Good Lifestyle

"I surprised at me by writing this fictitious story," says Chuck Palahniuk tells us about "insiders", a room he wrote exclusively forBetter life."I took it as far as I thought the story would go, then he just moved from there."

The author ofCombat Club, throttle,and Do somethingBased history on his own experiences with a hazing job and a romantic meeting that he had on a lift in Vancouver. "At some point, everyone has to go through an experience in which they lose their personal identity and take a group person instead," he says. "This is the ritual of" losing "your innocence".For more in our exclusive fiction series,Click here to read "Tranquility" by Bestselling Author John Grisham.

A security guard calls Lobby, ask if our department has a virgin that we want to sacrifice.

This guard, he has already called product planning and accounting and marketing, and these people escape down to watch the action. He claims that the forecasts of production feel a girl named Sarah, at the exit of the college, just an administering administration assistant. This Sarah was only with the company for a week-sense, a novice. Meaning, the perfect sacrifice.

The security guard says, "We hold the flower guy until the Virgin presents itself." Two other guards went upstairs to stop the elevators.

The flower guy is in the building.

Every city has its human monuments. Live and introductory landmarks. In this city, we are looking for the woman bird, a woman stout dressed in a house of house, walking in the shingy streets of the birdiers. The house ridge. Western Meadowlaark. Every few years, we see the Brayner building, a half-young gray, a half-young man who wears a prayer shawl around his shoulders and stands in front of each high height, murmuring, his index pulling a cross, a circle, a circle, Mysterious blessings, in the air. He will kneel and kiss the sidewalk, all this time praying to faces, ties and lipstick looking at our rows of windows.

The Achaogany Row Dash receptionist, his headset has always cooked around an ear, saying everyone ", hurry, it's the flower guy." She says, "Tell me, is my Chihuahua stained?"

We all know the Monkey Man sock, which wears shorts from Bermuda, sun or rain, and marches the street, squeezing the same monkey stuffed with his chest. And we all know the flower guy.

In the lobby, a crowd of people stands in the lobby between the two elevators. Industrial engineering people. People from information technology. Everyone with his name and photo on a badge of society.

Everyone knows the flower guy and everyone knows the ritual.

We all cross the focus between the two elevators, trying not to look at the virgin of production forecasts. Sarah. On his badge of the company: Sarah Shoemaker. A girl with hair hanging on her elbows, black hair straight hair. Eyeglasses. His ears and glasses holding long hair from his face. Wear a blouse with flying on the front. A tile skirt that looks sewn with padding material. Flat shoes, each with a loop on the top. Freckles. His arms crossed, hugging a Manila folder to his chest. Cut to the belt of his skirt, the safety badge, his cup of cups, just the same stiff hair and glasses: Sarah Shoemaker.

Our virgin sacrifice. The person we have all been. Used to be. Once.

My first job here, I was in accordance with and the soil supervisor sent me to the production forecast to obtain a pink labor assignment form, internal document number HR-346. The supervisor had a finger in my face and told me-the form of rose, not the old pink shape. And I should not let them brush me with HR-975 blue bullshit and tell me it was the equivalent.

I wrote: Mission of labor hours, HR-346, pink color. No pink. NOT HR-975.

My supervisor said not to come back before having this form.

In the forecast of production, they gave me a blue form, but I told them "sorry". Their floor supervisor told me to take it, and I always shake his head. I needed the pink shape. They tried to give me another shape, but I did not know Rose Rose. So I asked, "Was it the old pink shape?"

The head of the forecast shouted me, said I did not know what I wanted and sent me to the planning of materials, where the manager simply shake his head, called me confused, and m ' Stayed at his desk while he phoned provisioning resources and said he sent them an idiot who really needed brains. The provisioning sent me to marketing, which sent me to the accounting, which referred me to the forecast. Materials said I was imbecile of believing that something provisioning told me. Accounting told me that the forecast was the big problem. The product design sent me to the construction of services, which are the concirists of the third sub-level, and they had made a great show to return through files and boxes looking for a HR-346 of Pink color, before telling me how to find logistical benefits in the seventeenth floor. Which sent me to transport and relocation to the ninth floor. Who sent me to mail services on the second floor. Who sent me to the expeditious policy on the twenty-second floor. ...

