The Cube People by Christian McPherson Page A

out the window as I walk by. “Okay, here’s your 822, your change and the receipt,” I say as I pass back everything. The stench of cigarettes wafts through the air indicating Line has just gone for yet another break.
    â€œMerci,” she says.
    I go back to my desk and pull out the 822. The form is a crossword puzzle of boxes to fill in. Date. Time. Group ID#. Personal ID#. Name, first and last, my Project Leader’s name, first and last, and my Manager’s name, first and last. Number of copies requested. Reason for copy request. Approval of request signature box. Photocopy completion date and time. I don’t know who’s more nuts, the management or me, because I fill the whole thing out. Once I’m done, I bring it back to Line’s desk. There’s a little sign on her chair that says, Back in five minutes . I rub my temples and think about an imaginary hole in the basement of an imaginary house and what it should devour next.
    I wait ten minutes before Line gets back. “Oui?” she asks.
    â€œHere’s my 822. Now, can I have the passcode please?”
    â€œFirst you must have the form approved.”
    â€œBy whom?”
    â€œBarry, who else do you think?”
    â€œJesus. How long will that take?”
    â€œHe’s in a meeting for the rest of the day, and tomorrow he’s at a conference downtown, and then he’s on vacation for a week.”
    â€œI should have just photocopied both forms while I was there.”
    â€œMais oui,” she says.
    â€œCan I have five dollars from petty cash please?”
    She pulls off the chain, gets the key, gets the box again, I sign the ledger and she hands me a five.
    â€œSure, just make sure you bring back the receipt and change.”
    By the time I’m back from Office Land the second time, it’s 2:45. I’m so angry I could bust. I spend the rest of the afternoon writing an email to Bruce explaining what is wrong with the new photocopying procedure. Not that it will do any good, but I’m bitterly sarcastic and it makes me feel good.
    I phone Sarah at work and she tells me that the fertility drugs are making her suffer something awful; she’s dizzy and experiencing hot flashes. Moreover, the Metformin is giving her cramps. I tell her I love her and hope she feels better. I promise to make her a nice dinner. She tells me that she isn’t hungry. I tell her I’ll see her at home soon.
    I think about pushing Barry and Bruce down my imaginary hole. I smile at this as I walk to catch my bus after work.

Days 11 to 22
    Day 11
    Sarah and I have been a couple for seven years now. The first year we dated long distance. She finished up her master’s at Laval University and moved straight to Ottawa after. We’ve been living together for six years and have been married for five. Sarah and I have had lots of sex. Loads of sex. That first year we were together, every time she took the bus down to Ottawa, or I took it up to Quebec City, it was a sexual circus, and every night I was on the trapeze working without a net. If we weren’t walking outside, or sitting in the pub, we were performing under the big top. We even made love in a park by the Museum of Nature, underneath the life-sized statues of the woolly mammoths. The thing about all this sex was it was fun, voluntary sex. We had no schedule. We were breathing each other in. When we touched it was the way a pianist would touch a Steinway; simple notes grew quickly into symphonies. Now we play “Chopsticks.” Wagner has left the building.
    So this is Day 11, actually it is the thirteenth day of the month, but the eleventh day on the drugs – the first day we’re to have sex according to Dr. King’s schedule. After we finish a home-cooked meal of spaghetti and meatballs, Sarah asks me if I want to do it. I’m a little irked by the way she asks. It’s not playful or fun, but resonates with a harsh business