despair

As well he should!

The nerve of him leaving the house with that hair.

Clutching a wimpy single rose, alone just like he

He makes his way on down the street

He's truly embarrassing to see

The rose was shoved back into his hands by a girl much above his station

A wise decision on her part

For he himself was the cause of his own frustration

For any fool should know that when a girl is yours,

yours and yours alone

YOU DON'T SLEEP WITH ANOTHER ONE INSIDE OF HER OWN HOME!

It was a quiet afternoon. "Was" being the key word. It had been a quiet afternoon until ten minutes ago, when the whole neighborhood had heard an astonishingly loud crash, preceded by several almost equally loud thuds and bangs.

The old man took a step back from the sports car, now embedded in his conservatory window, and turned around. He was a mature gentleman, with what would have normally been a cheery face, now puckered into a frown atwixt his well-groomed beard and mustache. [Let me interject here. The description here is a little too flattering, to my mind. He looks to me more as if a warthog had miraculously learnt how to stand on its hind legs, and donned a plastic beard.] The occupant of the car was obviously deceased, having collided with a fence and two trees on their way into his conservatory. The elderly gentleman [Correction, ugly warthog.] walked slowly back inside, picked up his telephone, and dialed the emergency hotline. Having notified the police and the fire brigade, he hung up again and went back outside.

As he considered the damage to his conservatory, he pondered upon the recklessness of youth that had lead this unfortunate to crash into his house. Though he could remember his younger days, he doubted he would have ever done something so risky and ridiculously out of control. [I interject again. As well being ugly, this fellow is definitely a hypocrite. I'm quite sure he would have ridden his diplodocus full-tilt into a bank, given half a chance.] The damage would have to be repaired, or it would cause a nasty draft inside. [Hah! Yes, let it freeze his ugly toes, and make them drop off!] However he doubted that the glazier would be very disposed to drop everything and fix it today, especially by the time the police were done with their chin-wagging and the car was removed by the tow company.

Despite his calm pretense, the gentleman [I object once again. The "anthropomorphic warthog" would be more appropriate.] was rather disturbed by the whole ordeal. If this was the state of the world, then what was stopping another crazed youth recklessly crashing another expensive automobile into his conservatory tomorrow afternoon. And right at siesta time too, people were so inconsiderate. As he pondered these things, he headed back inside to his typewriter.

Ernest, for that was the gentleman's name, had just the previous afternoon begun writing his memoirs. [Excuse me a minute, this is preposterous! He's stolen my name! This is unprecedented absurdity! The dirty skiving thief!] Despite this highly inconvenient interruption, he was determined to continue.

[Thud!]

[Bang!]

[Bang!]

[CRASH!!]

[If you will excuse me again, something urgent has come to my attention. I will have to briefly absent myself, and will continue to narrate the story about this repulsive, thieving warthog, as is my allotted duty, when I return.]

[What in a thousand tarnations has happened to my conservatory??!!]

I hated that dreaded man. I hated him because he was normal; yet still happy.

He lived a normal, wonderful life. He had a wife and two kids. He had a normal office job. He had a normal haircut; 2000s, 1980s, etc, you would still find someone who would have a similar, normal haircut. And if you were to find someone with a similar normal haircut you would most likely see them how you imagined a normal office man to look. Lugging around a briefcase with their chin to the floor having a frown.

The man was different; he was the most terrifying idealization of a normal man. All he did was go in a circle day by day. Wake up, eat, work, eat, sleep, repeat. Wake up, eat, work, eat, sleep, repeat.

He had a smile carved into his face. You never saw him frown

He had non-blinking eyes. Always open, bright, and euphoric.

I can’t stand the man—I want to be him—and at the same time I wish he would perish so I wouldn’t have to see him, and no one else would.

I currently sit in the office building, looking at a picture of my children, and my wife. Look around my office. Hundreds of men have an identical life. Stuck in rotation.

He was a demon—a hellish beast. He was a happy man with a life like the rest of us. We didn’t want to be here, but he did.

I sat slumped over my desk holding back the tears in my eyes as he walked past, he turned his neck, stared me in my eyes, beholding his red ones. Ones that should look tired, but aren’t. He looked me deep into my eyes, held up his coffee mug and said…

“Hey neighbor, I hope you’re having a wonderful day.”