My point of being: nobody worked a lot that day.

My point of being: There is no pink labor assignment form.

My point of being: every company has its own initiation rituals. A race of the fool. A wild goose hunt. A snipe hunt. And now our ritual is the flower guy.

The trick is for security to keep it at the hall office until we find a virgin. A beginner. As soon as people gather to watch, they argue the flower guy inside the building, near the elevator bank, and the rest of us hold between him and the sacrifice so that she sees Not what's wrong.

On the other side of the fireplace, the flower guy looks good. If you did not know, you would say it's a handsome young guy, holding a large vase of red roses. Boyfriend material. He wears a buttonhole shirt with the dead name sewn on the chest. Brown shoes. But the important part, what you see first is the roses, a weapon of red roses in a mist of green ferns and the breath of baby. The bottom of the vase is in a cardboard box filled with layers of colorful silk paper and a small white casing is stapled to the fabric.

Someone of the payroll has seen her wear her plastic flowers, get on a bus at the 127th street. A site coordination, once, watched two cops for rent-a-cops that outweigh it on a Midtown office building. He sees a door and goes just inside, people say. Most places, it never exceeds the hall.

The trick only works because it carries flowers. A baby or puppy could work even better, but the two would be difficult to come. Flowers, especially roses, especially long rod roses, especially catch the eye of the Virgin. They are "dead" look like someone who cares. Dressed in a uniform, hidden shirt in pants, his name embroidered on the chest, it makes him look like a person in care cases. A caring professional. Someone like a doctor. But wearing a stethoscope would be too obvious and a baby would not hold the day.

Babies are so fragile and security guards would prevent him from bringing a puppy.

Puppies tend to shit anywhere.

Our sacrifice, Sarah, stands wait on the ground floor for an elevator, standing in the lobby where the two elevators of the building are facing the polished stone overcrowded by people. She has just been shocked; Now she will be returned to her hunt for the Snipe. Marketing people. Provisioning and safety and accounting. Sarah Shoemaker stipe roses and she looks.

It's when he usually goes back. Their eyes connect. They lock. And he will look away.

The flower guy wears the vase enough to keep the flowers next to his face. Right at the eye level.

Our big building works pretty well, with our slow elevators. On each floor, the two elevators are facing a small fireplace. We will wait for a crowd of people who collect, everyone tilting the head back, looking at the numbers count as the two lifts crawling lower and closer. Two guards hold the elevators in seventeen, then put them as they arrive at about the same time. The rest of us, we are looking for elevator numbers. We blink to each other.

We mingicate between sacrifice and roses to not see that they are wrong. Plastic flowers transported to the sun until they are faded and escape on bits.

The glass light peaks of the bracelets were turning to the ceiling to check the time. Someone building services supports the UP button. A material supply person again supports the UP key, tapping as quickly as the Morse code. A throat moves away. The Mahogany Row Winks receptionist on me, the earpiece and Mike have always tightened around his blond hair. Last September, she was the Virgin, standing on her toes to see the roses across the hall. Not knowing that there is no HR-346. There is no double-reel linker with double lapel, regardless of the number of people you request. Not knowing the joke.

But it was last year.

This sacrifice is not pretty, but she is so young that you would probably say she was. Pretty and healthy look the same if you really pay attention. Sarah Shoemaker with her inclined head, her peeled lips open a crack. His hair was hanging directly into the back. His glasses, shiny circles of reflected light.

The rest of us knowing that there is no way to make 300 photocopies half-waist flooded reversed.

Both cars arrive and doors slide. Half of the walking crowd in an elevator. Half in the other.

Half of the people strolling Sarah in a single car and the rest of us troop the flower guy in the car face. At the moment the doors slide, the two of them look in the lobby the other.

Fingers in each car point and push, and the button on each bright orange blank. Someone of finance management says: "Six, please." The receptionist says, "Do you want to hit eleven?" People say "Thank you" up almost all Glow orange buttons. The flower guy just looks at the Virgin until the doors slide.

