Triple Moon Part 3

<p><em>This might seem like a skewed perspective of men. In fact, it is simply an example of things as they are. This should not be seen as an indictment of male kind in general. It is simply an indictment of awful people in general. Readers are encouraged to make their own conclusions about the fact that on the whole awful people in general seem to usually be men. It can be said that not all men are awful, but then it should also be said that all women will have, at some point, had to deal with a man who was.</em></p> <p> </p> <div class='quote'> <p>“You write shitty articles nobody likes. That’s it. Nobody wil lcare when u die.I hope you enjoy you’re last moments alive on this earth. You did nothing worthwile with your life. Good thing u dont have any kids because they would grow up to be feminist dykes and I am so sick of you feminiists.”</p> <p><em>Posted by Death to Diana</em></p> </div> <p>In one of the city’s many coffee shops, a series of genuinely disturbing comments scrolled past a laptop screen. Diana Harbinger yawned as she read through them. It was nothing she hadn’t seen a hundred times before. She tipped the last few drops of coffee from her cup onto her tongue, and sighed. When she first started writing for PopCultural, Diana found something strangely exciting about the wall of hate spewed anonymously at her after each new article. After a few years of it, though, it was starting to feel like a cliche.</p> <p>For many people, someone saying that they are going to be posting pictures of their mutilated corpse on the internet in the morning would be cause for alarm. For Diana, it was Thursday.</p> <p>Diana’s editor regularly called her to make sure she was okay, which was a gesture she appreciated but didn’t need. He kept offering to ban some of the more vicious regulars, but he ultimately relented when she pointed out that the absurd drama was always good for ad sales. She found something exciting about the attention. She felt like she was doing something important by bringing these voices out into the light. She also really enjoyed making fun of them.</p> <p>Diana always loved giving people the finger, and the more they deserved it the more satisfaction she got.</p> <p> </p> <p>A few blocks away, at a small, ancient diner, Evelyn Bailey was also yawning. She patiently awaited the end of her shift. A Thursday afternoon was not exactly a peak time, so the place was very quiet and almost deserted. It was a greasy spoon diner, though, so a few folks could be expected as a matter of course.</p> <p>At the counter sat an old man whose name everybody knew (in fact, everyone thought they knew his name, but they all thought it was something different and they were all wrong). He never spoke, but he was always there. Everyone knew what he ordered because it was the same thing he always ordered, and at this point serving him became as regular as taking out the garbage.</p> <p>The chef - a large man with a name like Sal - was constantly occupied with the work of making it seem like the work of a greasy spoon cook was in fact the hardest job in the world. In some ways he wasn’t wrong, but in much more realistic ways the overworked and underpaid waitresses who had to serve his greasy abominations had it much worse.</p> <p>He understood this, though, and so he did look out for his sisters in arms on the front lines of the quick service dining industry. They had the usual methods of recourse against those customers who made their lives difficult. Various innocuous-seeming code phrases on order tickets let the cook know what particular customers deserved. Known bad tippers had their signal, and handsy old men got theirs. Sal had little patience for disrespectful people in general, but he had even less patience for anyone who would make trouble for the people he had to work very long hours with. Revenge was a dish best served at the lukewarm temperature that everything served at a diner ends up being.</p> <p> </p> <p>Around this time, Margaret Allen - fully awake this time - was trying to get her computer to cooperate. She was telling what she was supposed to tell it to get it to do what she wanted it to do. It just wasn’t doing it. Her firm had upgraded their design software earlier in the month, and a few of her favorite shortcuts had changed. She sighed to herself. She had only just gotten used to the new shortcuts after the last update. Things that work shouldn’t change.</p> <p>She flicked the little rocking desk toy she kept near her keyboard. Unlike her stupid computer, it always worked. It was a pair of little wire figures balanced on either end of an armature, like two very skinny people sharing a seesaw. When flicked, the perfectly balanced figures rocked back and forth for a surprisingly long time. It was rather satisfying to watch them go, and counting the rocks helped her clear her mind. The record so far was two hundred forty eight.</p> <p>The toy was positioned rather specifically, as was everything on her desk. It was a rather sacred space to her, as she made very clear to her coworkers. Once an intern at the firm needed some clear tape, and found Margaret’s dispenser (two inches left of her left monitor stand, just behind her stack of post-its, tape pointing to the left). She returned it almost immediately, placing it between Margaret’s post-its and her coffee mug. Several strongly-worded emails later, and it was determined that nobody in the office was to touch anything on her desk unless lives depended on it. She would have preferred dropping even that provision.</p> <p> </p> <p>It is one of the general rules of literature that an author never names a character something like “Dickweed.” It skews the character, and it forces readers to form opinions about them before they get to do anything. It is especially egregious in a script. An actor loses a great deal of freedom when they get a character simply referred to as “asshole.”