Free Shooting Stars by C. A. Huggins Page B

manager, Aida, came by with her notepad.
    “They are administering the flu vaccine this Wednesday. Would you like to sign up?” she asks me.
    I take off my headphones. “No, I’m trying to catch it this year.” Then, I put my headphones back on.
    Just mere moments later, or so I thought, I see Eddie packing up his stuff for the day. My still-remorseful mentee says, “I’m leaving now, but I wanted to say sorry again for whatever I did earlier.”
    “What time is it?” I say as Eddie puts on his coat.
    “It’s five twenty-three.”
    I take the piece of tape that I use to cover the clock when I can’t stop from looking at it off my monitor. “What the fuck, man? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
    “I thought you wanted to be left alone,” he says.
    “Yes, that’s true, but I also want to get the fuck outta here. We get off at five, and I like to begin shutting down at four thirty. And gradually downshift my work pace until four fifty-nine. Then shut down, so that I’m in the parking lot by five.” I scramble to get my stuff. I try shutting down the programs on my desktop, but it takes too long. I reach under my desk and yank the computer’s plug from the socket.
    I turn to Eddie. “Don’t let this happen again. And if you were wondering about your first-day grade, it’s an F.” Up to that point, neither of us were aware there was grading. But his indiscretion called for it.
    “I’ll do better tomorrow. I promise,” he says.
    “You better.”
    As I head for the door, Eddie says one more thing to me: “Are you going to happy hour?”
    What the fuck is this kid talking about now?
    “For Aida,” he continues. “To celebrate her promotion.”
    And the icing on the cake for this totally fucked-up day is this little shit, who makes more than me, bringing up the fact I lost a promotion to a senile old woman, and he honestly wants to know if I’m going to her happy-hour promotion celebration. He has to be one of the stupidest people I’ve ever come across.
    “We got an e-mail about it,” he says in an attempt to refresh my memory.
    “I can’t make it. I have to take my son to wrestling practice,” I say with a straight face before I turn my back on him.
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    I ’m not going to act uppity and say I’m too good for their happy hour, but I am. I don’t have time for those fucking people. Jake and I have our own get-together at the Foggy Glass Pub. The pub is a local joint that isn’t frequented by office types; so there’s no fear of running into someone from STD. I imagine none of them have even heard of this place. I also imagine the Foggy Glass Pub’s marketing department consists of a toothless man sticking up flyers at truck stops. It’s dark and basic, and everyone, from the staff to the patrons, isn’t in an outwardly festive mood. The pub smells like artery-clogging food and various brown liquors. This atmosphere suits us well and is a stark contrast from the other happy hour that’s going on simultaneously in a trendy sports bar across town. Fellow employees sit around discussing work and their personal lives, while tallying up a huge tab on pitchers of overpriced beer and appetizer samplers before the guilt sets in and they feel obligated to go home and face their families. For most of them, this is the one time they actually go out and socialize with people, which I always thought was unfortunate for a grown adult to have an exhilarating time only at a company happy hour.
    We are joined by another STD co-worker, Dontrelle. He works with me in the pension department. He’s an imposing figure, a tall, stocky man, about six feet five and 265 pounds. His work attire is primarily composed of camouflage cargo pants (sometimes with one pant leg rolled up to his knee) and Timberlands, his version of business casual attire. His clothing matches his overly aggressive personality. Co-workers who don’t know him gawk at him for all of the reasons listed. Well, it’s either those reasons