One Lonely Infected Eye

Last night I discovered that my left eye was infected, red, and swollen. Rather than removing it to remedy the problem, like how mom would suggest whenever one of my parts were hurting, I decided to write a poem about it. Would you like to hear it, here it go!

One infected eye is unpopular,

one infected eye isn't a trend.

One infected eye is gruesome,

one infected eye offends.

Whether it yellow, purple or pink, 

it likely makes a stink.

Makes a stink, yellow, purple or pink,

t'wil no doubt be all alone.

So....

One infected eye is unpopular,

 one infected eye isn't a trend.

One infected eye is gruesome,

 one infected eye offends.

If you have an infected eye,

it yearns and burns inside.

If it worms and squirms inside,

T'wil indubitably turn to flies!

But....

One infected eye infects another,

one infected eye gets a friend.

One infected eye will couple, 

 and a second infected eye makes amends.

         INFECTED EYES

-Haiku by Mr. Hobbs

Office

------------

Modern-day coal mine

Not back, but spirit broken

Heart, not lungs, blacken

-MR. OLIVER CHAPTER 1F (Hello Mr. Beckles)

Everything slowly mutes, grows increasingly distant to Mr. Oliver. His mind is quite as he continues to hold down on the key.
All the office clamor, the beeping computer, even the constant hum from the buzzing, flickering light above, muddy and muddle with each other, culminating into a single wave of sound.
Someone a few cubicles down is screaming they won the lottery posted in the daily paper. Mr. Oliver can barely hear this and is cognitively unaware of it.
That same person is now declaring they thought they had won the lottery but due to dyslexia is sadly mistaken. Mr. Oliver can barely hear and is cognitively unaware of this too.
He watches the second hand of the clock hanging on his cubicle wall silently jump from marker to marker. The same clock in past times Mr. Oliver thought the tic-tocking of it seemed loud and oppressive, ticking in his head even when he’s faraway from his desk. Now, focusing on the clock waiting for the four minutes and twenty two seconds to be up, Mr. Oliver perceive no sound coming from it.
Without warning, a whispering voice stands out from the collective speaks to Mr. Oliver saying, “Mr. Beckles,” to him quietly. Its distinctness from everything else seems to Mr. Oliver like a distant misaligned radio signal barely audible in a sea of white noise.
Mr. Oliver pans his head, searching for the owner of the mysterious voice. He finds no one but Mr. Augustus looking as if a bomb were expected to go off any second- his elbows on the desk, head in his hands, a pointy finger in each ear, and his eyes tightly closed shut.
Again the voice speaks, says just two words saying clearly, “Mr. Beckles.”
These two words echo through the vastness of Mr. Oliver’s mind.
He views his VGA monitor, noting the screen is now all completely blue except for a frozen white cursor in the bottom left corner, confirming the Compro Exit Menu crash.
Mr. Oliver stops pressing .
Like how a cartoon character floats to a delicious smelling thanksgiving dinner, he flows out of his seat and glides down the hallway.
Up ahead is Mr. Hatteras, a gassy individual who often wanders the halls after breaks. Half smiling, he sheepishly waves as Mr. Oliver makes his way past him, totally ignoring Mr. Hatteras while doing so.
Again, “Mr. Beckles,” the voice repeats, sounding like an apparition. So deep an imprint does the words leave on him. He begins unwittingly to mumble them.
“Mr. Beckles, Mr. Beckles, Mr. Beckles…”
Mr. Oliver finds himself at the end of a hallway with a clear view into The Boss’ office. Inside, Mr. Oliver sees the back of someone sitting just beyond the doorway, sitting across from The Boss himself.
Although from a long way down the hall, Mr. Oliver plainly hears The Boss speaking with conviction, says, “Healthy corporations are the backbone of any society, surely this must be true. Yes? Well, did you know that the RMS personnel as a whole takes the fewest amount of sick days per worker than any other corporation in our beloved hemisphere? Did you know that? I haven't taken a sick day in a decade. A DECADE!
The Boss collects himself, takes a deep breath. The person sitting with The Boss doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, just listens.
The Boss continues, “Surely, our company is very healthy, even the healthiest of all the world, and, undoubtedly, the backbone of our society. A model for all corporations to exemplify.
“Mr. McDonald tells us the free market is the march of God through history. Doing his will. I’m glad you want to grab the bull by the horns, and be a soldier doing God’s will!”
Mr. Oliver focuses on the back of The Boss’ guest, looks directly at the back of his head. He feels that somehow he knows this person, even can picture his face before seeing him.
Now, unexpectedly, this unknown figure turns his head and stares directly into Mr. Oliver. This plain looking sort of man, just the sort Mr. Oliver imagined, projects a piercing look that begins to tear at every fiber in Mr. Oliver’s brain.
“Welcome aboard Mr. Beckles!” The Boss says triumphantly, just as Mr. Greene steps in view to close the door, freeing Mr. Oliver from Mr. Beckles’ death gaze.
All at once the oppressive sound of typing, ringing phones, fierce note scribbling, and all other noise of the office environment, instantly come hurling at him with full volume.
Mr. Oliver aggressively takes a breath. Lost in the moment, it seems he had forgotten to breathe.
On guard, he sketchily scans the area, finds himself alone in the hall way but spots Mr. Fisk.
Watching Mr. Oliver closely from the chair in his office, Mr. Fisk holds a doughnut up to his wide gaping mouth exposing his fairly nice set of chompers which are ready and willing to do some work. Apparently, Mr. Fisk was about to take a bite but was interrupted by Mr. Oliver’s odd behavior.
Mr. Oliver smiles awkwardly, and now wipes his mouth with his shirtsleeve after realizing he’s been standing there, mouth open and drooling, for quite some time.