He never chooses a floor.

The production forecasts are on twenty-two, so we have many floors for this to happen.

On the second floor, the doors open. Act a, scene two. In the second floor lobby, doors slide open to show the sacrifice. Once again, his eyes lock on the flowers. Roses. The two elevators stop, but no one resigns.

As its doors close, the inhabitants of the other car will claim to wonder who will have such dazzling roses. To say how cute the delivery guy is. Allusion to sacrifice and asking if she thinks he's cute.

In the other car, someone elbs the flower guy, whispering: "Hey." Whispering: "This pretty girl with glasses ... his name is Sarah."

On the third floor, the doors open and there are Sarah eyes. The doors of his elevator are already open. Nobody goes out, but maybe she smiles. A smile couple lips.

The flower guy smiles.

The doors close and people elbow the flower guy and urge him hello to the Virgin the next one sees it. People hold their breath. Breathe through their mouths.

Close, the flower guy gives off a stench. Piss cat. The smell of any group group.

The only reward to stand behind the flower guy is when you get to see the virgin smile flow.

If no one pressed the four buttons, we do it. At the next floor, doors slide open. Everyone in our car held his breath. The flower guy examines the other elevator open and says, "Hello."

He has a good voice, deeper than you expect.

Sarah Shoemaker says, "Hi."

The crowd standing around her and behind her, they smile. Their brilliant eyes. While the doors close, we all take a deep breath.

On the fifth floor, the Virgin says, "These are beautiful." Calling on the other elevator when both doors open, she says, "I like roses."

The flower guy hoches his head at the bouquet. He asks, "Do you want them?" He said to him, "The roses suck."

And Sarah Shoemaker, she said, "It's awful."

Some of the women of his car, legal analysis and costs and planning facilities, each of the cup of one hand, ventilated fingers, to cover a smile. They all said that. Or almost that.

The guy of flowers tells the sacrifice: "It is the smell. Pink pink." Then he smiles and allows the doors of the lift and cold lift.

The ritual has never changed. Hazing.

You do not need to change the air in the Pool CARS tires.

You can never give the hand to deliver this important memo because the director of synergy relationships does not exist.

While the doors open to the sixth floor, the flower guy will call through the home to the girl. The elevator calendar remains impeccable. He said to her, when he was small, a family in the street, his neighbors, their house is high of fake pink perfumes. Rose carpet powder. Deodorant from the rose hall. Each step of their shag carpet has inflated the smell of roses. Each couch cushion has compressed the roses. The flower guy will tell him how the neighbor's boy, he never went to the church camp. If you sat on the child's bed, you will hear the cracking of a sheet of plastic surmounted by his mattress. In the Children's Room, the roses fell you muffled to death.

On the seventh floor, walking traces sway in the corridor, beating stronger than the voice of a man, "holds the elevator, please." The flower guy puts a hand, laterally, to hold the doors. But when the man running, someone from resource design, sees the roses, he says, "It does not matter." He looks at the doors through the room, the virgin sacrifice flees, and he says, "Continue."

On the eighth floor, we look at the sacrifice appear as its doors slide. The ritual only works for the way we see ourselves, in small pictures. These lift doors, the square pane of a slow camera, exposing each other for one, two, three, four beats before disappearing. Little drops of time and retail. Stories that we can only say by putting a word after the other, showing you until you have a single lonely word too far.

At the ninth floor, the flower guy tells how his neighbors have thrown a surprise birthday party for their son. They invited each child in his son's class. The father took the kid for the ice while the mother stayed at home to blow balloons. Then, the guy of flower says how the mother squats behind her sofa, praying for a single guest arrives, compose the phone and whistling in other mothers, begging for a boy or a girl to come help her surprise . The flower guy describes how this little boy and his parents were around this big burning cake. By saying to the Virgin, while the boy exploded his candles, how his mother said, "You, Little Mister, need to wish you a few friends."

The tenth floor, like the doors of the other roller of elevator open and that the sacrifice is always there, listening again, the guy of flowers does not say anything. It reaches and supports the closed doors button.

