I read this excerpt from a much longer story at my graduate reading at Vermont College of Fine Arts in July of 2019. The entire story was later published as a chapbook by Blue Cubicle Press.
Saturday
Dietrich’s plate is full. Actually, it’s overflowing. He’s got juice from the baked beans running into the coleslaw and off the plate. The chicken wings are sitting on top of the potato salad, and two ribs have bailed out and tumbled onto the table. It’s the annual employee picnic at the CEO’s favorite country club, and he’s trying to make the most of it. I’m nursing a warm, watery gin and tonic, feeling my hangover coming on in the heat, and I’m late for my daughter’s dance recital.
“It will probably be Thursday,” he says. He bites into an uncut gherkin and the juice squirts across the table onto my plate. There’s a smudge from the potato salad on the corner of his drooping mustache. “The personnel files when to legal yesterday.” I ask him why. He shoves the severed end of the pickle in his mouth and mashes down on it as his eyes dart over my face and the sun glares off his sweaty bald head. We’re supposed to be peers, but he’s a well-connected bottom feeder, the kind that always carries a clipboard. I don’t trust this motherfucker and he knows it.