“Chuck?”
- and the blackness receded as Chuck Bartowski lifted his head from where it lay on his arm, flat on his desk. Looking up, he saw John Casey leaning against the doorway of his cubicle.
“What’s happening, Chuck,” Casey drawled. “Listen, we need to have a little… TALK about your TPS reports.”
Chuck looked at Casey in confusion. “Uh, I made sure I got them in on time… wait, this is about the coversheet, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Casey continued. “Listen, we’re putting the new coversheet on all TPS reports now… did you get that memo?”
“I did,” Chuck said. “I just… I forgot this time. It won’t happen again.”
“Yeah. Well, you just go ahead and make sure you put that coversheet on all your TPS reports from now on, okay? I’ll make sure you get a copy of that memo.”
“Wait, I’ve got the…” Chuck’s voice trailed off as Casey walked away. “…memo right here.”
Chuck sighed. This job was horrible. Whose bass-ackward idea had it been to put just two digits for the year on bank software, anyway? Were they SO pessimistic back in the sixties that they thought the world was going to end in a cloud of nuclear hellfire before January 1st, 2000?
With another sigh, he hit the escape button on his keyboard, killing the screensaver. It was a nice screensaver, too – various poses of Carmen Electra in as little clothing as he could get away with and stay within company policy.
And yet, Carmen faded away to reveal… a stupid Excel spreadsheet that went with his daily TPS report.
Putting a hand to his forehead, he slowly started copying data from the page on his desk into the spreadsheet… only to be distracted by the sound of a radio from the next cubicle over.
He sighed yet again. Standing up, he looked over the top of the cubicle. “Bryce? Hey, Bryce?”
The paranoid eyes of Bryce Larkin flicked up toward Chuck. “Bryce, can you do me a favor and turn the radio down?”
“But… but… I told Mr. Lumbergh that if Anna can listen to her Walkman while she’s filing, I should be allowed to listen to my radio at a reasonable volume between certain hours…”
“No, Bryce, I understand. I’m just asking, as a personal favor?”
“But Mr. Lumbergh has said that I can listen to my radio at a reasonable volume between certain hours…”
Chuck rolled his eyes. There was just no dealing with Bryce some days. With his fourth sigh in five minutes, he slumped back down in his chair – just in time for Louisa Beckman to walk up.
“Good morning, Chuck,” she greeted him. “What’s happening?”
“Good morning, Louisa,” he said, trying to suppress a groan, knowing what she was about to say.
“We need to talk about your TPS reports,” she said.
“Yeah,” Chuck said. “Listen, Casey already talked to me about it, and –“
“Yeah,” Beckman interrupted him. “Did you get that memo?”
Chuck was doing his best not to start beating his head against his desk. “Yes. I got the memo. And I understand the policy. I just forgot this time, that’s all. It won’t happen again. And really, since I’ve taken care of it, it’s not even a problem any more.”
Beckman nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “It’s just that we’re putting new coversheets on all the TPS reports bef-“
Chuck couldn’t take it anymore. He stood up and just started walking away from his cubicle. He almost ran over Anna as she walked out of her cubicle.
“Uh-oh,” she squeaked. “Looks like somebody has a case of the Mondays!”
Chuck literally growled at her and kept stomping toward the engineers’ section. “PC load letter?!” he heard Morgan shouting as he approached. “What the FUCK does that mean?!”
“Morning, fellas,” Chuck said, rounding the corner into the double-wide cubicle that Morgan shared with Lester. “You guys wanna get out of here, go get some coffee or something?”
“Dude,” Lester said, looking at Chuck strangely. “It’s only like, 9:30.”
“I know, I know,” Chuck groaned. “I just gotta get out of here. Casey and Beckman have been all up on my ass about my TPS reports –“
“Yeah, dude, you gotta remember those coversheets,” Morgan admonished him.
Chuck glared at Morgan. “I will end you.”
Morgan’s eyes went wide. “So, how ‘bout that coffee, Chuck?”
Ten minutes later, they were seated at Tchotchke’s, waiting for their coffee. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” Lester groaned when Scooter approached them.
Scooter was their least favorite server, and yet he always seemed to end up being the guy who served them. “Howdy, fellas!” he said cheerfully as he approached. “Is it just gonna be the coffee this morning, or would you like to go for some French toast fingers, or some fiesta mini burritos.”
Chuck looked Scooter in the eyes. “Scooter. Coffee. NOW.”
“Yes, sir, comin’ right up!” responded the ever unflappable server.
Morgan sighed. “Why can’t we ever get HER as our server?”
Chuck followed his gaze. “Yeah,” he agreed, looking over at the blonde. She appeared to be in the middle of an argument with her boss – but she was still hot.
“What do you think the chances of one of us with her would be?” Lester asked.
“Depends on if you’re talking about the chances of one of the three of us, or the chances of one of the two of you,” Chuck cracked.
Lester looked hurt. “Alright, Mr. Big Shot, you think your chances are so much better than ours, why don’t you go ask her out?”
Chuck’s eyes widened. “Dude, I was just joking.”
Morgan got in on it too. “No, seriously. Go ask her out, dude.”
