It was a cold day in Chicago. Wind whipped through the seemingly empty streets, picking up bits of litter: cigarette butts, wrappers of various sorts, and the forgotten cans, or bottles of beer and liquor left by the despondent population of homeless and lower class. The sun was just rising over the skyline, shining on young Tim, who walked out of the counselor’s office, feeling more lost than he ever thought possible. The revelation of his mother’s lies and the loss of his scholarship plummeted his once fruitful aspirations and sent him down a spiral of anxiety. He was still admitted into the art program, but he had to pay the exorbitant tuition to stay. They knew that young Tim could not possibly pay the tuition without the scholarship—this was a calculated ploy to get him kicked out and forgotten without the possibility of a stain on their reputation. College and the arts had tempted him with those classes, to which young Tim excelled in, and spat him back on the streets to suffer a peasant’s existence.
No more was art his dream—studying the great masters and honing his craft. Tears again filled his eyes and drowned his mind in failure. Was his life always going to be this painful? Or was this a call for action? An insatiable thirst for change? Young Tim proved that he had talent, heart, and the will to learn, but he now had to assess his finances and show the college that he did not need their money. How would he get the money, though? It was a big city which offered many opportunities. What was Tim good at? Art. He could sell paintings to wealthy collectors—that would surely give him the money he needed, while also giving him a foot in the fine art realm. Young Tim had already made countless pieces for his classes; enough to fill a whole gallery. Who didTim know that will get him access to Chicago’s elite? Well, there was that savvy, go-getter studying business that young Tim had befriended at the college—Noah.
He lived in a large apartment downtown, which was paid for by his father—a very wealthy, but reclusive businessman and Chicago native. From what young Tim knew of Noah’s family, they were old money: prominent, arrogant, and certain to have the connections he needed to enter the fine art world. Joy entered young Tim’s soul as he excitedly picked up his pace and skipped down the street. He relished the thought of selling his work and becoming a great artist. Who needed college? With the pieces he’d already created, he could have a full career if they sold well. Young Tim spent the day looking through his work, picking out pieces to show off to potential collectors. It was all so exciting. The paintings were all brilliant, as young Tim put so much of his soul into them. Many of them were vibrant pictures of geishas, modeled off his mother, and waves, reminiscent of Hokusai.
“I can’t wait to show these off,” young Tim thought to himself.
He packed up everything and made his way to Noah’s apartment. It was indeed large—more so than the dormitory in which he lived, and sat high in the sky, above South State Street in historic Printer's Row. Tim had met Noah in one of his classes. Throughout the duration of his short-lived college career, young Tim had to take a variety of classes, mostly in art and design, but also in business. Noah, who said that he was a business major, was visiting from another school to sit in on a class they were teaching at the institute about the business of commercial art. He would mostly boast of his wealthy family, but would also talk of working with his father in securing “deals”. According to him, he had enough expertise in the “real world” to teach all of these classes, and took a liking to the young Tim. He would watch as Noah arrogantly refused to listen to the instructor, yet would explain that he knew everything already. Tim liked that he seemed to know what he was talking about; and Noah liked Tim because he would listen to whatever he said.
Making his way up the stoop, Tim buzzed the door.
“Hey it's me ,Tim. I need to see you, are you home?” he asked the box.
“Hold on,” said Noah, fumbling around with something. “C’mon up!” He buzzed the door and it opened, inviting Tim to enter.
Young Tim picked up his paintings and took them up the stairs, to find Noah dressed in his usually formal, business-like clothes. He was wearing a white and blue, pin-striped dress shirt, with red, elastic suspenders, connected to gray, pin-striped slacks. A fat, red tie with a geometric design wrapped tightly around his neck and rested high up on his chest. His brunette hair was bonded to his head—slicked back with heavy gel. The apartment was neat and elegant. There were paintings on the walls, depicting abstract colors and designs, similar to what young Tim had learned to be “cubism”. There were also vases and sculptures placed on pedestals all throughout the rooms—curvy, expressive forms that represented raw beauty. This was actually the first time that Tim had seen the entirety of the apartment. He was in awe of the wealth.
Noah welcomed him in. “Tim, come in.” His phone started ringing. “One moment,” he said. He picked up the phone and began chattering away, speaking in terms of business that young Tim did not know too much about.
He had only taken a few courses, and recognized a few words, but Tim could not properly understand the context for which those words were used. Noah would say things like “Bull Market'' and “Blue-chip”, which caused young Tim to tune out and get lost in the rhythm of business. Noah would always use these elaborate hand gestures and at times would get mad with people he talked to on the phone. Those times, he would use terms like “extortion” and “hookers”, and would slam his hand on tables and things. Today was a short call and Noah seemed to be in a good mood.
