Hell Is Other People by Danielle Bellwood (books under 200 pages .txt) 📕

the receiver. A moment later, she hung up and motioned him through the door to the infernal internal offices.

Roger Goodspeed sat behind a large desk inside a glass booth around the first corner of the hallway under a large sign with the word ‘Farewell’ written in elaborate letters under an upside-down horseshoe. He looked exactly like how one would not expect a boss to look.

Roger wore a short-sleeve, button-up dress shirt that was at least two sizes too big for his painfully thin frame, and yellowing under the armpits with a nostalgically wide tie hand painted by a novice artist. What was supposed to be a herd of palominos racing majestically across a desert looked instead uncannily like a herd of white cats prancing across a sand box. Or was it a litter box? Anyway, the “artist” clearly had never seen a horse before but may’ve been uncomfortably overly familiar with felines to paint them so fantastically.

No one in the office seemed to notice or care what Roger was wearing expect for Arlo, who was keenly aware of fashion faux pas. He cringed inwardly at the lurid kitty kat katastrophe on display and feared that he would suffer PTSD from the incident.

“So,” Roger’s dull voice drifted across the confines of his glass box to Arlo’s eardrums. “The agency sent you?”

Obviously.

On Roger’s desk was a small imitation wooden plaque with his title: Roger Goodspeed, Executive Assistant Supervisor in Charge Pro Tem painted in white letters.

“Yes, Supervisor Goodspeed,” Arlo said. “Arlo Black. Data entry.”

“Call me Roger,” Roger drawled.

Roger’s boring voice was soothing. Arlo’s immediate instinct at the sound was to close his eyes and fall asleep. As the circulated air began to dry out his irises, involuntary tears formed at the corners of his eyes.

“You will be shadowing a senior staffer,” Roger said.

“Do you think that’s necessary, Sir? The shadowing, I mean,” Arlo said. “I’m pretty good with the computers.” He chuckled lightly.

Roger blinked so slowly that each eyelash in his droopy lids was framed against his face for a full second.

“Call me Roger.”

Arlo sighed. “Yes, Roger.”

The monotonous man in the oversized and outdated outfit stood up from his desk and sauntered slowly past Arlo through the narrow doorway in the glass walls of his box/office.

“Follow me.”

“God speed,” Arlo whispered to himself.

“What was that?” Roger asked, facing away from Arlo.

“Nothing,” Arlo muttered.

Arlo fared fairly well at following the thin man through the narrow corridor. If he kept his mind on the task at hand, he could concentrate on walking just slow enough to not bump into Supervisor Goodspeed Call Me Roger’s backside.

They rounded a corner and the hall opened up into a large room filled with tiny roomlike spaces partitioned off by beige cloth covered walls. The cubicles were around 4 x 4. Barely big enough to squeeze in a modular desk and office chair. Most of the cubicles were empty. Only a handful contained engrossed employees typing on computer keyboards. Arlo gazed intently on the fourth cubicle before him. A thin placard hung on the nubby surface at face height. This plaque contained the name of his jailer, as far as Arlo was concerned. The one who presided over his life sentence.

Gillian was bent over her computer, nails clacking on the square keys of her wireless keyboard. Not one hair out of place. Next to Arlo’s stylishly rumpled locks, her precise do looked like a wig. A little too perfect.

“Helen,” Roger’s unvaried voice broached the silence.

“Yes, Roger,” she replied without raising her head.

“You have a trainee.”

Her fingers froze a full inch above the keyboard, casting a comical shadow puppet against the wall beside her like two spiders facing off for battle.

Arlo watched her chin lift, neck twisting to tilt in his direction as a brief but powerful wave of unreality washed over them both.

“We’re all just prisoners here,” he said.

Gillian reacted like he’d just shot her. Jerking back from her desk, her chair wheels squeaked in protest. The burgundy handbag beside her tipped over and a disturbing mix of cold coffee and makeup tipped out, rushing toward Arlo’s feet. He hopped back out of the way of the tiny tidal wave.

Arlo waited for a full minute for Gillian to say something. When she continued to mutely stare at him, he said, “So… you want to hand me those reports to copy?”

She frowned slightly and glanced down at the manila folder on her desk. She seemed to hesitate before picking it up and slowly holding it out for him at arm’s length.

“Thanks,” Arlo said. “Anything else I can do for you? Coffee?” He chuckled. “Actually, you probably wouldn’t trust me to get you a cup of coffee, would you?”

Gillian just blinked at him. Turning away, she rolled her chair forward and started typing as though he was no longer there.

“Oookkaayyy…” Arlo drawled. “Nice talking to you, Gillian. I’ll get right on this.” He headed down the hallway to the copy room to copy the same file as yesterday and who only knew how many days before that. It looked like today would be no exception.

Try Anything

Arlo fiddled with his phone. The glistening glass screen no longer gave him the same sense of fulfillment that it once had. Of course, the handheld cellular device was still beautiful. The black reflective surface perfectly smooth and unblemished. His face shining back at him from the dark depths. The unlimited access to apps available at his fingertips. But now it felt like a dead thing. A lifeless lump of glass and plastic heavy in his palm. No longer granting the warm, fuzzy feeling of happiness that he’d come to expect.

The clickity clack of heels on concrete pulled his gaze from his own mesmerizing reflection to the woman approaching the coffee shop. Arlo had speed walked down the sidewalk this morning to reach the corner before her. As she brushed past cactus planters, shoulder bag clutched tightly at her side, he darted forward to intercept her.

“Gillian,” Arlo greeted her, feet planted squarely