2:04 PM. It's two days after Christmas. I've been standing in the Customer Service line at this godforsaken mega toy store since 1:16. Once the woman in the green coat completes her transaction, finally, it will be my turn. My fingers have gone numb from clutching a large box that contains a ridiculously expensive, malfunctioning battery-operated dog. In retrospect, it would have been far less trouble to have purchased an actual dog.

The "thought leaders" at the mega toy store corporate office don't seem to understand that the holiday music that blares from their store's speakers no longer evokes the spirit of goodwill toward all mankind. Instead, after two months of ubiquitous hymns, carols, and jingles, the fa-la-la-la-la is now grating. And the evidence can be found on the faces of the agitated huddled masses crowded shoulder-to-shoulder all around me. Christmas is over. Can we just get on with our lives? Please. 

Did I say "thought leader?" I need to flush this crap out of my system.

I glance up at the wall clock. The numbers jump from 2:08 to 2:09.

The woman in the green coat stomps away clutching a yellow form in her tight fist. At long last, it's my turn. I step to the counter. A teenage Customer Service Rep with a name tag that reads: MAXIMUS is busy texting. I clear my throat. Without looking up he says, "Return of exchange?"

"Exchange, I guess."

I struggle to set the box on the counter. Maximus continues texting. I clear my throat loudly. He emits a perturbed sigh and tucks away his phone.

I register my complaint. "This thing only ran for fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen continuous minutes?"

"Yeah."

"It's just a toy, sir. It's not made to last forever."

"For a hundred thirty dollars it should run for more than fifteen minutes."

Maximus rolls his eyes and begins filling out a yellow form.

"Whatever. So you want to exchange--"

"Changed my mind. I'll take the refund."

Maximus sighs dramatically and rips up the paperwork. He opens a drawer and finds a pink form. He mutters, "People like you."

"What did you say?"

A senior citizen behind me offers, "It's all crap. All of it." I turn to see the quintessential Norman Rockwell depiction of an American senior standing behind me. He's wearing a plaid shirt, corduroy pants, and suspenders!

Maximus shoves a pen at me. "Sign down here." 

I scribble my signature.

The senior gentleman is now on a roll. "They're using new technology to make crappier stuff. Hell, they can do brain surgery with a computer, and yet everything you buy today is total crap, crap, crap made in China or some Third World country!"

I turn to him. His rant continues. "It's madness! Spend your money on junk you're just gonna throw away. How did we get into this mess, anyway? I'll tell you how. Nobody says a damned thing. We just accept it like we're supposed to--"

I surprise him with a firm hug. "That's the most genuine thing I've heard all Christmas."

He gathers himself and says sheepishly, "Thanks for the hug."

                                                                         ######

It's 1:17 Monday afternoon, the first day back in the office after the Christmas break. I'm seated next to Carl who's at the head of the table. On the other side of the polished fake wood are Bernie and two other employees, Rhonda and Audra, with their laptops open, probably on Facebook and/or Pinterest.

I like Audra. She's the Manager of Digital and Social Media. In some respects, she reminds me of a grown-up version of Jilly-bean. She's smart, she's confident, she's bold, plus she's very good at her job.

Rhonda is the one I can't figure out. She was with the firm before I came onboard. I think she's supposed to be the firm's Content Strategist but honestly, I don't know what she actually does. She's very good at coming down with the flu or some other obscure illness when we're in an emergency situation and need to work overtime or put in a few extra hours on the weekend. She's one of the least friendly people I've ever met in a professional setting, which is not a desirable trait for someone working in Public Relations.

She seems desperate to prove that she's the smartest one in the room. Last year, apparently a landscaper introduced her to diatomaceous earth. I'm gonna be honest here. I had to look it up. Rhonda tried to work it into every conversation in the workplace. No matter if we were making small talk about sports, the weather, or a pain-in-the-ass client, somehow, she brought the conversation around to diatomaceous earth. Even in client meetings. I found it incredibly strange and yet, no one else even seemed to notice. 

Wren comes through the door and, in three bounding strides, she's beside Carl, handing him a folder. With her tall frame and long legs and arms, I wonder if Wren played college basketball or volleyball. She has the energy of a toddler, always darting from office-to-office and then back again to her desk, never out of breath. 

Carl downs his coffee and hands his mug to Wren. "Refueling required at the command post."

What a weird thing to say. No one reacts.

On Carl's mug, there's a picture of Bill Murray wearing a Santa hat with the caption: A Very Murray Christmas. It must be a Christmas gift.

Bernie gushes, "Very Murray Christmas. That's brilliant!"

Brilliant? Really? 

Wren turns on her flat heels, and quick-steps out of the conference room.