Someone in our car, commercial policy, sighs.

The flower guy, at the eleventh floor, he always lets the sacrifice say something. Anything. Sarah Shoemaker says, "So? Are those for me?"

And the flower guy says, "I do not know yet."

Of the twelfth floor, the flower guy says how these neighbors, their tap water have tasted like roses. Their supermarket cookies they bought were like chewing dry and crunchy roses. Their child wets so much. He tells the sacrifice of the morning that the father told people ", at least the cat knows how to control himself." Which means their Persian. People, which means their minister, his teacher, the pediatrician, his grandparents, the lady of Avon and a cashier at the warehouse. The flower guy says that long Persian hair has taken the honors of cat shows and are never angry outside the box. But the kid's kid, he had to repeat the third year and sleep most nights in a puddle on a sheet of plastic. Until day, the mother entered a wet spot with carpets and spanked the cat.

On the fourteenth floor, the flower guy said how the mother found her bed pillow soaked in piss, she kept the Persian only on the linoleum of the kitchen. How their home has so badly that their child's office at school smelled roses. The interior of their Chrysler smelled like roses. When the parents found a stinkic stinking stack in the middle of their bed, the Father called it impossible, a cat race taking a big shit. The big heap of it nested, poured so deeply in the quilt. The black flies planted in a buzzed and buzzing halo.

The mother, she says, "What are you saying?"

And the father said, "Since when did you eat this Spanish peanut cat?"

After this shit cat, the father seemed to look at each bite his child ate, attached to each peanut of their swallowed child.

When the doors triggers in the fifteenth floor, the flower guy tells the sacrifice of how the neighbors took their Persian to the vet and brought it to the house wrapped in a plastic garbage bag. The flower guy does not look anyone. He looks at the roses perched in his arms, sneering the big red flowers and said how the neighboring mother stops fucking his son good night. The same night, they buried the Persian cat, the mother sat on the edge of her child's bed, fussy plastic sheets and told her that he was too old. He had to grow too much, "she said and she did not want to confuse his development.

Act two, scene one.

My point of being: we forget how important a kiss could be. We forget how all your day would have a wave around the kitchen window. No wave and school day has been condemned.

Compare it to, nowadays, the moment you pull when you open the lobby door and hold it for a stranger and that person sweeps without saying a word. Without a sign of head or contact with the eyes. These moments are the reason why you do not wear a firearm.

Or the times you sign through the company's cafeteria and that the other person does not come back. Or you smile at someone's pensions and she does not return your smile.

On the sixteenth floor, the flower guy tells how the father brought to the house a Chihuahua puppy that corresponds to the catch palm with one hand. He gave it to the mother and she kissed the dog.

Sarah Shoemaker, she's the only person in her car is not smiling. Besides she, people planning and acceleration, they grunt their teeth to keep laughter.

The flower guy says how the neighbor, after school every day, he directed at home to form this little Chihuahua. He spread two newspaper leaves on the floor and holds the dog on them. He slipped a hand between the back legs of the dog and rub. With two fingers, wet licked, only his friction has made the Chihuahua seems asleep. The eyes started closing. The open peeled mouth and a pink tongue ribbon slipped and swung on one side, dripping.

Every story we told, another little test to see if the other will stick. Another small challenge. Permission to tell a worse story.

The flower guy, with his free hand, touches his thumb and his index together and shakes them next to his face. Eye level. He says how the dog's legs, the knees would be a little lower, but the back burglary the way a halloween cat could look, pressing his belly in the place where the kid has pinched a lipstick Red loose skin. Every muscle so rigid they all shake, vibrating so quickly that the fur of the dog would bloom.

Remember that this is not the state of empire or the Sears Tower. We do not get a thousand soils and some moments to stop. These stitribles of time. These small steps show that steel curtains sweep and closed.

In addition, we all have jobs to do. Calls to return.

Nevertheless, it's a break. An exercise in the construction of the team.

People standing behind the sacrifice, they climb the word Chihuahua, our codeword for lipstick, a typing line to make us laugh in the future.

As in, "you have Chihuahua on your teeth."

