Work, Love and the Sloppy Guy

By Michael A. Maney

There’s a good chance that we know someone who is untidy and disorganized. But this story is about Jack Randle, an Ad-Man who is deplorable in organizational management. In fact it’s so bad that he could lose his job, along with his girlfriend.
Will he straighten himself before it’s too late? We will find out in this satirical at times sexually themed story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael A. Maney
• Release date: Aug 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301425556

Michael A. Maney

New York City born and raised. Besides work, I play guitar and write a lot these days. With a dog named Max and a one bedroom flat, starving myself to keep getting fat. Getting older now, need only a drink or two. Sometimes I prefer ice tea and a room with a view. It's getting late now as I see, have the dog to walk but is he walking me? That's it for now, it's up to you. If you purchase my book....that's cool.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

In most respects, twenty-five-year-old Jack Randle was a happy, contented professional, with his girlfriend, Rita, providing him that solid relationship. The New York City, Greenwich Village apartment that he sublet from his grandmother would nicely round out his life except for one thing; if there were a reality show for the title of the most disorganized and messy person in the world, Jack would be a top contender.

When his disarray began at the age of twelve, the then blond-haired Jack was a normal tween. He loved sports, music, and video games, and began to take notice of the opposite sex. All in all he was a good kid. But though he was lectured over and over by his parents, he could not or would not grasp basic organizational skills.

He had heard so many times his mother, Susan, bellow the ubiquitous mother’s mantras, I am not your maid, and, How many times have I told you to clean your room? There was one in particular where his response would sometimes cause a retaliatory strike: Why can’t you be more like your sister? Frustrated to the point of tears, the lady of the house gave up; enter her husband to take a crack at it.

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Dr. Kevin Randle, DDS, was building his new practice and often would not arrive at his Queens, New York, home until 8:00 P.M. He was tired from leaning over open wet mouths, scraping and drilling crusty decay off bicuspids and molars. However, he promised his wife that he would have a talk with their son.

After he completed a meal of reheated pot-roast, red cabbage and a boiled potato, the lean thirty-five-year-old dentist reluctantly pushed the chair away from the table, across the daisy-printed linoleum floor. He rose slowly and grabbed his bottled beer. Taking a gulp for incentive, he placed it back on the table. With a hitch of his khakis and his white shirtsleeves rolled up, this father walked into the cozy living room; and he stopped. On his left was an eight-step staircase that would lead him to the second floor and Jack’s room. He turned and tightly grabbed the right-side wooden handrail. Like a patient who was to undergo root canal without Novocain, dread crossed his five o’clock shadow as he looked up toward the landing. He shook his head and sighed. Raising his right leg, his brown loafer touched the gray-carpeted stair step; up he went, slow and steady. Except for the creak of wood emitted after each stride, there was quiet. When he reached the top, he walked toward a closed door and knocked.

You can come in, heard through the door was his daughter Suzie’s sweet little voice. Dr. Randle pushed the door open. In her pink PJs the ponytailed ten-year-old was sitting at her desk, reading a school book. Her room was clean and organized with a neatly made bed adorned with a giant yellow bunny rabbit.

Hi honey, Dr. Randle said as he stood in the doorway.

Hi Daddy, she replied, her blue eyes gleaming at the sight of her father.

How was school?

Fine. She placed the book on her desk.

Do you have a lot of homework tonight?

Not so much, she said with a head shake. Dr. Randle smiled and nodded approvingly. Then there was an uncomfortable silence. Daddy? Suzie said with some hesitation.

Yes, honey?

Are you going in Jack’s room?

Dr. Randle gulped. Yes, I am.

Suzie whimpered with distress, I love you, Daddy.

I love you too.

Goodbye, she cried.

Goodbye, sweetheart. He gently closed the door and turned to his left. Taking an uncomfortable breath, he walked forward a few paces until he reached Jack’s room on his right; he knocked. Jack? he summoned through the door. There was no answer. Jack, he said again and with a grab of the knob, he pushed the door open to a dark room; Dr. Randle carefully maneuvered himself in. Jack, are you asleep?

No, Dad. I’m undercover. A voice was heard from the corner of the room followed by a click of a flashlight illuminating through a blanket.

Yeah, I can see that.

No, I mean I’m an undercover DEA Agent in the mountains of Colombia.

Oh? Sounds dangerous.

Don’t worry. They won’t find me.

That I believe. But now what do you say we see what the mountains look like at sunrise?

Okay.

Dr. Randle flipped the wall switch and with the room brightened, winced, Oh boy, Oh boy, to an utterly disheveled area.

