To Laugh For: A Humorous Dystopian Novel

TO LAUGH FOR

DESMOND SHEPHERD

To Laugh For is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2024 Benjamin C Young

All rights reserved.

Published by Desmond Shepherd

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Started writing (in my head only): Early February 2024

Started writing (actual words on a computer screen): February 27, 2024

Completed First Draft (consists of writing the entire book and brief once-through proofread of each chapter): April 25, 2024

First Draft Word Count: 50,354

Completed Final Manuscript: May 6, 2024

Final Manuscript Word Count: 50,524

Time spent writing, editing, proofreading, designing cover, formatting book, marketing, reformatting book, fixing more typos, walking away from it multiple times, and saying I’m done with this!: Immeasurable.

1

WELL, HMM. I suppose … I suppose to get to the other side?

Jerry Stinson wasn’t sure why he said it. There was kind of this crack. A little pop in his brain. A flutter in his abdomen. Something that caused the corners of his mouth to form a closed parenthesis fallen on its side.

His brain said, I stop accepting this form of life. We must forge a new path.

And, well, it did forge a new path.

Because the current path for Jerry had become this drudgery through mud, flicking the shoes and socks off each night and slipping on a clean pair the following day.

Here. Let’s put this in perspective. Let’s run through a day in the life of Jerry Stinson. Though we’ll focus on today because today is when things changed.

6:00 AM. The alarm clock vibrates and squeals. Now, Jerry doesn’t need an alarm clock. He’s already lying flat on his back, eyes staring at the ceiling. He waits for it. Counts the seconds in his head until it hits 6:00 AM. Sometimes, his guess and count are on the money. Most times, he’s nowhere near it.

Internal clock aside, he slaps a hand on the top of the clock. Shuts it up. Gives it another nine minutes to come roaring back. He counts again. Hopes he’ll get a little closer this time.

He’s delaying the inevitable.

A day like every other day.

An existence of evenness.

The status quo.

Eight minutes, thirty-seven seconds. Eight minutes, forty—

The alarm rings, and this time, his hand slaps the off button. Torso rotates 90 degrees. Feet plop to the floor. And he sits there.

Just sits there.

Downstairs, a few bangs work their way from the kitchen and up the hallway. Bam. Bam. Bam. Cabinets opening, closing.

Different day. Same routine.

Jerry lets out a long sigh, places his hands on his knees with a smack, smack, smack, and moves to a standing position. Showers next. Shaves next. Hits every contour of the face and chin, careful with his butterfly razor, not a knick or scratch. Parts the sands of hair to the right. Back to the bedroom. Clothes on. Straight gray suit. Bright white button-up. Impossibly blue tie. Shoes that swallow the light around them like a black hole on his feet.

Down the stairs. To the kitchen.

There’s Carl. Carl Calabrese. Round head. Round body. Jerry could nearly pick him up and roll him down a lane. Hit ten pins, and he’d have a strike.

Morning, Carl, Jerry says.

Morning, Jerry, Carl says.

Sleep well.

Did. Sure did. You?

Did.

Carl sits at the table. Bowl in front of him. Box next to the bowl. A half-gallon milk jug that’s three-quarters gone next to that. A spoon grasped in his right hand shovels downward, brings up a scoop and a few drips back to the bowl, and then evacuates into his mouth. Mouth closes. Teeth crunch, food starting its trip through the human body.

By the way, Carl says after finishing the bite, I’ll have my portion of the rent for you end of this week. Promise.

Thank you, is all Jerry can say.

It’s the same day. The same routine. Carl can’t ever seem to put together the cash to pay his portion of the rent on time. He’s in a perpetual state of debt, catching up on what he owes but always behind on the current bill.

And what can Jerry do? It’s not like he’d kick Carl out because he didn’t pay rent. He had more than enough money to cover both. But it’s the principle.

The principle of the matter is that all people need to be responsible. And Jerry had no intention of letting any single rent payment slide. But still, he’d never let the frustration show. No matter how much it bothered him.

Want some, Carl says as he grabs the box and tilts it toward Jerry. Still a little left.