“Sorry about that,” he said, hanging up the phone and directing his attention back to Tim.
“Wow, I am always lost when you talk about business!”
“Of course you are Tim, I am sure everything I talk about just flies over your head,” said Noah. “My father really counts on me to manage the things he cannot get to. So what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you today?”
Young Tim told him of his plan and showed him the pieces that he wished to sell.
“These are great, Tim, but I don’t want to get your hopes up. The people I know really like art but you have to establish yourself first… and if the artist isn’t dead, what’s the point in buying?”
Tim felt that anxiety build up in his chest again. “But can’t you sell them? I mean you are really good at business, or…”
“I tell you what, I can take them and show a few people—friends of my father. Eh… Maybe they might be interested you never know,” said Noah. “I can put together a small show and invite some people. Maybe we will get lucky.”
Young Tim perked up in interest. This is what he was waiting for. This was a chance to become a real artist and see his work achieve recognition. “What do you need me to do? Do you need more paintings?” Tim asked.
“No, I think we are good with what you brought me, but you know what? Why don’t you go down to the print shop and see if you can make copies of these. Then, we can sell prints at a slightly lower price and make more money.”
“Do you think people would buy the copies?”
“Oh yeah, we can make posters and stuff. Just go down to the print shop—there is one down the street here—and make a bunch of copies of these,” said Noah.
Tim became giddy again, feeling the warmth of Noah’s friendship. “Will do! Thank you so much Skeeter dude!” he exclaimed.
“What did you just call me?”
“Like your name, Skeeterson, but I said dude…” Tim stammered
“Is that a nickname? Are you trying to belittle me?” asked Noah, becoming stern and angry.
“No, I just thought that…”
“You know what, how about you just call me Mr. Skeeterson from now on,” said Noah. "Because in the world of business you need to learn to be respectful to those who have more knowledge or expertise than you, Tim.”
Tim thought in silence for a moment and came to the conclusion that Noah was just playing around with him. “What about Mr. ‘Skeeter’ Skeeterson?” he asked jokingly.
Noah slapped him across the face and young Tim fell to the ground.
“Oh my, I am so sorry,” said Noah, reacting to this burst of anger—feigning regret. “I don’t know why I did that! I would never hurt you Tim.” Noah bent down to pick up and coddle Tim.
“I uh…” young Tim was shocked at such aggression, it seemed to come out of thin air, yet it assured him that Noah was not in a joking mood. “I am sorry, I was not trying to demean you…” said Tim.
“That’s okay, I know, I know,” said Noah, panicking to save face. “You can call me Skeeter if you want, if that’s what makes you comfortable. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Young Tim looked deep into the eyes of this person whom he thought was a friend or peer. His eyes were wide, somewhat sincere, but overall frantic. Tim noticed that his pupils were large and his face was starting to sweat.
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“We are partners now,” said Noah. “... and what’s a partner without a charming nickname right?”
Young Tim said nothing.
“Call me Skeeter…”
He stared at him, but still did not respond.
“Do it!”
Young Tim took a deep breath and decided to just forgive this transgression, and play along. Perhaps this was the price of friendship—to feel the mood swings and the temperaments, hit him right in the face, physically. “Okay,” he said, “Skeeter…”
* * *
Tim the Printer Guy snapped out of his daydream. Often, he would get trapped in a reflection of the past and relive all of the previous misery. The life of art was so out of reach, yet at points he would see it illuminate. Like a light beyond a thick fog, it gave him something to wonder about. If everything were different, if he only met someone else—if he hadn’t bothered to give Skeeter the time of day and see him like the others did, where would he be now? Tim the Printer Guy could not find the courage to speak. He sat just outside Skeeter’s office and awaited the inevitable storm. This was all the fallout for what Tim the Printer Guy did at PaperClips. His transgression against the company had attracted the attention of Skeeter’s father, the fabled CEO of ProSales, to visit. The building that housed the operation was very small: a room that had some supplies like a copier/printer, an old computer, which did not work, and a few boxes of files and sheets of paper. It was dingy and not well lit. The walls were gray and drab, with little to no pictures or decorations. What was there were stock photos of printers and computers and phrases posted on sticky notes that Tim had suspected were intentionally there to destroy his self-esteem. ‘Keep Working’, ‘This is your life, so get used to it’ and ‘I will find you’ were messages that Tim the Printer Guy would see every day.
