A Day Off

A humor short story

Photo by Phil Goodwin on Unsplash

This story is my submission for the monthly Symposium of the Soaring Twenties Social Club. This month’s theme is “Leisure.”

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It was a Thursday in June and Colin Samson had decided not to go to work.

That morning he had opened bleary eyes that saw but didn’t want to see. Much like his namesake, he had awoken bereft of strength (Colin’s inertia, however, had nothing to do with hair loss) and, as such, was disinclined to go to work that Thursday morning, Thursday afternoon, or any part of that Thursday.

Colin was average height with a thin build. He was shrewd and inclined to be lazy. He had wide-set green eyes and a thin curving mouth.

Colin willed himself out of bed, buoyed by the decision he had come to not to go to work today.

Tyler, Colin’s roommate, was already up and in the kitchen making coffee.

Unlike Colin, Tyler was thick-set and had an enormous pair of ears which stuck out from the sides of his head, which usually goes without saying as opposed to having ears sticking out from one’s neck, quadriceps, or ilio-sacral vertebrae.

Colin and Tyler both worked at the same company, Dubuque Industries, a small company that sold software for industrial machinery that was used in everything from car manufacturing to food production.

“I’m not going in today,” Colin said.

“Why?” said Tyler, pouring a cup of coffee.

Colin shrugged. “Don’t want to. I think I’ll go to the Sox game instead.”

“Taking a vacation day?”

“No. I don’t have any vacation left. I’m just going to call in.”

Tyler raised an eyebrow. “What is that, the third time this month?”

“What’re you, my mother? First of all, I was sick one of those days. Second, I just can’t do it today and I don’t want to see Peterson’s face, which is reason enough.”

“Didn’t he warn you about missing again?”

“He did. But I can’t help it if I’m sick, can I?”

“What about the report on the bugs in the chip machine software?”

“Micro or potato?”

“Both.”

“I can’t turn it in if I’m not there. I also can’t turn it in if it’s not done.”

“Colin,” said Tyler reproachfully, “you said you’d have your part done. Come on. We’re working on that together. What am I supposed to present? I need your part of the report so I can show how my findings correlate.”

Colin held up a finger. “Hold that thought.”

He went out of the room and came back a few minutes later.

“Well?” Tyler said.

“Well what?”

“The report?”

“Oh, that,” Colin said, waving a hand. “No problem. I called in. Said we have food poisoning. You don’t want to know the details. That sort of thing.”

“We? What do you mean ‘we’?”

“We, we. First person plural personal pronoun meaning, in this case, you and I. Both of us. We.”

“I understand the meaning of the word. I mean why am I also not going to work?”

“You were the one complaining about the report. Besides, Susan said Peterson isn’t coming in today either, so we’re off the hook.”

“Did she say why?”

“Business meeting or something.”

“Since when does the boss’s secretary tell you his agenda?”

“Since I took her out for dinner last week,” Colin said with a smirk.

“Did you not tell me about this because she’s old enough to be your mother?”

“Take that back! She’s in her forties and aging like a fine wine. And a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“Ahuh. So it was more than just dinner.”

Colin waved a hand. “Just a figure of speech. It was just dinner. I am a gentleman, after all.”

“A gentleman who lies to the boss.”

“White lies, white lies. Besides, if Peterson’s not there why do we need to be there to turn in a report he’s not even going to look at until next week at this point? We’ll do it tomorrow and send it in by the end of the day and that’ll be that. In the meantime, we’ll get some much needed time off, catch a little baseball, have a beer and a hotdog, maybe go out for a few drinks after, then dinner. Maybe I’ll call Susan later too.”

“You can’t call Susan. You have food poisoning, remember? She’s not going to want to go anywhere near you today.”

“Hmm, darn, you’re right. Well, no harm. We can still go to the game.”

***

If you exit a small house on S. Union St. in Chicago’s Bridgeport neighborhood and head north your path will take you through the charming tree-lined city suburb, each row house with a garage in back opening onto an alley, and eventually you will pass 38th, 37th, and 36th Streets to reach 35th. Turning east, 35th street, lined with homes, mechanics shops, apartment buildings, liquor stores, and restaurants will take you to the Mecca of southside Chicago baseball, the grossly-named Guaranteed Rate Field.

Like so much in today’s world, the name of a hallowed hall like the stadium where the Chicago White Sox play is for sale and what is now Guaranteed Rate Field was once known as US Cellular Field and before that Comiskey Park, named for the first owner of the Chicago White Sox but really a ripoff of the original Comiskey Park built in 1910 and demolished in 1990.

Still, as someone once said, nothing lasts forever and a new ballpark is a new ballpark. You mustn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

On the way into the park, Colin, decked out in White Sox jersey and hat, looked up at the name emblazoned on the newly-christened Guaranteed Rate Field. He suspected the ‘guaranteed’ part of the name was false advertising, a false promise of wins. It did seem a little desperate to have anything that suggested the home team might be guaranteed to win in the name of the stadium. It was a bit like a banana republic dictator marching his army up and down the capital city’s parade ground. If you have to broadcast your strength you’re not actually very strong at all.

