Hell Is Other People Danielle Bellwood (best interesting books to read .TXT) 📖

enameled stapler evenly with the tape dispenser, she leaned back to eyeball the thin black “woodgrain” line on the desk to visually confirm that both office supplies were in perfect alignment.

Nine minutes later, her computer beeped and the serene blue screen shined pleasantly out at her from the monitor. Sighing, she clicked away at the keyboard, logging in to her corporate account.

“Jolene,” Roger’s voice droned from the door to her cubicle.

She’d worked under Roger for far too long for him to still not know her name. In fact, Gillian had recently become suspicious that Roger may just refuse to call her by her actual name due to some sadistic desire to torture her and not because he was a moron. Although to be fair, he was definitely a moron so, maybe she was just being paranoid.

“Yes, Roger,” she answered in response to some other woman’s name.

“You have a trainee.”

Those words struck a chord in her soul. A sharp twang like a breaking guitar string reverberated through Gillian’s mind, reflecting more than her standard fear of socializing in general. This fear was deeper, more profound, like coming face to face with one’s own mortality only to find that mortality was a 400 lb woman named Bertha who was falling off a six-foot unicycle and about to land on your head. Equal parts disturbing and fascinating.

Gillian turned slowly in her chair, somehow sure that the new employee in training she was about to encounter was somehow an omen of the deepest utter calamity; a nightmare brought to life that she would never be able to shake no matter how fast she tried to run away from her own reality.

“It’s you,” the man from the coffee haus greeted her.

His clothes were tinted a perfect beige from the coffee so that he seemed to blend into the environment of the office like a chameleon, almost hidden from notice were it not for the goofy grin on his face and the nervous titter that announced his presence louder than a bull horn.

“Do you remember me?”

Ummm…. yeah! How could she possibly forget?!

“Arlo,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Yes!” His face split into a wide smile. “That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.” He laughed lightly and winked like he’d just told the funniest joke in the entire world.

Gillian thrust a billing report at him. “Copy room. End of hall,” she snapped.

The edge of the file caught him in the chest, and he let out a comical “oof” as though the lightweight folder had hurt him before chuckling again and hurrying off down the hall to make copies.

Gillian choked back the faint taste of bile that bubbled up as she pondered the undeniable fact that she’d be spending the next nine hours with this painfully peppy person.

Your whole life is just a nightmare.

PART II: Arlo

One Mississippi

Every day of Arlo’s life felt exactly the same as the one before. He would walk to the coffee shop, order his large caramel macchiato hot with extra whipped cream, and browse social media before starting whatever new temp job the agency lined up for him. His artfully selected wardrobe would surely convince anyone who saw him that he possessed not only funds, but fashion sense as well. His dream of being a social media influencer hung by a silk thread every time he snapped a pic of his dinner plate or posted an update from his next destination.

He’d been to every “experience” that he could drive to in his 1972 Cadillac Coupe DeVille. The gasoline spent on the road trips cost more than an airplane ticket but flying would have deprived others of seeing his classic automobile. And on an airplane, he wouldn’t have been able to listen to his 8-tracks.

Arlo maxed out his credit cards on visits to the Frozen Yog-yurt, the Leaning Tower of Pizza Boxes, and The Land Before Time Pieces, a warehouse in Bleaksville that contained one fifty-foot long wall plastered with old wristwatches and alarm clocks. Worth every penny.

Lately, Arlo had been forced to cut back on his experience addiction due to a serious lack of cash. Hence, the temp jobs. Working all day in some boring office job was slowly crushing his spirit. The spirit of a man who lived and breathed adoration from strangers on the internet. But he had to make sacrifices if he was ever going to be a media sensation so he sold his soul to the company store. Meh, it was a living. Sort of.

Arlo’s overwhelming need to be liked was diagnosed by the therapist his mother found in the coupon section of the yellow pages as a Borderline Personality Disorder with narcissistic tendencies. Arlo had looked up the word “narcissist” in the online dictionary and learned that it referred to a handsome young Greek god. He embraced this newly discovered facet of his personality by going to the local Falafel Hut and ordering stuffed grape leaves. The photo of his dinner plate got over 1,000 likes on Instagram.

As Arlo walked down the sidewalk to the coffee haus, he would occasionally stop to take a photo of an attractive cactus or say hi to a stranger. His meandering route might take anywhere from ten to twenty minutes, depending on his focus or lack thereof. He paused for a moment, laughing absurdly at the small boy crying at his mother’s side as a double scoop of strawberry slipped off his waffle cone. Poor kid. It was hotter than Satan’s left butt cheek out. No way that cream was gonna stay icy. The extra-large scoops turned into a foamy goop on the boy’s lace-up loafers. Yuck.

Facing the coffee shop, Arlo smiled at the message posted on the door. In red letters, Java Joe had written ‘You’re whole life is just a nightmare.’

Arlo chuckled nervously. Lately, he’d been feeling like his reality was a little altered. What was that Ozzy quote? Something like, “Reality is okay, but have you tried drugs?”

As he opened the door cautiously,