Chuck looked at his two friends. Both of their faces had very serious expressions on them. “Alright, dammit, I will,” he said determinedly, getting up from the booth.
“He is gonna crash and BUUUUURN,” Lester said in a low voice as Chuck walked away.
A certain amount of trepidation filled Chuck Bartowski as he approached the host stand. “Uh, hi,” he said nervously as he walked up.
The blonde looked up. “Uh, good morning,” she said. “Have you been helped yet?”
“Yeah, actually…” He looked at her nametag. “Sarah. I wanted to ask you what you were doing for lunch.”
She looked at him, and then looked at the lunch specials board. “Uh, well, it looks like we have the meatloaf plate, and, uh, a chicken thing, and, well, it’s all posted right here…”
Chuck smiled, feeling a little less nervous. “No, that’s not what I meant. I meant, what are you, personally, doing for lunch, because I think I’d like it if you’d go to lunch with me.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh… I’m not… I’m not sure I’m allowed to do that.”
Chuck shrugged. That wasn’t a NO! “Okay,” he said, “well, I tell you what. At 1:00, I’ll be next door. If you want to join me, great. If not, that’s cool, too.”
“Okay,” she replied. He turned and was walking away, when she said, “Hey!”
He turned around. “What’s your name?”
“Chuck,” he replied. “Chuck Bartowski.”
“Okay, Chuck… um, by next door, do you mean Chili’s or Flingers?”
“Flingers,” Chuck replied, a smile slowly creeping onto his face.
Lester and Morgan watched as Chuck slowly approached the stand. “This is gonna be great,” Lester practically cackled.
Morgan provided a running commentary for Chuck and what he imagined the girl’s high-pitched voice to be.
“Uh, hi, my name’s Chuck.”
“Hi, Chuck, nice to meet you!”
“Uh, listen, I’m lame, and my friends don’t think I can ask you out.”
“They’re probably right.”
“That’s kinda harsh, babe.”
“Don’t call me babe!”
Morgan began to laugh as Chuck turned to walk away from the woman, but stopped when he turned back around – and his jaw fell open when he saw Chuck smile.
“No WAY,” he breathed, as Chuck headed back toward the table, smiling.
“Well, gentlemen, I do believe I have a lunch date!”
Chuck spent the next two and a half hours trying not to lose his mind. At ten minutes to one, he found himself on the phone with Bryce.
“I don’t care if they lay me off, because I told, I told Casey that if they move my desk one more time, then, then I’m quitting, I’m going to quit! And, I told Beckman too, because they’ve moved my desk four times already this year, and I used to be over by the window, and I could see the squirrels, and they were married –“
Chuck held the phone away from his ear. What the hell was Bryce babbling on about?
“- but then, they switched from the Swingline to the Boston stapler, but I kept my Swingline, my red Swingline stapler, because it didn’t bind up as much, and I kept the staples for the Swingline stapler –“
“Okay, Bryce, okay,” Chuck said, trying to end the conversation.
“No, it’s not okay,” Bryce continued, “because if they take my stapler, then I’ll set the building on fire –“
“THAT’S GREAT,” Chuck declared loudly. “I gotta go, Bryce, okay? Bye.”
And he hung up the phone before Bryce could get another word in edgewise. Seeking out John Casey, he went in the opposite direction, sneaking out the side door.
At 1:01, he walked into the lobby of Flingers – and who should be waiting for him but Sarah. “You actually came!” he said in surprise.
She nodded. “I’m really not sure why I’m here,” she said. “I’m not sure I’m even allowed to wear this –“ she indicated her Tchotchke’s uniform “- in here.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Chuck informed her.
A moment later, they were seated at a table. “So, tell me a little bit about yourself, Chuck Bartowksi.”
“Well, I work across the street, over at Initech… we’re working on the fix for the Y2K thing…”
“You mean, where all the computers only have a two digit year, and everybody’s afraid that they’re all gonna think it’s 1900?”
“That’s the one,” Chuck confirmed, nodding his head. “Anyway, it’s a sucky job, and I work with some weird people, and I think… I think I’m gonna stop going.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. “Stop going.”
“Yeah,” Chuck said. “I’m kinda tired of everything that goes on there.”
She laughed. “How are you gonna pay things like rent and car payments.”
“Don’t so much enjoy those, either,” Chuck shot back. “I think I’m gonna stop those as well.”
A smile was forming on Sarah’s face. She was clearly amused. “What are you gonna do with all that free time?”
“Well, I thought I’d take you out to dinner,” he said, clearly serious. “And then, I thought maybe we could go back to my place and watch some kung fu.”
The smile disappeared from her face. “I love kung fu,” she breathed.
Chuck smiled now. “Channel 27?” he asked.
“Seriously,” Sarah said. “But we should maybe think about lunch first.”
Ten hours later, Chuck lay in his bed. Sarah had fallen asleep beside him, curled up against his side. Kung fu played quietly on the TV, and their clothes littered the floor next to his bed.
He smiled and turned off the light. “Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta,” he breathed as the darkness enveloped him –
To be continued…
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