Chapter 11:
Mayfield's Monday Blues
Still facing no end to the dreams or discomfort, and still getting no help whatsoever from the couch, even the Monday sunrise couldn't stop Mayfield from stealing whatever precious sleep he could get. Only the stomach's call to breakfast had him sit up & rub his eyes, where after a yelp as he stretched, he began his hustle towards that very first day as Delivery Boy.
But come the first day, come the first omen, and not promising ones by any means.
A quick kitchen facewash, a click of his watch, and a check of both clocks was all it took to send his feet in a flurry, his eyes about ready to pull a Kim Goodman of once world-record fame.
"CRAP! 8 o'clock!"
Just an hour shy of starting his shift, and stomach still empty… Not that he had time to worry before he ripped clothes from the entertainment unit & seized his bag, almost crashing into some curly-haired clipboard carrier as his whirlwind pace threatened to tear the HQ's roof off.
Dove straight in the lift & shut the door. Slammed the button a dozen times. Called out "Come on!" even more.
The instant it split apart, he gave pained gasps aplenty as he damn near triple-jumped towards the locker rooms. Almost a quarter past eight by his watch, and nowhere near the shower yet. The Captain's threats ringing loud in his ears, before and after he flicked that tempting spray on…
"...Make your first day in New New York feel like a papercut..."
A cold shiver even in steam & warmth, sure as he remembered his very first night…
About 25 minutes to nine when he finished, and another fit of panic before his first baby steps towards immodesty; a naked, towel-wrapped stroll around the locker room. Done dawdling, he dried up & got dressed, skidding to the sink to scrub his teeth thoroughly.
Despite all the rushes, struggles & starved stomachs however, he still punched on at about three past nine—to most of their looks, especially his Captain's, to wither a canyon. In Leela's hand, a brew to wake the dead, quite unlike her flat "Morning" upon his arrival. Zoidberg had jovially greeted them all, only one "Gidday" given in response. Two others, who he assumed were Amy & Hermes, were either doing catalogue checks or number crunches while awaiting the Professor's arrival.
An arrival that, to everyone's annoyance, inexplicably came fifteen minutes late due to the Professor's desire to walk. A pissed groan from Mayfield especially… Could've had a slice of toast if he had known, not that The Professor seemed to care when he greeted the table.
"Everyone, before we begin the day, and bankroll further into our bankruptcy black hole, I'd like you to welcome our newest crew member, eh…"
He stammered, a finger point to nothing, before he conceded a whisper:
"Hermes, what was that young man's name again?"
A hiss of sorts in reply: "Thomas Mayfield, not that you were any help… For starters, you never sent any paperwork my way!"
"Well I was already in my pyjamas… Regardless of whoever he happens to be, I'm sure he'll waste our time just the same."
Small claps & calls of welcome, while he stood & waved. Was more the great tummy grumbles that made its presence known, as one by one he acknowledged both crew & colleague. To the Professor, an eye-roll of disapproval, and a subtle whisper of "yeesh" knowing that his rush was all for nothing.
"Okay 'den new kid, could ya micase with the intros, mon? Stinkbug over here's making my Manwich mouldy!"
"Uh, excuse me?"
"Ya heard me, quashie wasteman! Speak, a beg yuh, before I hurl."
"Okay, then… Hi everyone, I'm Thomas Mayfield, mostly last & rarely first. New New York's latest delivery boy, Neanderthal, nuisance and no-account numpty. Don't have lots to say otherwise, so I'll finish by saying thanks for having me here, and that by book or by crook, I'll do whatever's in my power to bring this business back from the brink."
Small claps & murmurs to conclude the meeting, as the bureaucrat ripped himself from the desk. Inhaling deep grateful breaths, Hermes beckoned Mayfield towards him. Arriving at his office, the bulbous & bespectacled man had bounded to his desk, where he sat the bearded one down & shared the straight talk:
"Listen mon, were 'dere any other suit at 'dis desk, you'd have been grounded… Damned Professor forgot and done me dirty! Let me say that you're quite lucky for your Captain; even my skills wouldn't have organised the paperwork if it weren't for her call."
An outward smile gave way to inward squirms, as Mayfield digested the news. Once before, whatever fears he held of space, he could cast aside forever. Knew he wasn't worthy to scrub the floors of NASA, never mind enter their space program, and grew comfortable of that very fact. Now, he could no longer run or hide, without the prestige or accolade to show for it anymore.
Flashing a satisfied grin no less, Hermes handed off the company policies & procedures, a folder so thick and unwieldy that Mayfield had to clasp both ends tight to avoid spillage. A fireable offense for sure, given how impossibly particular, neat & ordered this man's office was. If he ever had a bedroom to clean…
Dousing his daydreams, Mayfield gave mindless flicks through the P&Ps, took his time to scan the forms, and worked on a respectable signature, unaware of what was to come. From initial glances, they were champions at covering their asses, a point he made upon promises to read those books.
Only a wave-off and "Whatever" in reply, like disability & death were just part and parcel of Planet Express…
Sharing a stare of doubt, Mayfield penned the paper and scribbled his signature, a show of gratitude in mind via a shake of Hermes' hand. But upon getting his arm wrenched from him and feeling a sharp spear stab into his palm, such ideas had vanished, and quickly.