-MR. OLIVER CHAPTER 1D

Though he is not dumb exactly, Mr. Oliver does show signs of great stupidity.
As a child, his 80-year-old caretaker, Mrs. Munoz, thought at one point he was ‘touched’ with a sixth sense. She and other elders in her village believe some are touched or born with a gift from god, like those who are born of the caul, survive a twin who dies at birth, or some people who are deaf, dumb and/or blind.
What gave his caretaker the idea that Mr. Oliver was touched was that often she would find him in some kind of trance, gawking, slack-jawed, like how he is now, staring at a wall or starring at nothing in particular.
Watching him in these states compelled Mrs. Munoz to wonder if terrible apocalyptic visions of the future were washing over him or perhaps he were seeing god or even traveling throughout time and the universe. Out of morbid curiosity she once roused him from one of the trancelike states, shook him like mad demanding to know where he was and what was he seeing at that exact moment.
He said, “nothing, nowhere.”
It’s true. He saw nothing and he was nowhere. He couldn’t remember what he was seeing or thinking because he wasn’t doing either. He was just spacing out.
For Mrs. Munoz, however, Mr. Oliver’s cryptic answer, ‘nothing, nowhere’ only made her more curious about him, wanting to observe him further. She pondered if his reaction could be attributed to shock from the visions and therefore unable to speak of their horrors.
As time passed, she took note of his oddities, his antisocial behavior, noted that he rarely spoke unless spoken to. She also learned of his fondness for ham sandwiches, and the frequency in which he peed his pants.
She would say, “you peed your pants mijo.”
He would say, “I forgot to hold it.”
Mrs. Munoz was stumped, not understanding how someone could forget to ‘hold it.’
He would forget things people normally wouldn't need to remember. He would forget to eat, forget to close his eyes to sleep, he would at times forget he was walking in mid-stride and fall to the floor. It was ridiculous.
All the forgetting
Try as she might, and she did, Mrs. Munoz could never determine if Mr. Oliver was touched or not. She grew annoyed by the idiosyncrasies, the forgetting and eventually lost interest in him, concluding he was dumb and dumb only.
But he is not dumb. He is eccentric, mostly- with all of the social ineptitudes of an autistic but none of the gifts, mathematical or otherwise, and seemingly without any of the mystical ones either. At least that’s how she saw it.