Then, there was Skeeter’s office, which had windows looking out towards the rest of the room, but were always covered in blinds so that Tim could never see inside. There were no chairs to sit and Tim the Printer Guy either had to stand or sit on the floor and wait on his boss. Today, his back lay flat against the wall, and Tim could hear and feel Skeeter’s rage as he was in a tantrum, throwing things around and yelling at no one, really just to himself. Tim the Printer Guy listlessly focused his attention to a fake potted plant in front of him, which was placed underneath a framed picture of a mid-2000s printer.
The office door flung open and Skeeter glided out on the tips of his toes. “He is here!”
Tim jolted to his feet and saw a very regal, black car stop in front of the office doors. Skeeter ran out to open the back door and help his father out. At first, Tim the Printer Guy could not see anything, and had to crane his neck to view behind the car door. Skeeter was struggling to lift his father out of the back seat. After a few moments of the car bouncing and shaking, a gluttonous creature appeared.
Skeeter’s father was a hideous amalgamation of flesh. He was hairless and appeared to be entirely made up of slimy folds of skin that drooped precariously over his rotund body. He limped towards the door, with the help of his son, who held his arm and cane, carefully guiding him through each step. With his son holding him up, Mr. Skeeterson clutched an oxygen tank with a mask to breathe. Though the sky was overcast and gray, he wore small, circular, pitch-black glasses, which matched his black suit coat and tie. The button-up shirt he had on was from a seemingly expensive brand as it displayed a vibrant pattern of paisley, yet the refined quality of the garment was sullied by the many folds and flaps of skin and fat which stretched the fabric and poured out through the center and the bottom. Each step he took was followed by a howl of pain and an unquenchable thirst for more air out of the tank.
“C’mon daddy, you are almost there,” Skeeter said to the creature, regressing into a childlike state. “Timmy is inside now and I need you to yell at him!”
Mr. Skeeterson approached the door and locked eyes with Tim, who stood past the window. He jostled around and threw his son to the side. “Errr… get away! I can walk goddammit!” he shouted, opening the door.
The elder Skeeterson walked into the building, followed by his son who trailed behind him like a little rat—hunched up, while hopping through the doors, rubbing his hands together.
“You are gonna get it, Tim!” said Skeeter, giggling and trotting after his father.
The two walked past Tim and into the office, where Mr. Skeeterson collapsed down on Skeeter’s chair, took a long inhale from the oxygen tank and waved for Tim to enter.
“What are you gonna do to him, daddy?” pestered the brattish Skeeter, twitching in anticipation.
“Shut up boy!” shouted Mr. Skeeterson to his son. “Stop that pansy-ass whining!” He took a long inhale of the oxygen tank.
Tim the Printer Guy, with a stoic and robotic motion, walked into the office to accept his fate. For whatever punishment he had to endure, Tim had braised himself for the pain. It was a fear that all he could hope for was a life of servitude, and after the meeting at PaperClips went horribly wrong, that fear became a certainty.
“So my boy tells me that you caused a problem,” Mr. Skeeterson wheezed. “That you attacked someone?”
“I reached a breaking point,” said Tim.
“According to this report…” Mr. Skeeterson picked up a sheet of paper that his son typed up for him. “You yelled ‘banzai’ at the top of your lungs, charged at a PaperClips employee and tackled him. Then you threatened his life and called him a Jew.”
Tim the Printer Guy rolled his eyes.
“You clawed at his face!” Mr. Skeeterson shouted. “He had to go to the hospital!”
“He… he threatened me,” said Tim.
“What are you talking about? You were supposed to take him out to dinner or something, not jump on top of him. You are lucky my boy here smoothed things over with the CEO or we would have lost that account all together!”
Skeeter piped in. “Did I do good daddy?”
“Shut up!” Mr. Skeeterson barked at his son, then said to Tim, “They want me to fire you and put you on the street.”
Tim the Printer Guy thought for a moment about being fired. He never thought he could endure such a thing, as ProSales provided him a home. But with the promise of Fred’s hospitality and room, he was free.
“Fire me!” shouted Tim. “I can take it!”
“You are not going anywhere Tim,” Skeeter hissed. “You are gonna work here forever!”
“Shut up Noah!” Mr. Skeeterson screamed, and hit him on his shoulder. “Why should I keep this pathetic sack of shit? He almost cost us our biggest account. They don’t want him back there—he is done!”
“But daddy, Timmy is ours, and he told me that he has another job he can go to,” Skeeter whined.
“I don't care, I don’t want him working for me. We can replace him with that young man you were talking to at the store.” Skeeter’s father groaned, picking up another piece of paper—an application.
“Jamir?” Skeeter asked.
