and he was still playing at it. With absolute disgust, this was what I realized later that day, when Ted came up to my cubicle and whispered in my ear, “So Dan, how do you like me now?” Yes, my blood ran cold.
I avoided Ted as much as I could for sometime after that, letting the passage of time take with it the freshness of that creepy event. And much to my relief, so did Ted. He did that thing of his, pretending nothing had ever happened, going about his usual way. Everything was all back to normal, for which I was thankful, but always, in the back of my mind, loomed that chilling suspicion about Ted… What if?
It would be right around Thanksgiving when I picked up another disturbing clue about Ted’s character. I had gone to his office to give him a summary report for one of our clients. I should note here that Ted always preferred two things about his office: he always kept his door open, and he kept his computer station to the opposite side of his desk, so that when he worked on it, he would have his back to the door. And that’s how I found him when I rapped my knuckles on his door, sitting there with his eyes glued to the monitor, clicking his way through some photographs.
“Come in,” he replied, never once turning his back to see who it was. As I approached his desk, with words on the tip of my tongue, I had suddenly noticed from the reflection off his monitor (due to the dark colors of the picture he was looking at, and the adjacent glare from the window to his left) that Ted was staring at this picture with a sort of frivolous, childlike grin upon his face. Intrigued by his apparent fascination, I asked him what he was looking at. He swiftly spun his chair around, bid me to sit down in a cheerful way not seen since Halloween Friday, then tilted his monitor at an angle suitable for both of us to look at. Naturally I was suspicious, but upon recognition of what were obvious “hunting photographs” on his monitor, I gracefully accepted his invitation to sit down. I had figured it couldn’t hurt to at least humor the man.
Ted immediately went into a dreamy narrative over the pictures, stating facts about the various animals only a fellow hunter would comprehend, as well as other memorable events such as “the beauty of the river here,” “the coldness of the morning there,” and what have you.
His recent trip, as he showed me, was of a turkey hunt in Eastern Oregon. I remember being considerably surprised when I noticed on those pictures a couple of his friends. I guess it never occurred to me that Ted had any friends, as distant as he was with us regarding his life outside of work.
He prattled on over several more pictures, and I could see quite clearly that the man had a real passion for hunting. I, myself, had never gone hunting before, but would have to admit that the notion of doing so had always interested me. Due to my natural curiosity, I found myself inquiring more about his trips and general aspects of the whole hunting process.
Ted was a child. He sprung open like a cracked water main, divulging to me that part of his life like I was one of those men in his photographs; like I was one of his hunting buddies and, to be quite honest, I was flattered. I savored the moment, and remembered thinking that perhaps I had finally broke some ground with the man, and found a common denominator that would garner a different tone between us. At one point, to my great astonishment, Ted even proposed to take me out one day, to sort of “show me the hunting ropes” if you will.
But then, as Ted went on about more pictures, more trips, I suddenly noticed a photograph of him and a friend standing before what must have been a few dozen dead squirrels, spread out at their feet in that familiar, fresh-kill pose. I asked Ted what that was about, and he proceeded to brag gaily about that day, and how he and his “bud” shot more squirrels then than they ever had in the past.
“Do you eat squirrels,
I avoided Ted as much as I could for sometime after that, letting the passage of time take with it the freshness of that creepy event. And much to my relief, so did Ted. He did that thing of his, pretending nothing had ever happened, going about his usual way. Everything was all back to normal, for which I was thankful, but always, in the back of my mind, loomed that chilling suspicion about Ted… What if?
It would be right around Thanksgiving when I picked up another disturbing clue about Ted’s character. I had gone to his office to give him a summary report for one of our clients. I should note here that Ted always preferred two things about his office: he always kept his door open, and he kept his computer station to the opposite side of his desk, so that when he worked on it, he would have his back to the door. And that’s how I found him when I rapped my knuckles on his door, sitting there with his eyes glued to the monitor, clicking his way through some photographs.
“Come in,” he replied, never once turning his back to see who it was. As I approached his desk, with words on the tip of my tongue, I had suddenly noticed from the reflection off his monitor (due to the dark colors of the picture he was looking at, and the adjacent glare from the window to his left) that Ted was staring at this picture with a sort of frivolous, childlike grin upon his face. Intrigued by his apparent fascination, I asked him what he was looking at. He swiftly spun his chair around, bid me to sit down in a cheerful way not seen since Halloween Friday, then tilted his monitor at an angle suitable for both of us to look at. Naturally I was suspicious, but upon recognition of what were obvious “hunting photographs” on his monitor, I gracefully accepted his invitation to sit down. I had figured it couldn’t hurt to at least humor the man.
Ted immediately went into a dreamy narrative over the pictures, stating facts about the various animals only a fellow hunter would comprehend, as well as other memorable events such as “the beauty of the river here,” “the coldness of the morning there,” and what have you.
His recent trip, as he showed me, was of a turkey hunt in Eastern Oregon. I remember being considerably surprised when I noticed on those pictures a couple of his friends. I guess it never occurred to me that Ted had any friends, as distant as he was with us regarding his life outside of work.
He prattled on over several more pictures, and I could see quite clearly that the man had a real passion for hunting. I, myself, had never gone hunting before, but would have to admit that the notion of doing so had always interested me. Due to my natural curiosity, I found myself inquiring more about his trips and general aspects of the whole hunting process.
Ted was a child. He sprung open like a cracked water main, divulging to me that part of his life like I was one of those men in his photographs; like I was one of his hunting buddies and, to be quite honest, I was flattered. I savored the moment, and remembered thinking that perhaps I had finally broke some ground with the man, and found a common denominator that would garner a different tone between us. At one point, to my great astonishment, Ted even proposed to take me out one day, to sort of “show me the hunting ropes” if you will.
But then, as Ted went on about more pictures, more trips, I suddenly noticed a photograph of him and a friend standing before what must have been a few dozen dead squirrels, spread out at their feet in that familiar, fresh-kill pose. I asked Ted what that was about, and he proceeded to brag gaily about that day, and how he and his “bud” shot more squirrels then than they ever had in the past.
“Do you eat squirrels,
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