Not that he knew, but the new career chip had found its home…
"YEOW, argh, you son-of-a…"
"Finish 'dat sentence, and I'll insert it into your other hand."
The plunge of that thousand-degree knife sent shivers up his spine & seared his flesh, but he figured it wise to stay silent and leave. Not that he didn't place poxes on Hermes' name the whole while…
Worse than that cursed career chip, however, had to have been the upcoming physical with 'Dr.' Zoidberg, and what he imagined would be the anticipated amount of awful still to come.
Cracking a peek through the glass, he spotted that crablike creature kicking back, sniffs & slurps aplenty as daydreams of food danced in his head. What it looked like, perhaps, but in his indecision about whether to back off and run, Zoidberg had saw him staring. Bounded over and almost ripped the door off in eager greeting.
"Excellent, excellent, you're here for your physical?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, I was about to…"
Had no chance to say 'leave' before pincers grabbed his arm and dragged him in. Wincing at the drawn blood staining his shirt, his eyes darted & fingers drummed as he sat on the bed, desperate breaths taken to avoid any panic. Only focused on forgetting how he got in and out, while Zoidberg searched for his tools.
Such panic never subsided, when the awful came not from the butchery as once feared, but instead, from sheer, baffling incompetence.
Fresh out of his dumpster, a discarded pair of iPod earphones and a cardboard toilet paper tube to 'check' the heart, lungs & throat. Horrid smells aside, what really sent quivers through his guts was Zoidberg's own wide stare. Having had enough of the smell & taste, and terrified for his life, Mayfield made to scurry out, a hasty offer of bribery his last words to him.
If he still had the touch test, then he knew—no need for Baker Street's finest—that claws and balls did NOT go together.
Following a relieved wipe of the brow, it was back into the hangar to find a lady, arguably his age, buzzing around the spaceship almost in ballet-like grace. Precise & quick movements, as she checked fuel levels, gauges & buttons, actions that left him agape in awe.
Any plans to wave up & call out to her, whatever they were, had stopped upon his amazement and her notice, a yell of "Coming!" sent down while she finished up. Upon landing, she shot her hand out, an enthusiasm given which, still being several feet away, struck him as quite strange.
She wasn't like any New New Yorker he ever knew…
Especially for the step, slip-slide & scream off of leftover grease; a clumsy move especially given those last minutes. Not that he worried after hearing that good, solid whack...
"Oh crap, you alright? Here, have a hand."
"Man that hurt! Anyway, thanks… You're the new guy, I take it?"
"Last I checked, anyway. Delivery Boy 2nd Class, here to serve."
"The probation rank… Well, we all start somewhere, right?"
"That we do. Sure didn't expect you to fall for me though, I never considered myself the type."
An amused chortle and smirk: "For one, I've got a boyfriend already, and two, you wish!"
A small flinch & finger-snap: "Ah dammit, well it was worth a shot… So to whom do I owe a Gidday and Hooroo to?"
"Amy Wong; part-time pilot, full time intern, PhD in waiting. And if nothing else, pleased to meet you." The two shook hands, a smile from both.
"Good lord, you barely look my age, and you're getting a PhD already? So what are you going for?"
"Well, it's Applied Physics, and why I work here. Have hopes to move on, but after Professor Shpeekenshpell's 'rough' job market prediction, fear that I won't anytime soon."
"A bloody outrage, that is," he grimaced in reply: "You're a Masters before you can drive, I'm guessing, and you're stuck working for this worthless old wart?"
"Hey excuse me, that's uncalled for! Old and losing it, I don't deny, but he's hardly worthless… So how did you end up here anyway?"
"Well, by the dreams I've had, and always the same ones, I came through some unbelievable vortex, the kind you'd catch in fantasy over real life. To describe the days since, of first waking up in vomit to now talking to you… Pfft, think I'd need a whole work day to get into it. Honestly, it's perhaps best that you don't ask."
"Riiiiiight, okay… So BEFORE all that strange timey-wimey stuff, and junk, who exactly were you?"
"Nobody who was worth a damn, I'd consider. Spent my last days in the call centre circuit, hated every last minute there. Customers I'd sooner strangle than service, co-workers I'd rather coldcock than chat to, and a manager who I'd bury alive rather than be caught dead under."
"Gleesh, and to think I once didn't believe Leela's stories. Seemed an everyday thing for her to tend to call-centre suicides, years before we started… What about outside?"
"Don't expect to be thrilled or anything, okay? When I wasn't drinking myself to death, what little I remember included volunteering at an 'opportunity' store, odd spurts of writing, and of course, wasting away on pointless games. No bigger loser you've met, I'm sure."
"Well… I wouldn't say the biggest, if that means anything."
"Hell, I'll take it. So, how 'bout yourself? Leela told me about the pink sweatsuit & hairdo, but…"
"Oh please… I promise you, I'm no fan of this look. Tell the truth, it's only my parents who've forced it on me, and another of many reasons of why I'd rather remain here."