Colin and Tyler found their way to their seats in the nosebleeds. It was way up there, a bit of a climb, but it was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, a slight breeze, and the warm bathwater smell of hotdogs wafting in from the nearby concessions—heaven on earth for Colin.

For a while they enjoyed the sun and the batting practice down below on the emerald Kentucky bluegrass but soon becoming restless they wandered down to the main level to see what they might see. People-watching is, after all, one of the great pleasures of a ball game.

Down on the main level there was quite a crowd, mostly black and white shirts, jerseys, hats, and paraphernalia—all indicators of home team support—but here and there a smattering of white and blue that represented the visiting Kansas City Royals.

Who had made the journey from Kansas City (Kansas City, Missouri, not Kansas) on a Thursday was the main question bouncing around Tyler’s head, even though he questioned not one bit how he himself had come to be at a day game on a weekday, when across the concourse through the crowd of black and white jerseys and caps Tyler saw a familiar shape.

Do you know that feeling when you see someone you know at a distance but they’re far away, too far away for you to be sure and all you get is an impression of their body shape, maybe the way they move, maybe the sweep of the hair or a characteristic gesture? This was Tyler’s experience now and the half-recognition put the fear of God in his chest. He froze, then scampered like a frightened leveret behind a nearby concession stand. Peeking out from between the pickles and onions he surveyed the no man’s land between him and the enemy.

It was a matter of moments before Colin realized that Tyler was no longer with him. Looking around he spotted his roommate gesticulating at him frantically and sauntered over.

“What are you doing down there?” Colin said.

“Get down here,” Tyler hissed. He reached up and yanked Colin down by his collar. “It’s Peterson. Peterson’s here. I saw him.”

“There’s no way. Where?”

Tyler pointed over the pickles. “Over there. In the Sox jersey.”

“That really helps,” Colin said sarcastically. “There are a lot of Sox jerseys.”

“Just look. Look! See, his hair, his freaking hair. That’s got to be him.”

Sure enough, the waves of fans parted like the Red Sea and there was the ludicrous pompadour of Mr. Peterson which crowned the head of a short imperious little man in dark sunglasses looking, to Colin’s and Tyler’s eyes, very out of place in a White Sox jersey, his more customary attire being a worsted gray or navy suit.

Just like when back in grade school you see your third grade teacher, Mrs. Sheffield, out at the supermarket and realize for the first time that she too exists outside of the confines of the school building and she too buys eggs and milk and plantain chips and dried mango slices and Dove Ice Cream Bars and a bottle of rosé which she surreptitiously tries to hide behind the Party Size! bag of Cheetos Puffs, the realization that Mr. Peterson too existed outside of the regional headquarters of Dubuque Industrial dawned on Colin and Tyler.

“That’s him alright,” Colin said. “Shoot. What’s he doing here? I thought he had a meeting. Susan said he had a meeting.”

“Maybe he’s playing hooky like you. You also told Susan we have food poisoning. Why do you think you’re the only person who lies?”

“Yeah but he’s the boss. He doesn’t get to just skip out on his responsibilities.”

Tyler looked at Colin incredulously. “Are you having a stroke? Do you have a split personality I’m not aware of? You also lied and skipped work to go to a baseball game. I could just as easily say that you have responsibilities and you don’t get to skip work just ‘cause you don’t feel like going. In fact, typically the higher you climb the ladder the more you earn the right to skip out whenever you want. That’s kind of how it works.”

“Shh. He’s coming this way.”

The pompadour was proceeding slowly but deliberately toward the concession stand. Just visible from where they crouched, two brown suede shoes stopped in front of the stand and a squeaky voice asked for a hotdog with onions. Money changed hands and the walking pompadour left.

The bemused and disgruntled concessioneer cleared her throat. “He’s gone now. Go play hooky somewhere else. Some of us have work to do.”

Keen to avoid running into Mr. Peterson again, Colin and Tyler quickly grabbed a hot dog and a beer each and jogged back to the upper deck and watched batting practice come to an end from their spot behind home plate. The announcer informed the crowd that local dog celebrity Mr. Biscuits would be throwing out the first pitch and soon a Golden Retriever dressed in a White Sox jersey made his way to the pitcher’s mound, led by his owner. Tyler, a great lover of dogs, watched intently as the owner, a stout woman in a burgundy pant suit, tossed a tennis ball into the air and, as it came back down, Mr. Biscuits leaped and, striking the ball with his nose, sent it careening toward the catcher.

The crowd erupted in cheers and Mr. Biscuits, tongue lolling and tail wagging, took several hyperactive laps around the field and made two visits to both dugouts before following his burgundy-clad owner off the field as she showered him with treats.

Tyler, somewhat bored with the proceedings and waiting for the game to start, had been enjoying himself looking around the bleachers and people-watching right up until the moment a carefully coiffed pompadour peeked around the corner and waltzed down the stairs past them.

Mr. Peterson, hot dog in hand, sat down three rows in front of Colin and Tyler.

Like a field mouse that’s felt a hawk’s shadow pass over it, Tyler froze then, mouth open, groaned inaudibly and cast his eyes to the heavens.

