Stories about guys like “Bob” have become increasingly uncommon since the 1950s. There was a time, however, when magazines like Life showed that common gray flannel suit types could be interesting, new, and different — even if that difference may have come at the expense of their social uniformity.
I have written “Bob’s Day Out Of The Office” to show what happens when a man with no weirdness in him at all discovers that the whitebread world he inhabits is in reality much stranger than his ability to quick-react to it. The consequences of his failure to react prove disastrous.
“Bilious Bob’s Day out of the Office”
By XWarper UtopiaX DystopiaX
- Bob carried a 5 and a quarter inch floppy disk containing his taxes out to his Chevy, which he drove because all his neighbors did and he didn’t want to feel out-of-place.
- He got in the front seat and slammed the door shut. It was unthinkable that music should play, so he just drove in silence down the street leading to the expressway, a giant creation of civil engineers who planned for a million bobs and no soul.
- Five minutes later, he was slamming his brakes down in a manic surge of panic and crashing into two other cars.
- During the 25-minute period of his disorientation as he left the car and wandered around, something happened to the expressway. All the cars stopped and their drivers left the vicinity. Clouds of black and steely color converged overhead, driven by a windless, mysterious force so titanic is seemed to wrap the planet in its unearthly fist. Bob was scared. He had never been so scared since he had been jerking off in his bed and his hispanic maid had detected him.
- Walking in the breakdown lane, he came across the first note, fluttering in the wind like a white Post-It note. It read:
- We are alone in the universe.
- It blew away from Bob’s hand before he could examine the handwriting further.
- Later, he came to a field of mirrors beside the expressway. Stepping over the guardrail mesmerized, Bob wandered into the field in a daze. The mirrors were calling, calling.
- A chill wind had blown up. Several of the mirrors had perfect bullet holes in them, but no spiderweb shattering effect. A black hole sun was up in the sky, and small blue triangles were coming out from it. Two American Airlines jets were traveling in opposite directions. Bob had traveled AA once. Lousy food and tolerable service. Like so much of the Midwest.
- Bob dropped down to his knees and screwed his fingers in his ears. An imaginary horrible screeching was filling his mind, created by the exact confluence of message, mirrors and grass. The grass — the last natural vestige of a world erased by whitebread suburbia. Being white was excellent, of course — but being whitebread? The stiffness, the lack of coolness, the overemphasis of logic over cock? Who could support that, even a white man?
- Like a leaf, Bob was blown away and began tumbling through the sky, up, higher, higher … On the furthest reaches of the galaxy, where Milky Way became Andromeda, Bob stopped. Dead.
- There was a beehive there, an alien beehive. A peaceful little humming and chittering of talk came from it, so peaceful in fact that it held the qualities of a babbling brook in the wilderness such as he had played with as a child.
- He put his hand in it innocently and impulsively, and was stung to death in a thousand fiery pricks that felt so good.
- As he slumped down, head hanging against his weak chest, it occurred to Bob that TV tonight was showing a Disney nature documentary made by the whitest artists ole Walt could find.
- In a future time and era, Ren and Stimpy creator John Kricfalusi of Sheridan College in Oakville, Ontario, would show a white man’s zany bizarro world version of entertainment, stripped of whitebreadery, stripped of a Bob who would no longer exist, no longer have children to carry on the Bob name, no longer have a body or a thought, and the bees would hum at the edge of the galaxy forever, forever.
The End: X.