Volume 1, Issue 3 & 4 - Diverse Voices Quarterly

was expecting to happen this afternoon. On further consideration, the whole affair
seems a case of muddled judgment, and I decide to retrieve the magazine from the
mail slot right after my coffee.
In the kitchen there is a palpable excitement, which can have only a single
explanation: someone has brought in donuts. Huddled around the open boxes with
outstretched arms, with hands pawing and groping and snatching, there is a group of
people who have evidently been denied nourishment for days. Mary Lou, never a
mistress of discretion, is squeezing the donuts with her sticky fingers, in search of the
elusive raspberry-filled delight. I take a cup of coffee from Lacey and retire to the
corner by the watercooler, as far as possible from the frenzied throng.
Bob Patterson has not arrived yet.
I can see from George Irwin’s desperate glances in my direction that he is
seeking deliverance from Ben’s monologue on preferred rental cars, but I lack the vigor
to be his savior this afternoon; in any case, I would not want to intrude into the
domain of his angry god. Instead, I look over at Mary Lou, who is wearing a purple
miniskirt. I am compelled to agree with Lacey’s morning appraisal. The woman is truly
in need of fashion advice. Perhaps I should ask Nicholas to speak to her privately.
“Nicholas,” I say and he turns to me, his blond hair stiffer than Bakelite resin.
“That data I gave you. Was that what you were looking for?”
“Perfect,” he says. “Thanks so much for your help.”
I am facing the refrigerator, so I do not see anyone walk into the kitchen, but
immediately sense that a new element has intruded into our assembly. The drone of
conversation dies out, and I notice Nicholas’s eyes widening in distress. He suddenly
steps back, like a gymnast about to spring into a routine, but is not quick enough.
Bob Patterson barrels past me and smacks Nicholas on the chest full-force with his
meaty outstretched palm. Nicholas staggers and falls to the ground. With a nimble
dodge, Melissa Harris evades a splatter of coffee.
“What the hell?” Nicholas says, struggling to his feet.
“I suppose you think this is funny,” Bob says.
“What are you talking about?”
By this time, everyone has gathered around Bob Patterson and Nicholas, like
wolves circling prey.
“I found this in my mail today!” Bob announces and holds up a magazine of
male pornography entitled Latin Inches. The centerfold cascades out triumphantly,
and a beaming model unfurls his naked manhood amongst the coffee cups and aghast
faces.
“Disgusting!” George Irwin exclaims.
Diverse Voices Quarterly, Vol. 1, Issue 3 & 4 17