-MR. OLIVER CHAPTER 1C

Mr. Oliver surveys the office environment while quickly taking in the last bite of his sandwich, finishing everything but the crust. All at once, people begin to move. Some return to their desk, or move to another workstation, others just get busy doing something, anything, but all appear to be working. The office steadily comes alive growing from a murmur to a continuous roar, gradually so, where one may not have noticed unless paying very close attention.
While Mr. Oliver is still chewing, a suit with a noose around his neck by the name of Mr. Livingstone, the Lead Tester, approaches him with a hand full of bug reports, says, “here are some bugs. Review them, put them in the bug database when you’re finished,” and walks off before Mr. Oliver has time to swallow.
Mr. Augustus shakes his head disapprovingly. The sight of Mr. Livingstone makes him want to spit.
As Lead Tester, Mr. Livingstone must review, confirm/invalidate, and rewrite each bug preceding bug database entry. Ready to oblige himself with these tasks, Mr. Livingstone’s tasks, Mr. Oliver stares intently at the bug reports, reviewing their content.
Without warning Mr. Augustus puts his hands together in a single clap, begins to rub them in a manner that’s surely creating some heat.
“Time to rock!” Mr. Augustus says, feigning enthusiasm.
Where Mr. Augustus is from it is customary to welcome work with enthusiasm. In his village it would seem unhealthy not to.
It’s been some time now since Mr. Augustus was truly enthused by his job. Even at a fraction of the pay, he would trade what he does now for the hard laboring work the village demands of everyone. He longs for the hills where the coffee fields grow under a tropical raging sun, thinks that picking coffee berries all day isn’t a bad way of life.
The bug report Mr. Oliver is reviewing claims the program COMPRO crashes if the user were to hold down the key for four minutes and twenty two seconds in the exit menu.
Mr. Oliver holds down the key on the keyboard of his Tandy 486 computer, which bleats for him to stop.
Not bothering to lower the volume, Mr. Oliver lets his computer cry out from its internally built-in mono speaker, making a continuous beep that mingles well with the office ambience.
The constant cry of Mr. Oliver’s bleeping computer warrants Mr. Augustus’ attention and truculent stare. Mr. Oliver shrugs and points at the bug report, indicating that it’s the bug report’s fault not his and continues pressing the key with about two and a half minutes left to go before the program will allegedly crash.
Wading through the time, Mr. Oliver tunes out, lets his mind wander.
Unmindfully letting his jaw hang loose, practically has it swinging in the air-conditioned breeze, Mr. Oliver stupidly gawks at the blue and white monitor.
Mr. Augustus fights the urge to reach out and manually shut Mr. Oliver’s mouth for him.
Slack jawed and oblivious, Mr. Oliver continues to hold fast on the key. The monotony allows Mr. Oliver to bleed into a trancelike, zombiefied state.

-MR. OLIVER CHAPTER 1B

Both Mr. Oliver and Mr. Augustus have been working together for over twelve years, since Mr. Oliver was first hired on. They share a large cubicle desk as Testers in the Testing Department, working for the computer and softer company Raj McDonald and Sons, or RMS for short.
Though Mr. Oliver has been with RMS for a while, he is often referred to as ‘New Guy’ because he is, oddly enough, the most recent hired on employee. No one has quit the company since then either. As peculiar as this is, it surely is not as peculiar as how RMS came to be.
During the Digital Revolution, playboy extraordinaire and member of both the Scottish and Indian Rajput aristocracies, Mr. R. McDonald, III inherited from his wealthy father, Mr. R. McDonald, II, an ailing typewriter company with no future in sight. He inherited this, and this only- and a letter.

Dear Mr. McDonald, III,
Son- I have failed you greatly. I was no father to you. It may seem that the only right thing for me to do is to pass along quietly and let you continue your life, living it in piggish sloth. But I won’t. You son are cut off. My only hope is that you take what I give you, RMS, and make something of it and yourself, a self-made man, and not die in hopeless poverty or eaten by dogs. Good Luck!
Love (?),
Mr. R. McDonald, II
PS: Don’t try to contact the family, they agree that you should be cast aside and made to fend for yourself.

His father truly abandoned him- a desperate move made by a man who was on his way out and leaving this world with nothing to show for it except two things; a failed business and a son who wasn’t worth a crap. It was an attempt to fix both posthumously.
But how would a young man greatly misshaped by gluttony and leisure become a “self-made man?”
Lost without his accustomed wealth, dumped by his friends and caste, Mr. Raj McDonald III began to freefall into a downward spiral of despair and self-loathing. It wasn’t very long before he found himself stumbling into a mom and pop pawnshop looking to buy himself a gun.
Mr. Charles, the proprietor of ‘Charles In Charms,’ agreed to sell Mr. McDonald one Swiss made 1943 Luger pistol with just one bullet, but took nearly an hour figuring out how to ring it up.
It just so happened that Mr. Charles’ daughter had earlier in the day updated the computer he was accustomed ringing up customers with the latest and greatest up-to-date software update. The reason why he had so much trouble making one simple transaction was because he couldn’t figure out how to get the damned thing to work now that it had been improved.
Mr. Charles nearly had a meltdown.
He griped about how computers always need updating, that the updates need updating, and every time he figures out how to make the latest update work, it once again, needs a new update.
He griped about computers and how as soon as you bring one home it’s obsolete before you take off the bubble wrap.
He griped about how even though he didn’t need the latest and greatest computer and software that every few years he felt compelled almost forced to buy the newest thing on the market. He griped about the end of the world.
In defeat, words came out of his greatly deflated mouth, “I can’t keep up. Everything is moving too fast. What the hell is going on in the world? What’s going to happen to me?!”
It was then where the heir to a great disappointment, foresaw great opportunity.
With the Digital Revolution in full swing, with all the changes and new technologies springing up everywhere, young Mr. Raj McDonald III knew many people would naturally be left behind. They’d all wonder, “what the hell is going on in the world?” and, “what is going to happen to me?”
Subsequently, Mr. McDonald bought on RMS’ credit all the obsolete software programs and outdated computer designs on the market, and for practically nothing at that.
On the epiphanic business plan Mr. McDonald dubbed ‘The Promise,’ he promised not to upgrade beyond the consumer’s technological needs and their abilities.
On The Promise, RMS quickly made a small fortune on servicing, maintaining, and providing the luddites of the world with the software programs they were accustomed to, using them on the same machines they’ve always been using, and promised them they could do so indefinitely.
In sum, RMS is now in the business of supplying the computer equivalents of the dinosaurs to the human equivalents of the very same extinct reptilian creatures.