A rant from nowhere followed to scorch them alive; those demands to be more boyish, their cruel, endless jibes against her weight, the ways they tried to control or manipulate her life… But most asinine of all, their obsessive desires for her to bear grandchildren, even with evidence to the contrary that they'd treat them better. And all that nonsense, from her very first minute of birth.
Stunned cold, Mayfield pinched the bridge of his nose, a shake of the head in sheer disbelief.
"Wow, that shat me off more than it should've… Sorry to hear that. But hey, credit where due, you've turned out great in spite of them."
After a flit of her eyes in appreciation, they continued to talk about whatever, only stopped by a sudden thunder-clap as Leela got in between:
"Look, I hate to interrupt what sounds like a marvellous get-together, but Mayfield and I have some official business to handle." She turned towards him. "If you'll follow me, please?"
An unexpected, and loud growl of the stomach: "Uh, I don't know Leela, possible it could wait until after breakfast?"
"Captain or ma'am! And like hell, sport, you're on the clock now. So move it!"
To say nothing of his growl, matters were further tensed when she witnessed her charge begin to open up his shiny end locker. Arms crossed and nose steamed, she stared towards the skies, ready to release a rant:
"Not even this, huh? What is it? What did I do? Why must you be so unkind? The hell does it take to get an end locker, a stupid, stinkin' end locker around here?"
Even as a professional, she had no way to hide the envy of a punk kid getting one of her biggest desires without effort. Never asked for much, yet she couldn't escape the feeling that she'd been screwed once more.
"Gee, makes me wonder if the Professor actually appreciates the reliable ones around here."
"Come again, Captain?"
"I must've sent a dozen requests, worked my ass off, just for an end locker… And what happens? It goes straight to a jackass who not only gave no shred of effort, but was late on his first day!"
"Jackass or no, you say that before I've even moved in… No-one would know if we just 'swapped' right now, would they?"
"Are you kidding? Nice sentiment, but would you really expect such a game to last if even our moron in charge could get suspicious? Newsflash, we're on camera!" A point to the far corner as proof. "Besides, a full-on locker swap ALONE could take him months to approve, if he even remembers. I swear he just wants to twist my sisters, the way he just fumbles my forms."
A silent thought of "Who doesn't?" crept into Mayfield's mind, but he stopped himself… Was one thing to say it, quite another to survive it.
Over her gripes, she gave him the rundown on changing his combo code, where seconds upon him punching it in, a loud call to action came over the PA system. Soon everybody was seated; though Mayfield's stomach was still in protest (this time not just from hunger pains), the Professor got right to business.
"Good news everyone! Courtesy of a repeat customer on Stumbos-4, we're about to deliver these crates of brand new sheets & blankets, for their chain of hotels."
For Mayfield, an implosive burst of dread and stare of alarm. Wanted to scream "Oh no!" but the words wouldn't form.
"Leela, since you're most familiar with them, it'll be your job to not only deliver these crates, but to educate your crew as well. Namely, on how to combat the planet's absurd gravity."
"Absurd, in what context?" Another thought of Mayfield's, and a strong, shaken grip on his chin.
"So absurdly high that you could be crushed by your own hair… Enjoy your stay!" he waved off, giving a chuckle.
Not that he had much, but Mayfield made his regrets known over never writing his will down.
Knew he should've sold drugs on the street corner… Knew his twisted imagination would paint scenarios of grave injuries, huge dangers, and catastrophic monsters! While the ladies got to work, he just shook in his seat, eager to stay.
Positive thoughts… Breathe in, positive… Breathe out, thoughts. Over and over, he remembered the clean shave up top, the captain & co-pilot, and of course, the simple delivery. Given those very competent ladies at the helm, he assured himself that they'd all succeed and go home, and that would be that.
"Hey kid, you comin' or what?" Leela yelled over stamping Hermes' paperwork. Steeling himself, he rose from his seat and began to trolley the crates. Two of them, at a guess a good 300 cubic feet apiece, that Amy had soon boarded following supreme hoisting skills. His nerves still fired up in panic, Mayfield chose to sit down, thinking it best that he didn't burden anybody.
Only too bad that he sat on the platform, where within seconds, he was raised up to third deck. Though he felt fit to protest, Amy had already ascended, perhaps oblivious, to prepare for flight routines. Suspicious that they'd take off without his safety in mind, he began his tentative steps up to second, then up to top deck, only expressing relief that they were still flicking buttons and accounting for all systems.
Murmurs and calls between pilots on what was online and what wasn't, but just as Mayfield opened his mouth to express some planet-sized concerns, Leela had turned to bark a simple command:
"Listen buster, I won't have human torpedoes on this ship, so I suggest you buckle up!"
All sorted and figured out, the first and final countdowns caused Mayfield's insides to roar, his horrors never more pronounced than now.
Just as well he listened, for the reverse lightning bolt dubbed the Planet Express ship soon flashed towards the stratosphere. For her crew both old and new, they found themselves hurtling towards the frontiers, familiar & unknown, of Stumbos-4.
For the new kid in particular, he was only able to shut his eyes & pray. Had no idea which sides of the universe he'd witness, and he dared not think of the Challenger during his ascension…