Or ", beautiful shade of Chihuahua that you wear."

In the seventeenth floor, the flower guy tells how this child taught Chihuahua the trick to push a red lipstick. From the end of the school day ended, while both parents accounted for their work, until they entered the driveway, the kid trained this dog. Feed Spanish peanuts and catch the disorder on newspaper leaves, until this dog can not see a human hand, not two fingers, before getting out of the lipstick and start drip. This Chihuahua. He has never stopped drip and wrap people around the lady of Avon. Leaving his mother soaked in the smell of roses.

Instead of looking for slippers or sheep farming, instead of "rolling" or "shake hands", Chihuahua could only make a turn. Always talk, the flower guy says that the neighboring mother stopped kissing the little dog. How when the lipstick is paired, the neighbors closed the dog in their garage.

The elevator doors close on the law two.

Act three, scene one. At the eighteenth floor, our flower guy tells the mother of the neighborhood enter the bathroom to pee on a stick of white paper. Always spray their house with a pink smell. Still not embrace the son. The mother agitated this band of dirty paper and said: "Little Mister, you'll have a younger brother or sister."

While the doors slide closed, she gave Chihuahua.

In the nineteenth floor, the mother buzzed, knitting, writing a list of names beginning with "death". The father wore at home an army of roses, and the two of them kissed into the kitchen door for a long time. The kid brought his breakfast to his mother on a plateau in bed: the grilled and the orange juice and a real living red pink from the garden next door. And he stood and looked until she was drunk throughout orange juice.

While the lift doors slide, the neighboring mother was locked up in their bathroom crying. And the kid, when he went to take a leak at bedtime, when he raised the seat of the toilet, he would not wet the bed, on the underside of the seat was small pink water stains.

In the twentieth floor, when the elevator doors are open, the flower guy asks the sacrifice if his ears jumped. He asks where she works. What she does.

Sarah Shoemaker does not say anything.

The flower guy describes how the kid spied on his mother. He hid under the bed of his bed and looked at his rattle the wheel of his pills, counting with his nail, "... seven, eight, new." Then count again. After that, count the pills another time.

With the closing of the elevator doors, we see how the mother stood with the father, whispering, "my birth control. ..." Shaking the wheel of pills and saying: "I have two weeks. "

While the doors slide again, the neighboring mother changes the sheets, slipping his hands between the mattress and the box of the box of the child when they find some of his pills. Not all. Maybe four pills. The same afternoon, the neighbor dad packed the plastic leaves and said it would be better for their child to have gone to live with his grandmother in another state. Just for a little while. At first only for a week, but really for the rest of its growth.

In the twenty-second floor, the flower guy calls to the girl. "Hey," says "dead". "Does your name Sarah?"

His business badge, suspended from his skirt's belt. The sacrifice drops one hand, fingers comfortable, in section to hide his name.

The triple flower guy with the small stapled envelope with silk paper, saying, "Come here." By saying, "I think it's for you."

It reaches until his thumb stops to press the Open doors button.

Someone through the household holds the other open elevator.

The rest of us go out. Staw a little bit. Piss cat.

The rest of the ritual, we have already looked at it. How are the sacrifice? She crosses the fireplace on the other elevator and she'll get into. When it's just him and the Virgin, the flower guy will leave the doors to close. At the moment of the moment, Sarah Shoemaker sees that the roses are plastic, this "dead" is not young, his hair is superimposed on gray, because the doors slide only with only the two of them inside, The flower guy will shout: "Surprise!"

Little gentleman. His story passed as a solitary word too far.

Our adorable pet, pissing in front of the box.

Security looking on the closed circuit camera, laughing.

No, there is no such tool as a raclette display size.

But the next time the security calls to say that the flower guy is here, Sarah Shoemaker will not be the virgin. She's going to laugh behind her hand. A team player, accentuating the word Chihuahua.

Whenever a project report appeared wrong, suspect, she will say, "Who nourished the Spanish cacahuets of cat?" Or, "What a breed of cat takes a discharge this big?"

My point of being, whoever she was before, Sarah Shoemaker, tomorrow, she will be another one of us.

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