Directly in his line of sight, against a dull gray wall in need of a paint job, was an unmade twin-size bed. The wrinkled white sheets and two pillows that should have covered it were lying bunched in the middle of the floor like a mountain range. Boy’s briefs and dirty socks, resembling small boulders, outlined an opposite wall. All four drawers of an oak dresser were opened like cliff-side ridges. Articles of clothing hung out of each; it appeared that some white BVDs were attempting to escape; and a half-filled wicker laundry basket was next to the dresser. When Jack filled the basket, because his mother would not enter his room without good reason, he left it in the hallway. You know that I visited Colombia when I was in college, said Dr. Randle as he stepped into the room. And it looks like… oops. He tripped over an unseen object but quickly regained his balance. From what I remember, you copied the terrain nicely.

Thanks.

Dr. Randle turned to a desk in the corner that was covered with an army green blanket. Would you come out from under that thing? Honoring the request, with flashlight in hand and hair just above his eyes, Jack crawled out. He clicked the flashlight off, and in his blue NY Giants pajamas, sat in a cross-legged position. Did you know, because of this mess, your mother was crying when I walked in the door? I don’t like to see that.

Maybe you should have waited until she was finished? was Jack’s meek reply.

Don’t be smart, Jack. I’m in no mood, Dr. Randle stated sternly.

I’m sorry, Jack said contritely, looking up at his father.

Okay. Why did you make your mother so upset?

I didn’t want to but she was invading my space.

Space? There is no space! the agitated father complained. The only thing that has any is your bed.

That’s the landing zone for the helicopter coming to pick me up.

A frustrated Dr. Randle had enough. Pointing at his son, he said, Look Jack. You’re grounded until this room is cleaned up. That means straight home from school; no friends; no TV; no video games. The only things you’ll be allowed to do are homework and to clean this room. Do you understand me?

Scrunching his face, Jack looked at his father. Can I at least use the bathroom?

I am not joking! Jack, and rightly so, did not dare to respond. Now, did you finish your homework?

Yes sir, Jack said softly.

Good. Starting tomorrow, I want to see progress with this room. Okay?

Yes. Can I go back to Colombia now?

Sure, but don’t stay there too late. I want you in your landing zone by 10:00, Dr. Randle said with a smile.

Okay. Jack turned and crawled toward the desk.

Jack? his father stopped and turned.

Yeah, Dad?

Grandpa was very tough on me, and I don’t want to be like that with you. But one of these days you’ll wish that you were neater. Dr. Randle left the room, and as it turned out, the parental prognosticator was correct.

CHAPTER 2

It was a week later at St. Michael’s Parochial School, Jack’s seventh-grade class. Sister Catherine Marie, after catching students Anthony Scambotti and Linda Ryan in the girls’ bathroom playing show and don’t tell, was not in a forgiving mood. Scheduled to retire at the end of the school year, the nun was tired and impatient, so it behooved all of her forty students to have their assignments ready.

Sister Catherine belonged to The Sisters of the Cross, or what the alumni called, The Sisters of the Right Cross, a strict order that still adhered to the traditional garb.

The stern nun stood in front of the room in her neatly pressed black habit and veil. A white starched coif pressed tightly against her pale cheeks and neck while her dark eyes glared behind bifocals that rested on the tip of her nose. Perusing the room of uniformed children, she held a foreboding yardstick.

Boys and girls, she said and paused briefly. Your book reports are due today. Please pass them to the front. Quietly, five rows of students passed their assignments forward. All that could be heard was a slight rustle of paper. In a methodical fashion, all the reports made it to the front of the room. But there was one missing.

In the second-to last seat of the fourth row, young Jack Randle was in a panic. Although this B+ student completed the assignment, he couldn’t find it. His face was red; his hair, disheveled; and his desk of scattered white loose-leaf paper was being shuffled in his search for the missing report.

The sense of urgency was obvious to his classmate, Mary, sitting beside him. As he dumped the contents of his knapsack on his desk, the red-haired girl looked over. What’s the matter? she whispered.

I can’t find my book report, he whispered back.

Oh boy, are you in trouble. Not yet. Sister Catherine was in the process of collecting the assignments, so he still had a couple of minutes until she’d realize one was missing.

While his search continued through the mini-landfill, he received a reprieve. Glancing up from his chore, he could see that Sister Catherine had placed the assignments, along with the yardstick, on the side of her desk and had begun to write on the blackboard. He still had some time to find that book report and slip it into the pile. But sadly, it was not to be.

Sister Catherine? Mary prompted as she raised her hand.

The nun turned around. Yes, Mary?

Jack didn’t do his book report, she said, pointing at Jack who winced and slumped in his seat.

The nun picked up the yardstick and moved forward slowly; she stopped. Jack? Is this true? she said, gritting her teeth