Tim panicked. This was what he feared the most, an Adonis descending towards a life of misery, just as he had. Jamir did not fully understand what was in store for him, that his curiosity and affinity for technology was soon to be corrupted by the grayness of ProSales. He was to be robbed of his exotic personality and transformed into a drone—or a gremlin!
“No!” Tim the Printer Guy shouted.
“Why do you care?” Mr. Skeeterson asked.
“Not him,” said Tim. “Why don’t you ask that despicable troll I attacked?”
“Are you joking? I heard he quit on the spot. It’s a miracle he isn’t suing us!” Mr. Skeeterson yelled. “That Jamir kid is smart, albeit a little foreign. He will do fine with us, and he explained that he really wants to get into the tech business.”
Tim the Printer Guy felt the sting of his ultimate failure. He had been foolish in failing to contain his emotions. They culminated in a direct attack against Adem—which was no doubt deserved, but it had cost him the relationships with Cage and Mikeal, who had shouted for him. Tim the Printer Guy could still hear them begging for him to stop clawing at Adem. His heart had broken as those cries were drowned out by the uncontrollable rage that continued to fester inside his soul. It seemed he had no choice but to sacrifice an Adonis for his own happiness, and for the first time in a long while, that was okay. There was no peace in mulling over the past and living in the misery of failure. Here was a way out—a new start.
“Fine,” Tim the Printer Guy whispered. “I guess I have no choice.”
“No!” Skeeter yelled, as his face scrunched up—on the verge of a tantrum. “Daddy you can’t fire him! He’s mine! If he leaves, he will never come back!”
“Oh shut up, you ungrateful pain in my ass!” Mr. Skeeterson yelled. “This pathetic sponge will be begging to come back once he realizes how much of a failure he is, but I don’t want a failure to work for me. You have already ruined my business as it is, so get out of my sight before I call the cops.”
Tim the Printer Guy turned around to look at the door. The sun was starting to peek out from the clouds and shine down on the parking lot. He walked outside and saw that they’d towed back his company-owned Ford Focus, no longer his cocoon. Leaving ProSales filled his stomach with excitement—he was nervous about the upcoming challenges he may face, but grateful that he was free to fight them. The car was still covered in dirt and grime. It made Tim chuckle as he no longer had to see it again. But then he thought about the apartment and his possessions: his Mother’s kimono, the ornate box for his lost katana, his paints, Cage’s hat, and his satin chemise.
Skeeter ran out after him. “Where are you going?” he grilled, not wanting to accept Tim’s dismissal.
“I am going back to the apartment to get my things,” said Tim the Printer Guy.
“Oh no you are not, my daddy does not understand that we need you here, so wait here while I talk to him.”
“It’s over, Noah,” said Tim.
“You shut up! You can’t leave— You can’t leave me! What are you going to do now?”
“I will stay with a friend who promised me some work,” said Tim.
“You don’t have any friends!”
“You don't have me!” Tim snapped, shouting at the man for the first time in his life.
Noah Skeeterson was shaking. He was losing his printer guy—a true constant in his life. His eyes teared up, while his lip quivered. “C’mon Tim, I can protect you. You don’t know what it is like in the real world. Our company is turning into a blue chip stock. You would have to be crazy to leave now!”
“Your father fired me, Noah,” said Tim.
“I can talk to him. I know about business, remember? I am your friend, don't you know that? I am, y’know, your Skeeter dude,” he paused. “Call me your Skeeter dude.”
Tim the Printer Guy looked down and pulled out his phone. He thumbed through the contacts and found Fred Shudnow’s number.
“That is a company phone Tim, you can’t use that!”
Tim started to call him, but Skeeter ran over and snatched the phone from his grasp.
“This is mine,” said Skeeter, looking through the contacts and the pictures. “Who are these people?” he asked, finding all the photos of the Adonises Tim had taken after their training courses.
“That’s nothing!” Tim lunged at Skeeter to wrestle the phone back.
The two wrestled for a moment, until Tim the Printer Guy finally regained possession of the tattered smartphone.
“Fine take it,” said a defeated Skeeter, exhausted from the scuffle. “But I will turn off your service.” He huffed again. “Was that the PaperClips? Why do you still have pictures of them on your phone?”
Tim, though he’d been successful in freeing the phone from Skeeter, was equally as exhausted. “Those are nothing,” he said. “Old pictures. They mean nothing to me.”
“Are you in love with them?” asked Skeeter, mockingly.
Tim the Printer Guy let that question sink into his psyche. This was an obsession, it wasn’t love—it couldn’t be love. He turned away from ProSales and ran.