Briefest Lives: Mike Shinn

A wheel spins made of plywood and supplied from the local hardware store, painted in primary pastels, culled from an era where men wore sideburns and shouted to a hungry audience, “Cash! Prizes!” A crowd of distracted workers huddle around the bell, peeking over shoulders to glimpse the results of the ticking wheel, clicking noisomely, winding down to the final slot. He stands remote, looking satisfied, arms folded authoritatively, occasionally glancing toward the dispatch terminal. The hive murmurs, his workers summoning their gifts on demand, every greeting warm and friendly, smiling through the phone. Tangible levity elevates the room, plastered with kitschy bric-a-brac, like a tech-themed diner in the obscure Midwest. As the spinner lands the final blow, he nods with approval at the fateful result. The president of sales howls a cry for victory, and the rabble disperses quietly hoping for a puppy party or go-karts this time. Mike returned to his desk, burrowed into a cozy dark crevice at the heart of the company, keeping it warm with cheer, and jotted down the result in his mail calendar. Moments later an email would circulate throughout the office, announcing the pending decision: a company event in celebration for landing another contract. Mike scrolled through his unread messages, bobbing his head side to side, humming a ditty culled from broadcasting history, a blithe tune indistinguishable from the hundreds before and after. A crudely rendered, yet charming printout from a LaserWriter is mounted beside a Linnea Pergola print of Sunset Boulevard at the threshold beside the door, visible from the exterior, nearly obscured by the suspiciously emasculating antivirus mascot that absconded to the office after the previous month’s V.A.R. conference. An eclectic mix of pop singles from the most recent decades played low, masked occasionally by his typing, precise and confident. Mike read back a sentence and raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise. He hammered the backspace key with his middle and ring fingers, depressing with the appropriate severity and intensity, loud enough to indicate that an error was made, rhythmically consistent to demonstrate his handle on the issue. The volume of the outer space ebbed and flowed like the tide, cresting at 10 am and waning between 2:45 and 3:20 pm. When the volume increased, when the salutations grew ragged and thin, a stronger hand was required. Subordinates and superiors, passing between one another as a red light was erected to declare violence, Mike subsisted amidst the fervor, arms folded, glancing up at the alert triage, directing with a firm and steady hand. And when the day is done, when there is nothing left to do, he departs, bicycling home beside disgruntled commuters and sexually frustrated housewives. Mid-century modern, Ranch-style homes, each cut nauseatingly specific, one of four styles, over a two-hundred unit swath, line the causeway, situated over what once was a marshland extending to the sea. Convincingly normative and eclectically contorted to eke out an approximate variety. Mike’s mother-in-law, come over early, pulled up curbside, ready to relinquish his children into his care, eagerly thanks him and departs and, in some respect, he is relieved. Alex and Michael busily regurgitate their day, pointing to their matching bracelets, applied by their eco-conscious teachers in memory of democracy. When the door shuts, it is final. The moment of catharsis that purges the day’s concerns and challenges, until the next arrive tomorrow. The couch feels his body sink in a few moments later, as sugarplum animations dance on the LED screen and submerge him into a blissful stupor.