Cucumber Man

Some crashing comes from back in the kitchen. "Someone's gonna get fired," he says. He sips his African coffee, orange zest, tiny white cup. Four dollars. No one gets fired for stuff like that though. Repeat offenders I guess are another story. The ones who do it on purpose. The ones going out with a bang. "Let's go over it again," he says. Mitchell takes the elevator down a few minutes before five. He wants to stake out his favorite treadmill before the other employees. He's on for an hour and then does some free weights because he likes to look at himself in the mirror. He'll go to the parking garage between six-twenty and six-thirty. He always takes the stairs. That's when it's got to happen. "Car." Third level. It's sparse down there, Mitchell likes to protect his Lexus. Third level is the bottom. Underneath the stairs is a storage area, view of the door is completely blocked if you're in there. "Security cameras." There are no cameras in the wells. But if he makes it into the garage it's too late. Every inch of those floors is on tape somewhere. We sit for a time. He's what people call cool as a cucumber, he's a cucumber man. Everything he does, each little move, seems like he's done it before. Practiced, perfect. This is the guy you want doing your jobs for you. He smiles at me and sips his whatever-it-is, sniffs before each little sip, gets the last little rim dribble up with his lip. It's just that one thing though. Disgusting. "Why this... Mitchell?" Some people, I tell him, you just have to get rid of.