Dumb Luck
by Lincoln Trudeau
Mike Carroll rose from his desk so fast, he nearly took it with him. Glancing around the production room at an audience of co-workers, he straightened his tie, adjusted his thin black glasses, ran his fingers through his hair and managed a smile. "I'm okay," he stammered.But Carroll was not okay. Not at all. His boss had put him in charge of yet another stupid project. One would think that selling toys would be a cakewalk, that terminally dazzled children could manipulate their pushover parents into buying any scrap of rubbish a company cared to squeeze out.But Carroll's experience suggested otherwise. After working on Baby Booboo -- the doll you had to heal anytime you dropped it, and Ho Ho Holy Santa -- a seasonal toy designed to show the religious significance of Santa Claus -- Carroll had thought he'd seen the worst. The kid that Magikids Toys took on for the Baby Booboo commercial threw a fit after purple and yellow blotches broke out on the doll's face. And Christian groups nationwide put up such a stink over the ill-planned latter toy that it was pulled off the shelves.Now, when kids were glued to video games and TV, Magikids decided to bring back toys that transform into...things. In this case, robots that turn into trees -- by golly, what could a kid find more fun than a tree? Carroll started looking around for his glass of water; his throat had suddenly gone dry.In the largest corner office of the Magikids Toys building, Grant Damon woke up from a recurring daydream as one of his employees burst into the room. "Well, uh, good morning, Mr. Carroll," Damon said, embarrassed. He noticed his secretary, Glenn, standing behind Carroll, and he frowned. He waved his hand at her dismissively and tried to force a smile for his guest. "Mr. Carroll, please...have a seat."Carroll had not seen Damon face-to-face in months and his greatest fear was that he would look -- stare, actually -- at his boss, his boss would notice the look of horror on his face and he'd be fired. Damon was only in his early forties, but he had aged badly. The many wrinkles on Damon's face made it look like a fat lump of oatmeal. He had cold green eyes, and fine black hair which was receding almost daily. He also had a goatee; Carroll snidely decided Damon had grown it to make up for the loss of hair on his head."Mr. Damon," Carroll started."Call me Grant," Damon said, grinning. Carroll noticed a few black and gold teeth in Damon's mouth. He frantically scanned Damon's desk, hoping to find something else to stare at. Ah, a freshly pounded plastic fly. That would do."Grant...well, sir...I just got my assignment and well, anyway, y'know, I like it and everythi--""You hate it," Damon said bluntly.Carroll tried to fake a smile or laugh, but instead he continued to put on his worst what-an-idiot-I-must-look-like face. "Well, not exactly, it is...unique, well, different-""There is little I hate more than a liar," said Damon, pointing his finger at Carroll. He grinned and a chuckle slipped out. "If you lie again, I'll be unhappy. Just tell me the truth, be honest, even if you think it'll hurt my feelings or make the world end or whatever it is you're afraid of, sir."Carroll regretted not bringing his glass of water with him; he could barely speak and he knew if he looked at his hands, they would be shaking. Grant was probably staring right at them. He probably had a hidden camera filming Carroll's hands, which he would show to all the employees later over cocktails. Carroll's mind snapped back to the current situation when Grant tapped him on the shoulder."Well...Grant...see, these transforming toys...well, they're kinda...silly," said Carroll, taking nearly half a minute to finish the sentence. "It's just...well, the last few toys I got were duds and maybe there's something against me or...I don't know, just -- like that Baby Booboo thing, you gotta admit, that was one steaming load of-"Carroll cut himself short as he saw the colour drain from Damon's face. Damon's jaw was trembling now and his eyes slitted. "I expected honesty, Carroll, but you have some gall coming in here with that kind of talk. I spend millions every year on design, on marketing, on research, on progressive ideas. Only someone of very low intelligence could make such a stupid remark."Carroll blinked a few times. He'd beaten people badly in times past for such indiscretions, but this was his boss, the man who allowed him to keep a reasonably-roomy apartment in the heart of the city. A little restraint would be wise. He noticed Damon pulling an elegant-looking box of cigarettes and a personalized lighter out of his desk. "Um, Mr. Damon?""I already said call me Grant, Grant, Grant. G-R-A-N-T. I have little time for the rude, and even less for the deaf. You've put me on edge; if you don't mind, I will smoke in my own office.""Sorry, it's just, y'know, I've got allergies," Carroll said, trying to sound neither mousy nor arrogant and ultimately failing in both respects."Look, sir, we're through here," Damon said, lighting up his cigarette. "You know why you got transforming trees? I check up on people, Mr. Carroll." Between puffs, he reached into a filing cabinet behind him and fumbled through a few folders, then took out a stack of pages. "Your lunch breaks are 10 minutes longer than the average worker. You've taken 14 sick days this year, which is six too many. You've attended two funerals this quarter