I’m quite fine. The office will have croissants.

Very well. The box taps back to the table.

No coffee? Jerry asks.

Every day, Carl made the coffee. Every. Single. Day.

And yet, the pot sits cold inside an unplugged machine. Jerry’s brain snaps at him, thinks maybe he sees things wrong. He grabs the handle, lifts the pot to his left eye, and circles it on the circumference.

Not a drop. Not a single drop.

Broken, Carl says. Thing won’t do a thing. Dead. It’s dead.

Jerry breathes in deep through his nose. Back out. Lowers his heartbeat.

It’ll be fine. Coffee is at the office, too. I’ll be fine.

Well, I best be getting to it then, Jerry says.

Carl gives a nod. Not a nod like he’s got to get moving and out the door, too. Just a nod like "Have a good day. I’ll be sitting here all day long doing nothing and especially not looking for a job."

Another slow breath in and out, and Jerry’s out the door.

Drive down the road. Follow the signs. Follow the lights. Follow the lines. Turn right. Left. Straight. Straight some more. Stop. Wait for the green left turn arrow. Turn left. Drive some more.

The last leg of the race to purgatory kind of melts off the back of Jerry’s neck, and he now stands at the front door with block letters CAF (the abbreviation for where he works) on it. CAF stands for Carson Accounting Firm, an accounting firm housing 50 or so employees on three or so stories of a ten or so story-high building.

Up the stairs, turn left. A bunch of heads tilted down toward computer monitors stay just like that. Keys click on keyboards. Each step forward, Jerry glances into a passed cubicle, but not a single pair of eyes turns his way.

But the thing is, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t need a greeting. A Hello. A Hey, how’d your night go? A Hey, you watch the game? Want to come over tonight to watch the next one? None of that.

And yet, on this day, he passes a cubicle just three away from his, and his pace slows, his gaze lingers. There sits Jeanine Garrison. Like the others, her eyeballs glare at a screen with a spreadsheet of rows and columns, numbers, and profits and losses. Jerry’s feet barely move. Nearly stop.

Until Jeanine’s gaze shifts. Her head tilts upward, strands of blond hair fall back, revealing her face. Then, the rest of her body, which is adorned in a similar color and style as the very suit Jerry wears but modified for a female’s more appealing design. Before her pupils land on his form, his feet shuffle a few steps quicker and onward to his cubicle. Plops his buttocks on the chair.

The next few hours consist of crunching numbers. Calling clients. Letting them know how they’ve made too much money and need to find a way to legally hide so much money so they don’t have to pay a good portion of that money to the government. There might be a little more nuance to it than that, but at the end of the day, that’s what every client wants: To keep the most amount of money they can and not give it away.

Stinson, a voice calls four cubicles down and approaches fast.

Jerry jumps at the call, shaken a little by an adrenaline rush, and he’s suddenly completely aware of the throbbing in his skull because he forgot to get himself a cup of coffee when he made it into the office. The grumble in his stomach isn’t helping. How could he forget the croissants, too?

Pushing that to the side, he turns away from the monitor to see Bill Carson standing at his cubicle entrance. Carson is, for all intents and purposes, an annoying little nuisance. Son of the owner of CAF. Couldn’t add two and two to save his life, but nepotism has its perks, so Jerry answered to Carson.

Yes, sir, Jerry said.

Where’s the Bluth report? I needed it yesterday. Carson stands there, arms straight at his side, mustache trimmed like someone drew a line above his lip with a pen.

The Bluth report? Jerry questions, using the moment to formulate his thoughts and access the part of his mind that recalls the Bluth report.

Yes, the Bluth report. I’m supposed to meet with the client in 15 minutes, Jerry. Fifteen minutes. And I got nothing.

Enough time passes for Jerry’s brain to reveal what happened with the Bluth report. With all the numbers and crunching and reporting that Jerry does, remembering all the details of what he’s completed and yet to be done blurs some.

Well, sir, on Monday, I—

Get to the point, Stinson!

I gave it to you Monday.

Monday?

