What Makes Albert Tick

Albert quietly closed the door to his "office," careful not to draw the ire of his reluctant coworker. The room had no windows, and only a crappy old closet light dangling from the ceiling. Truth be told, it really was a broom closet, some years ago. Since the newspaper fired their on-site janitor and hired the services of an outside contractor instead, the closet had been empty and disused. It only took an entire day to clear out the cobwebs, but the closet made a good place to escape the frustrations of the office. Soon enough, he had stolen a desk from an empty cubicle and dragged it in here. Of course, it had its bad points...light bulb replacements came out of his own pocket, since the Chief wouldn't buck out for them. The Chief did also eventually find out about the missing desk, and the supplies, and the typewriter...but eventually, with the addition of a nameplate on the door, he started to actually consider it an office. "Albert Cervantes, Obituaries."

He slumped down into the old chair. It dated back to the sixties; it didn't roll around, so much as gripped and clawed and gouged its way across the floor when pushed. It might have once been a fine chair. Probably seated all manner of good priests, back when it still lived at the church down 29th. The church had burned down, but the chair survived, somehow. Albert had borrowed a couch pillow from home to shield his posterior from the splinters.

Upon the desk - new since last night, apparently - was a fresh stack of assignments. Most of his work for Obituaries was more or less freeform. One assignment per folder, each folder containing a chosen photo, a death certificate - Albert never liked how they called it a "certificate," like it was a prize or award - and, on rare occasions, a short draft of what should be said about the deceased. Obits were sized according to investment. That in mind, it was pretty obvious to Albert which people were more important. Each of the manila folders looked thicker than the last, with the thickest on the bottom. Albert let out a long sigh. It was only six in the morning, and today was already looking long.

Folder One slipped effortlessly from the three-inch-tall stack. Archer, Myrtle. Inside the folder was a spotty photocopy of a death certificate - almost unreadable - and two photographs, one of which was Post-It noted, "Choose one that looks better." The handwriting on that note was the cleanest part of the document. None of this would look good in newsprint. Albert found himself unable to read the stated cause of death, but that wouldn't matter anyway. Most of the time, people hated overly detailed obituaries. He pulled the spool of printer paper and fed it into his typewriter. "Myrtle Archer, 91, passed on the 29th of April. She will be missed." Awfully generic, but they didn't pay much, and didn't send any guidelines or information.

Folder Two was...oh no. Someone had mailed in their entire life's story. What was this going to be about? Usually the only people who did this were war veterans or philanthropists, usually of the self-proclaimed variety. Mother of God, it was over a hundred pages. Someone must have paid a novelist to embellish it in a few thousand places. Well, I'm not going to stand for this. I'm sure she hasn't got anything to do right now. Albert closed up the folder, making sure none of the manuscript came out, and made for his door.

Just outside Albert's closet was a chunk of the "cube farm" where most of the lesser editors were seated. Hustle and bustle were the order of the day; the work day had only been going on for twenty minutes, and the chaos of the main floor was already going at full steam. Just to his right was the cubicle belonging to his coworker, one Antonia Travaglia. Albert had some difficulty with the name, but gave it an honest try once in a while.

"Antonia," Albert greeted, folder in hand, as he rounded the corner.

"The fuck do you want." Antonia's long, blazing-red hair was, as always, tied into a loose ponytail and hidden beneath her vintage snap-brim cap, and Albert only noticed this because Antonia was not turning to look at him. She remained hunched over a slice of paper, hardly moving or even appearing to care what was on it. Even her usual extra-vicious greetings were subdued and downtrodden.

"I was wondering," Albert began as politely as he could manage, "if you wouldn't mind looking something over for me."

She brushed something off her face with a shirt sleeve. "This sounds like bad news."

"I know if I tried it myself, I'd spend all day on it. I've got too much other work to take on the entire pile. It's just one folder."

Antonia swiveled her chair to face Albert and turned her head sideways to look at the folder. "Sure. Just one. How many pages is that?"

"I didn't count."

"Didn't, or couldn't?"

"I'm not in the mood to endure your character attacks. Now, could you look it over?"

"Character attacks? Really?" She snatched the folder from his hand and thumbed through it. "Dude, this is a complimentary copy of the guy's unfinished novel."

"I knew that." Albert did not.

"You coulda saved me the trouble and taken it to someone who gives a crap. This isn't Obit work and it's not Police Log work. It's not your job and it's not mine."

"Alright, I get it. I'll let you get back to pouting at your desk."

"Who says I was fuckin' pouting?" Yikes, get your claws out, why don't you... "Here, take your damn folder and leave me the hell alone."