The Cubicle Next Door Read Online Free Page B

talk to my neighborhood shaman. What could be better than that?”
    “That’s it? That’s your reason?”
    He smiled. The dimples flared. “And I like to hike.”
    Okay. I could buy that. Divide was just up the road, and from there you could tramp, snowshoe, or cross-country ski in Mueller State Park.
    His eyes were scanning my face. “So, am I in?”
    “In what?”
    “Your little club. Can I join the Residents of Manitou Springs, or is there some kind of probationary period?”
    “You’re in. Just stop by Hazel’s Crystal Shop to pick up your broom. For ten bucks extra, you can get the wizard hat and cape set.”
    “What is it with you guys, always trying to make another buck? I had to pay through the nose for the house, and then I found out ghosts weren’t even included.”
    “They’re a dime a dozen in Manitou. In fact, here’s how you can pay off your mortgage. Just start advertising yourself as the only house in Manitou without a ghost. You’ll make a fortune.”
    He winked at me and then rolled back into his cubicle. “Thanks for the tip.”
    I worked through the morning in vague discomfort. I was sharing my office with Joe. Did I have to share my town with him too? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe I wouldn’t run into him. Maybe I could wear headphones at work and dark sunglasses when I was at home. And maybe if I closed my eyes and moved into a bubble, I could pretend he didn’t exist.
    As I was thinking all these thoughts, I had slouched down in my chair, rested my head on the back, and closed my eyes.
    When I opened them, Joe was grinning down at me. “Time for lunch.”
    “I brought mine.”
    “So take it home at the end of the day and have it for dinner.”
    “Do you ever take no for an answer?”
    “No. And I have to go to the uniform store, so we’ll go to Burger King.”
    I just sat there staring up at him. I tried to figure out some way to relieve him of the idea that he was my personal social director. “Just because we share an office doesn’t mean we have to do everything together.”
    “Do you want to eat lunch or don’t you?”
    “Ye—”
    “Then let’s go.” He walked to the wall, slapping his flight cap against his thigh, looking as if there were no time to waste.
    How do you tell someone you don’t want to be their friend? The longer I looked at him, the more I realized it wasn’t worth the effort. Once school started, he’d be much too busy to go out to lunch all the time. And then I could finally finish off my bowl of hummus and container of carrots.
    We walked at a fast clip through Fairchild Hall and then rode the elevator down to the parking lot below.
    He unzipped a pocket on his flight suit to fish out a set of keys. As he hit a button, a car ahead of us beeped to life.
    No, not a car. An SUV.
    I almost turned around and headed back toward the elevator.
    I have this thing about people who drive vehicles that are bigger than they need to be. I really wanted to say something, but I kept the words stuffed in my chest and decided to spill it all out onto my blog later. I would never say anything to Joe himself. Or to the dozens of other people I know who drive SUVs. I try to hate the SUV and love the SUV owner. Everyone who moves to Colorado from out of state thinks they need some kind of Driving Machine to make it through the winter. Two words: Subaru and Saab. There are safer, more efficient ways to achieve the same result. And they don’t involve squandering gas or terrorizing the local population.
    At least the SUV was clean. Spotless.
    He drove out of the parking lot and then navigated his way onto Academy Drive. We got an up close look at the steep Flat Iron, a barren inverted-V rock formation in the hills. Trails had been etched into the earth by the clambering feet of generations of cadets. At the moment, government-issue sheets had been twisted around the rocks to form “06,” a reminder left by the class that had graduated the month before. I had