Carl opens the top folder and turns it halfway facing me as though we're sharing a hymn book in church. My stomach gurgles when I see the bold Trollamex logo emblazoned at the top of the pages.

I sigh. "I thought you gave the Trollamex assignment to Stern."

"Stern wrote up the position statement. Now we're on to this." 

"It never ends." I drop my head onto the table with a "Thunk."

"You're overreacting, Phil." 

I turn my face away from his coffee breath.

"I should have stuck with journalism," I mumble.

"You'd be driving a 10-year-old car and eating ramen noodles."

"You got that right," says Bernie.

Audra is busy with her phone. Rhonda shoots me a sardonic look and then returns to her laptop.

"The real PR money is in politics." Carl looks over his glasses at me. "Think about it, Phil."

"Just stop. Please, Carl. I'm gonna hurl."

Wren slips into the room with Carl's coffee. Given how fast she's moving, I'm amazed she doesn't spill a drop. What a pro. Carl swallows a mouthful. She's gone before he can say, "Thanks."

I raise my head and begin reading the first few pages of the document. There's a tightening in my chest.

"Dear Lord. This is inhuman!"

Carl grins and slaps my back. "Somebody get this guy a glass of leftover eggnog."

Bernie blurts out with a butt-kissing chuckle.

I've now read to the bottom of page three and my heart is pounding.

"So, Trollamex acquired a small firm a few months ago. And two hundred of those employees, who are now considered new hires of Trollamex, lose their seniority."

Carl interjects, "I should have told you to skip page one."

"Then, a couple of weeks later, Trollamex lays them all off. And because these poor souls have only a few weeks of service as Trollamex employees, they get no severance packages. Nothing!"

"Effective public relations cannot be driven by emotion. You know that Phil," Carl replies. Bernie moves his little head. I'll accept that as a nod.

I continue. "This is wrong on so many levels. But as Trollamex sees it, the biggest problem here is that because this story hit the media at Christmas time, it's making Trollamex look bad. So, now they'd like us to put a great, big smiley face on their corporate image."

Carl slides the folder away from me and closes it.

"It's time to eat a reality sandwich, Phil. Trollamex is the lead horse pulling our wagon. They pay to keep the lights on in this office. They pay your salary, my salary. They pay our Christmas bonuses."

"Most of these laid-off people are in their 50's and 60's! They're screwed! No job! No severance! Merry freakin' Christmas. And everybody here is okay with that?!"

Everyone's eyes remain on their laptops. Carl gulps his coffee.

Unbeknownst to me, none other than Vern Tattersal pokes his head into the room, just in time for me to shout, "Well, you can tell Trollamex to go straight to hell. And they can keep their damn Christmas bonus!"

I look up to see Tattersal's blotchy face, his mouth agape. His eyes shift from me to Carl who says, "He's been under a lot of pressure recently."

                                                                                        #######

6:15. The alarm goes off.

6:40. I'm out of the shower, looking in the mirror at the shell of a human being that I've become while brushing my teeth.

7:05. I select a necktie.

By 7:15, I'm dressed and staring at the toaster, waiting. When the Pop-Tart jumps up it burns my fingers. I clench my eyes and say, "Glrummmmph."

7:20. I kiss my pretty wife on her soft cheek. 

"Are you okay?" She looks worried.

"Yeah. I'm all right."

"Maybe you should slow down a little."

"Wish I could."

She gives me a hug and then I'm out the door. I realize that I need to let go of this Trollamex thing. I can't let it control my life.

Ten minutes later, I'm in my car inching along the roadway amidst a herd of vehicles filled with drivers and passengers wearing vacant stares. The digital clock on the dashboard jumps from 7:43 to 7:44. 

I turn on the radio in time to hear a news report. "Last night, in a shocking development, the Department of Homeland Security announced that residents of the state of Utah are being given seventy-two hours to evacuate. The Department issued a release saying, in effect, the evacuated state would be used primarily as a storage site for nuclear and chemical waste, and perhaps for internment camps in the unlikely event the United States becomes embroiled in a military conflict or needs a place to house refugees."

"Wait. What?" I mumble.

"The President has urged the Department of the Interior to consider the site as a repository for the country's trash, saying that quote, this administration may have finally solved our nation's landfill problems. "There's not much in Utah anyway," said the Interior's top administrator, "but a bunch of cactus, tumbleweeds and armadillos. And a few Mormons." Residents of Utah are stunned by the mandate, but appear to have no legal recourse."

I whip around, scanning the faces of the drones en route to work. Not one expression has changed. Maybe they haven't heard the news. I can't believe this.

"Preston Davis, Governor of Nevada, had this to say...Good thing we've got Las Vegas or that could have been us!"