Yes, walked into your office with the manila folder. Papers in hand. You weren’t there. I set it on top of your desk. Next to a cup of coffee. But was it a cup of coffee, or was Jerry’s brain trying to remind him of something? And a stack of other folders.

Next to or on top?

Next to.

Well, I got news for you, Stinson, the report isn’t there. I searched my office thoroughly. You think I want to come all this way to your cubicle to ask you about it? Waste my time?

This is when Jerry first felt the tickle. That something in his brain that told him to say a few unexpected words despite the seriousness of the situation. He couldn’t quite find the words, but they were there. His tongue was a diving board, and the diver was about to jump off.

I’m sorry, sir. I should have made sure to hand it to you directly.

You better believe you should have. Better believe.

I could email it to you. I have the report right here on my computer.

"Email? You know my requirements. Paper, Jerry, paper. Nothing good ever came from a computer but bugs and glitches and stolen information. If I had it my way, I’d remove all the computers. And now Carson’s voice carries to every wall, All of them from every single one of your desks."

Jerry imagines heads lifting. Eyes turning cubicle corners. His mouth also makes to form a word his brain says is the first in a sentence that would bring him great pleasure. Such an odd sensation. One he’s never felt before, nor one he gathers he could explain. But before the word begins to start the phrase that makes a sentence—

No, Jerry. No! This is incompetence. This is an unwillingness to follow procedure.

So, this isn’t a typical day for Jerry. Because a typical day would have him doing his work. Punching the keys. Punching the clock. Exiting the building and returning home. Dinner. Brush teeth. Remove contacts. Pajamas. Sleep. Do it all again tomorrow. But today, that’s not what happens.

Today, it all changes.

Maybe I oughta make an example of you. Carson’s eyes scan the room. The son of the owner of CAF. The guy underneath the head honcho. The one everyone wishes to ignore but must pay attention to. "Yeah, an example. That’s what we need to instill the right kind of fear and dedication.

Jerry Stinson, Carson says, eyes like bullets. You’re fired!

Fired? Fired, sir?

Yeah. Pack up your stuff. Get out of here. Find someone else who’s willing to tolerate the insubordination.

Insubordination?

This confuses Jerry to no end. He always knew Carson was a chore to work for but had never expected something like this. It came without warning, barely with cause. But it was the truth. Words stated, facts presented.

Yes, in..sub..ord..ination.

Jerry’s brain. Oh, Jerry’s brain. It conjures some things up. Some great things to say. The words jumble into all kinds of mixed bags of goodies.

No. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. And why would I even say them? They are so unexpected. But obvious. And maybe even contradictory. I can’t.

Jerry stands, dazed. Sucker-punched. The moment sinks in, but even still, he hopes the boat will float. All the things that happen now. Bills to pay. Rent to cover. It’s not like Carl will come to the rescue. He scans the room. Tops of heads peer over the cubicle walls. Eyes angle at their respective viewpoints to see a man instantly emasculated.

Very well, sir, is all Jerry can say. All he can conjure his mouth and vocal cords to spew when his brain wants him to say so much more.

Turning to his desk, he fishes an empty box from underneath. Gathers his belongings: A picture frame with the stock photo. A pen he one time brought in from home. And a coffee mug that says World’s Best Dad was there from the guy who worked at the desk before him. So, okay, maybe not all his belongings. But he’d drank enough coffee from that mug to have squatter’s rights.

Box in hand, he marches back the way he entered. Past the coffee and croissants. Past heads that ignored his arrival but gaze in awe as he departs. Even Jeanine. She stands there. A frown that wrinkles the corners of her mouth, eyes lowered in pity.

I’m sorry, Jerry, she whispers.

She knows my name? I never imagined.

It’ll be fine, he says. Fine.

But will it be fine? This is nothing like the life he’s led to this point. A life of evenness. The status quo. Day in, day out. Maybe he can find another job. As an accountant. Crunching numbers. Eying spreadsheets. But is that what he wants?

His brain tells him something otherwise. It fizzles and pops like a shaken can of soda. It wants him to say things about this situation. Not keep it bottled up with the cap on. No, his brain tells him it’s time for a change. But he punches it in the left eye. Tells it to