and another one the last quarter-"Carroll clenched his fist. "The one last 'quarter,' sir -- Grant, Grant, sir -- was my sister," he said, losing a fight to maintain his composure. "Breast cancer. And the last two were my...well, anyway, dad didn't take Jenny's death well and drove to the country with mom and a gun...why am I telling you this anyway, you don't care."Damon nodded. "Finally, we agree. I don't care. So it's a bad year for you. Life sucks. Bad year. So you get a toy you don't like. Live with it. With your luck, your aunt and uncle will kick-"That was the last word he got out before Carroll's left hook caught him in his still-trembling jaw. Damon blinked for a second, glared at Carroll and pointed at his office door. "Get out," he said, rubbing his jaw. "Take your things with you and I might not press charges. Don't let me see your stupid face ever again."Two hours later, Carroll was stomping angrily through the streets near his apartment building with his hands in his pockets. As he walked, he kept his eyes on his feet, not altogether interested in where he was going.He wasn't too surprised at how he had reacted. He was angry with himself for what he'd done but he wasn't the first Magikids casualty -- his buddy Jake Spanos had been let go a few weeks earlier. Something about long lunch breaks, sick days. Heartless company. But it paid the bills.When Carroll arrived back at his apartment and took a good look around, the panic set in. Where else would he find a job that would let him keep the place? Did you get severance pay if you slugged your boss? What could he pawn? Where would he go?He collapsed on his leather couch, flipped on the news and stared vacantly for more than 20 minutes. He felt his eyes turning red, so he shut off the set. What now? That shrink of his would say to forget worry and forget guilt and to either fix the problem or accept it. Accepting it would be difficult at best. Fixing it would be better but that would involve calling Grant Damon. He checked his watch -- 6:25 p.m. Damon wouldn't be in his office this late on a Friday; he could just leave a message.Carroll was absolutely right; Damon was not in his office. He was crouched under his secretary's desk, just outside his office, and he was trying not to breathe any more than necessary. Lying in front of him was Glenn's dead body."Damon!" a voice called soothingly. The voice belonged to a man who had recently stormed into Magikids Toys and had sprayed the production room with shotgun blasts. At the time the maniac walked in, Damon had been on his way back from a bathroom trip. He had ducked under Glenn's desk a few seconds before his secretary shrieked and crashed to the floor. Judging by the screams, Damon figured most people escaped unharmed but it seemed he was the only one left now. And he hadn't moved in over an hour. He hoped that he hadn't been seen; that the lunatic wasn't just playing with him."Oh, Damon," cooed the psycho. "Yoohoo!" Damon heard the footsteps -- behind him far away, then closer, then to the left, then far away again. The nutcase was speed-walking in circles and talking to himself. And calling Damon's name. Damon had thus far occupied his mind with questions, perhaps hoping a magical stat chart would drop in his lap with the answers. What was the average police response time for a shooting? How long could a man stay crouched before a cramp became so bad, the man had to yell? What percentage of psychos killed themselves too?Carroll had his own set of questions. Why were cartoons so bad now? Why did the new Pink Panther talk? Wasn't the music enough in the old version? Why did people always have to fiddle with things? He picked up the telephone and tried to remember the main switchboard number at work.Damon half-smiled as he heard the faint but reassuring sound of sirens. He heard a few stomps in the distance and muttered curses, then footsteps moving away from the production room...then the phone on top of Glenn's desk rang. The footsteps stopped, then started back toward the desk. Damon bit down on his hand to avoid screaming. He wrapped his arms around his legs even tighter and struggled to avoid crying.Stretching out on his couch, Carroll let the phone ring twice...three times...the machine should kick in after four rings, although if someone picked up, he'd probably panic and hang up.Damon heard the footsteps come closer, then saw a pair of steel-toed boots and army fatigues stop less than two feet from the desk. He heard the maniac fumbling, then the still-ringing phone fell in front of him. He sucked in his breath as a pair of hands caught it just before it hit the ground -- then the maniac noticed him, smiled, and set the phone down."Heya boss man," said the maniac. He tapped the barrel of the shotgun against Damon's head. "You're supposed to answer when someone's calling you.""Jake..." Damon gasped. "Jake, listen, buddy..."The police heard two shotgun blasts and rushed into the production room to see two men and a woman slumped side by side. As they looked around, they heard an answering machine beep and a message: "Hi, Grant -- see, I remembered -- uh, about 6:30ish Friday, I know you won't be in on the weekend. Anyway, it's Mike Carroll, I know you don't want to talk to me, and I know 'sorry' doesn't cut it. If there's anyway I can make it up to you, let me know. Anyway, well good luck in the future I guess and all the best. Have a good weekend."