-MR. OLIVER CHAPTER 1A

-Mr. Oliver
Right now, deep within a cubicle labyrinth, under a buzzing, flickering, florescent light, a white shirt named Mr. Oliver eats a ham sandwich.
It’s quiet at the moment. Most employees are doing nothing in particular. Soon enough the sounds of ringing phones, nervous inquiries, and apathetic employees will reverberate throughout RMS. For now it’s quiet, allowing Mr. Oliver to eat in peace. It’s Friday, 10:30AM. Break time.
Mr. Oliver is a fatty fingered man with glasses, a sweat gland problem, and oddly tiny nostrils in a swollen bulbous nose.

He chews his ham sandwich with his mouth open.
A man by the name of Mr. Fisk brings a few unconfirmed bug reports and the latest office memo, placing them in front of Mr. Oliver. With a serious look, Mr. Fisk leans in, asks in a whisper, “hey New Guy! Have you seen Mr. Dibely?!”
Mr. Oliver shakes his head, admitting that he hasn’t.
“God damn it Oliver! Why isn't he here?!” Mr. Fisk quietly yells through his teeth. Mr. Fisk puts his hand on the memo, spins it around so Mr. Oliver can read it. He pokes at it with his pointy finger while giving Mr. Oliver a grave expression, and now leaves.
The memo reads:
BAGS WITH NO-NAME
It sounds like a song but it is much more irritating. Please label and date your bags (name – not initials) for as of today, we will throw away anything found unmarked. Thanks for the effort.
-Mrs. Hunn

Mr. Oliver studies the memo while taking a big bite from his sandwich, struggling to bring it down his gullet.
The years have been fruitful with an abundance of ham sandwiches. A life of trial and error has proven them to not only be sufficient in taste but, more importantly, safe for him to eat. There are other sandwiches he will stray to on occasion, but when the chips are down, always to the ham sandwich he’d return. Ham sandwich is home.
As he eats, he notices a roach scuttling across his desk. It stops on his brown lunch bag, looks curiously to the left, to the right, and now darts off straight ahead. Just before the roach is out of sight, Mr. Oliver lunges like a starved-crazy animal, scrambling like mad to squish it with a paper napkin. He continues to apply his weight on the poor roach much like a mentally fatigued solider deliberately pumps round after round into a long dead enemy combatant, mindless of the perils surrounding him.
He smiles stupidly all the while.
Now, seeping into his consciousness is the realization that the cool dampness permeating through the paper napkin to the tips of his fingers are the poor roaches creamy off-white innards. The smile on Mr. Oliver’s face quickly turns sour expressing horror towards his own actions.
He shudders and now slowly awakens to his surroundings. Mr. Oliver knows he’s being watched.
With great caution, he turns at a snail’s pace to his co-worker on his left, a Mr. Augustus, who’s looking right back at him, has been looking at him, and for a great while now. Looking at Mr. Oliver as if he were the most depraved creature on earth, which he very well might be.
Quickly, Mr. Oliver looks away, fearing what he might have been doing under the watchful eye of Mr. Augustus.
Mr. Oliver asks himself, “Why does he watch me? He’s always watching me. Damn him, what is looking at?”
“He’s slipping. He’s been slipping for a while now. It’s only a matter of time before management finds out,” Mr. Augustus says to himself. But now he shakes his head in frustration after realizing he’s been thinking this for nearly 10 years.
Mr. Oliver continues to eat his ham sandwich as if nothing happened at all. While chewing, he thinks about his armpits. He wonders if they’re sweaty. Wonders if Mr. Augustus is able to notice.