Willing himself to move, he raised an tentative elbow and nudged Colin in the arm. Colin, captivated by Mr. Biscuits, didn’t notice.

“Ow! What the heck was that?” Colin exclaimed after Tyler tried the elbow again.

“Shh!” Tyler pointed at Mr. Peterson

“What? Oh, shoot. Dude, it’s fine,” Colin whispered. “We’ll just move.”

“Move where? These are the seats we bought. You can’t just go sit wherever you want. It doesn’t work like that.”

“We paid to get in. If there’s no one sitting in a seat that means they didn’t sell it and if they didn’t sell it before the game started they’re sure as heck not going to sell it after the game started. Wait, wait, they’re throwing out the first pitch. Just hang on a second. We’ll watch a few at-bats and then we’ll go, okay? Just relax. He won’t see us.”

Tyler tried to sink down, his knees touching the seat in front of him.

Sanderson was up to bat.

Strike. Ball. Ball. Crack! Line drive to short stop and Sanderson was out.

Colin groaned. “Man he just cannot get on base. Who’s up now? Rodriguez. Let’s see what ya got, Rodrigo.”

Ball. Strike. Crack!

High foul ball going up, up, up.

Colin was aware of several things happening at once. The ball flew high up toward them and as it did his attention shifted to the big screen where the camera was focusing on the ball in a blur of motion. As the ball came down, so did the camera shot, and zoomed in directly on the section where Colin, Tyler, and Mr. Peterson were sitting. Framed perfectly in the shot were the short man with the pompadour, the lanky young man with the Sox jersey, and his stout, big-eared friend.

No one moved. No one attempted to catch the ball.

The ball came down crack first onto the back of an empty seat and then plunk onto the concrete. The three men sat, transfixed by the big screen clearly showing all three of them, mouths agape, watching each other, watching each other watch each other and waiting to see who would move first.

Tyler made a sound like a tea kettle as he tried to hold in the building pressure of discomfort, embarrassment, and mendacity. “Mr. Peterson, we—I—we can explain,” Tyler said, talking in turns to the big screen and to the back of Mr. Peterson’s pompadoured head. “You see, Colin called in and said we both had food poisoning because he didn’t want to go in today and he got tickets to the game instead and one he’d called in and said that I had food poisoning I couldn’t go in because then everyone would know he was lying so he really just put me in a tough spot and we’ll definitely be getting the report on the chip machines done, I swear, we’ll have it in tomorrow.” Tyler gasped for air, not having taken a breath through the entire diatribe.

Mr. Peterson got up stiffly as if he was unsure of himself, turned around, climbed the steps up to Colin’s and Tyler’s row and sat down next to Tyler. He took off his sunglasses, folded them, and stuck one arm of the glasses down the front of his jersey where the hung with the sun glinting off the polarized lenses.

“Well,” he said in his slightly squeaky voice, “I guess the cat’s out of the bag.”

“We’re very sorry, sir, aren’t we, Colin? It won’t—”

“Yesterday I was talking to Mrs. Peterson and she said we should invite you both over to dinner this weekend seeing as you’re new at the company. Said it would make you feel more at home, like you belonged. I don’t care much for dinner parties with kids half my age but I love her to bits so I said yes. This puts us in a bit of a pickle because it means you’re both—assuming you’re coming, which I don’t recommend you turn down the invitation when it’s extended—you’re both going to meet my wife on Saturday and it may come up in conversation that you saw me at the White Sox game on Thursday. I would like to avoid that little piece of information being conveyed to the missus.” He twisted in his seat to look at them for the first time. “I suggest that we all forget we saw each other here. You were both at home sick with food poisoning all day and I, although not at the office, had a working lunch with one of our suppliers and did not come within a thousand yards of Guaranteed Rate Field.”

Colin looked perplexed. “Let me get this straight. You saw us and we’re obviously supposed to be at work. But we saw you and you’re not necessarily supposed to be at work but you’re not supposed to be anywhere near a ball game, according to your wife. Do I have that right?”

“Yes.”

“So we have each other by the short hairs.”

Tyler interjected, “Well, actually, he has us by the short hairs—”

“Thank you for the clarification, Tyler,” Mr. Peterson said. “I could just fire you, which is worse for you than you telling my wife that I was here. Still, I’d rather not have my wife finding out so I think it’s a fair trade if we just forget this happened.”

“Why don’t you want her finding out?” Colin said.

He cleared his throat. “I might like the occasional flutter. She believes I have a gambling problem.”

“Do you?”

Mr. Peterson sniffed, drawing himself up. “Of course not. But nothing I say will change what she thinks. Do we have an agreement?”

Colin looked at Tyler. “Yeah, no problem. You were never here and neither were we.”

“Good, good,” Mr. Peterson said, nodding vigorously. “Now, how about a little wager on the game?”

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, strictly a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance, perceived resemblance, or similarity to any other fictional works, to actual events or persons, living or dead, and any perceived slights of people, places, or organizations are products of the reader’s imagination. This fiction is the result of a partnership between a human writer and the character(s) he accessed with his creative subconscious as he raced through the story with them. No AI of any kind, generative or otherwise, was used in any way to write this story.