White Collar van Gogh

At the age of 13, a barber cut my ear off. It wasn’t totally off after his scissors slipped, but it dangled by the lobe all the way to the hospital. Each pothole sending the bloody piece of flesh around in a circle. My family couldn’t afford for it to be reattached, so the doctors had to fully remove it. Soon after the hospital released me, the barber skipped town.

Ten years later, my head looks like a Picasso, even though my nickname is van Gogh. And the hole where my ear used to be looks like a can of loosely-packed tuna. Here I am in my cubicle: one ear, no girlfriend, and a job that requires me to where a tie everyday. People look at you differently when you wear a tie, even more differently when your head isn’t symmetrical.

I hear the heavy footsteps of my boss coming toward me. Sulking isn’t what the manager of an office wants to see, so I sit up. “Good morning, Mr. Ciseaux,” it took me months before I was finally able to say his name without being corrected. It’s seezo, he would say.

Before he says anything to me, he hands me a letter. “I need 150 copies of this letter, van Gogh,” yes, even my boss calls me van Gogh, “When you’re done, take them down to the mailroom. Oh ya, and can you start adding a bit more sugar to my coffee in the mornings?” I give him a nod, and he walks away.

He never gives me the recognition I deserve, I’m the hardest working employee in the building. The others are either playing solitaire on their computer or fucking in the bathroom; yet I’m the one he goes to for menial tasks, such as getting him his morning coffee, or copying papers. However, when you work for a company that is responsible for the distribution of a low-grade sex lubricant that has been the subject of an array of complaints—rashes, burning piss, the discovery of its flammability after vigorous sex causes candles to fall from a headboard—there seems to be an overall vibe of apathy around the office.

At the copier, I think about how each eight hour day I work seems to take something out of me. Out of my soul. Not only do I have an asshole for a boss, but my coworkers treat me like shit. However, this treatment is subtle.

It began as I spotted the gleam in their eyes every time they got the chance to talk to me. They didn’t think I realized what they were doing, making sure they talked in the direction of the tuna so I had to decipher everything they said. When I discovered this, I made it my mission to make it impossible for them to do it. I would lean against a wall, with the tuna facing the white cinderblocks. A couple weeks after I started doing this, I seemed to only talk to Mr. Ciseaux; even then it was no picnic. I had a choice, either let them degrade me, or have nobody to talk to. I chose the latter. Pride over social sanity.

The last copy shoots out of the machine, and I get on the elevator. The B glows as it takes me down to the basement. Before the doors even open I can hear the chaotic sounds of the mailroom. I make my way past the filers, stuffers, and delivery personnel, and stop in front of the secretary’s desk. She must be new. I have to come down here at least three times a week, and I’ve never seen her before.

“Can I help you?” She says with a voice of gravel.

“Yes, I need these letters mailed by the end of the week.” I hand her the stack of paper. I was going to give her a polite “Thank you,” but I notice she is scrutinizing my face, looking for the thing that makes me unusual. As I turn to walk away, I can see her eyes slightly widen as she spots the tuna.

This isn’t the first time I’ve seen this kind of reaction. Each time I do I want to say something, but that would give them more of a reason to hate me. Something else needs to be done. My actions will definitely speak louder than words.


Six o’clock. I’m in my apartment watching an episode of The Cosby Show, subconsciously beginning the formulation of my plan. My dog, Sondheim, lies at the foot of the couch, curled up, sedated by his daily dose of Phenobarbital. Without that pill, he has seizures. I hate to see him sedated, but hate to see him with foam coming out of his mouth even more.

Light bulb.

All I need to do is slip Mr. Ciseaux some Phenobarbital into his morning coffee. Within the next hour, he would be out cold in his office. Long enough for me to do what I need to do.


I’m walking to Mr. Ciseaux’s office with his cup of coffee. Three creams, ten sugars, five crushed tablets of Phenobarbital.

Setting the mug on his desk, “Here’s your coffee, Mr. Ciseaux. I added extra sugar like you asked.”

“Thanks, van Gogh. There was a major mistake in the letter I had you copy yesterday. Here is the fixed copy, make 150 like you did yesterday and bring it back down to the mailroom. Just explain to the secretary what happened.”

I walk out of the room without a word. After making the copies, I watch the B illuminate once again.

I place the stack of papers on the secretary’s desk. “I brought some letters in yesterday to be sent out, but they had an important mistake on them. Here’s the fixed copies.” I’m not sure if she is even listening to me. Her head is nodding, but her eyes are fixated where my ear should be.

“What happened to your ear?” She asks without the slightest tinge of hesitation.

“Well, I got really drunk one night, picked up a butter knife, and cut it off.”

“Didn’t that hurt?”

“Not really,” I say as I walk away. Turning toward the elevator, I can see her staring at me.


As I walk back to my cubicle, I notice a stillness in Mr. Ciseaux’s office. I slip my head through the door to see if he is out. With his head flat on the table, spit coming out of his mouth, Mr. Ciseaux was in another world. I walk in, closing and locking the door behind me.

I make my way to his desk and open the drawers until I find what I’m looking for. There they are, top right drawer. The sun glints off the blades of the scissors. I slap Ciseaux’s back several times to make sure he won’t wake up. I open the scissors and lower them to his ear. Without hesitation, I make a quick cut. A streak of blood stripes across my tie as I let the ear fall into my hand; I slip it into my pocket. I take off my tie and wipe the scissors clean, replacing them in the drawer.

I walk out of his office, throwing my tie away in a trashcan. At my cubicle, I pull a fresh envelope out of my drawer and write OPEN ME on the front. Fishing the ear out of my pocket, I slip it into the envelope and seal it; the taste of Mr. Ciseaux’s blood absorbs into my tongue.

I walk toward the elevator.

Inside, the B glows.

Making my way past the filers, stuffers, and delivery personnel, I stop in front of the secretary’s desk.

“Oh, you again,” she says.

“Mr. Ciseaux needs a book of stamps, he’s fresh out.”
“Okay, give me a minute.” She walks into the storage room. I place the envelope on her desk, and get back on the elevator. On my way up, I hear a dulled scream.


I load my suitcase in the back seat of my car, and get into the driver’s seat. Curled up in the passenger’s side is Sondheim, already sedated.

I turn the ignition. “Okay Sondheim, let’s go.” I turn the corner, and make my way to the highway. Skipping town, with the tuna baking in the sun.

Office Spacing

Thank you Frank Sinatra, now the weather outside is frightful as I sit in the office with nothing to do. I don't care that I have nothing to do, I'd rather have nothing to do than to do actual work. Menial tasks here, busy work there. Slowly but surely going out of my mind. Fuck it all.