</p> <p>It is with full awareness of this rule that the next character will only be referred to as Dickweed Barista, because that tells you everything you need to know about him.</p> <p>Diana’s hands were hovering over her keyboard to write a response to the comment she had just read. Before she could get very far, the music she was listening to was cut out. She was suddenly snapped back to the world of one of the city’s many coffee shops.</p> <p>Dickweed Barista stood over Diana with a sickeningly friendly smile, one of her earbuds pinched between his finger and thumb. She stared at him, trying to come to grips with the situation, and just how violent she should be in response. The wails of Bikini Kill could still be heard coming from the little nub.</p> <p>“Need anything, honey?” He asked.</p> <p>“The fuck?” She muttered.</p> <p> </p> <p>Classic rock played innocuously as Evelyn looked up at the clock on the wall of the diner. The clock’s hands were barely visible through glass that had been frosted by decades of grime. Evelyn generally tried to avoid looking at the clock, because beneath all those layers of old grease, those hands somehow moved slower than normal clocks. Surrounding the clock was scores of junk, exactly the sort of junk that seems to just grow naturally on the walls of old diners. The ceiling was stained from cigarette smoke, despite the fact that cigarettes had been banned inside the place for over a decade. The whole place used to be mostly white, but at this point it was getting hard to tell. The white had given way over the decades to the greys, browns, and beiges that always follow in the wake of human society.</p> <p>Evelyn spent more time in this grimy place than her own home, but it was her domain. She was the duchess of grease, and the diner was for all intents and purposes hers. Technically, her name wasn’t on the door (that said “Marcie’s”), her name wasn’t on anyone’s paycheck (except her own, of course), and she had little real authority. What she had was the authority of tenure, and the determination of someone who was far too tired to deal with any of bullshit. She knew how things worked, and made sure they continued to even though it wasn’t what she was paid to do.</p> <p>She had collected the meager tips on her last table of the day when she heard a familiar voice. It was familiar in the way a chronic, stabbing pain is familiar. The trouble with being a longstanding waitress at a cheap restaurant (if you had to pick just one) was the occasional unbearable regular. This particular regular was called Eddie, and he had a thing for Evelyn. Evelyn had a thing for him, as well, but it was a very different thing with the words “pepper spray” printed on the side.</p> <p>“Hey, can I get some help over here?” Eddie asked. She rolled her eyes.</p> <p>“Heh, just kidding,” he continued. “You can take your time. I'm enjoying the view.”</p> <p>Olympic athletes would be impressed by the tone and strength of Evelyn’s eye-rolling muscles.</p> <p> </p> <p>“Hey Margie,” said Margaret’s desk neighbor, making her lose count of the rocking toy on her desk.</p> <p><em>Greg</em>. He was a very short man, which always seemed like it confused him. He seemed to always gesturing at his stature, as if to say “surely this is all some sort of mistake.”</p> <p>“It’s Margaret,” she said in a way that suggested she had said it a hundred times before.</p> <p>“Come take a look at these plans.”</p> <p>She scooted her meticulously adjusted office chair the few feet to his desk. Her desk toy continued rocking unmonitored.</p> <p>“I’m having trouble getting the clearance to work on this door,” he said, pointing at some meaningful lines on his screen. He often needed her to do his work for him.</p> <p>“Oh, see, you don’t need a firewall there,” she said, pointing at some different, but equally meaningful lines.</p> <p>“What’s the difference?”</p> <p>“A firewall has to be self-supporting,” she said, wondering if he even went to Architectural school. “A fire barrier only has to go up to the roof deck. You’ll have room for that other door there if you just use a barrier.”</p> <p>“Hmm,” he said, his brow furrowing obnoxiously. “I’m not sure you know what you’re talking about.”</p> <p><em>Greg</em>. The answer to the question, ‘what if Napoleon were an architect, and also an idiot?’</p> <p>One time, Margaret got to work to find that <em>Greg</em> had moved everything on her desk an inch to the left. He did it as a prank. She didn’t have to notice him stifling laughter to realize what had happened, mainly because she noticed her desk was off from the elevator. She tried getting back at him by changing all of his chair adjustments while he was in the bathroom. He didn’t even notice. He just swung his stubby little legs that no longer reached the ground. It was infuriating</p> <p> </p> <p>“Oh, sorry, Dee,” said Dickweed Barista, handing Diana her earbud and returning to tidying the table next to her. “I was just wondering if you needed anything.”</p> <p>“Die.”</p> <p>“What?”</p> <p>“My name. It’s not Dee. It’s Di.”</p> <p>“Oh,” Dickweed responded with an unfortunate chuckle. “I was just going by what was written on your cup.”</p> <p>She looked down at her cup, marked ‘Diana,’ and sighed. She had been forced to explain to people how to pronounce her name her entire life.</p> <p>“It’s ‘Die,’ you know, like what we’re all going to do some day.”</p> <p>“What are you concentrating on so hard, anyway?” He responded, the not-so-subtle hints flying right over his head.</p> <p>“I'm working.”</p> <p>“Oh yeah, you write for Pop Cultural, right?”</p> <p>She stared at him, knowing the large ‘Pop Cultural’ sticker on her laptop was almost directly in his eye line.</p> <p>“Whatever gave you that idea?”</p> <p> </p> <p>“Need anything else, Mike?” Evelyn asked the Man at the Bar as she refilled his coffee. She knew the answer, but it was still her job to ask and she took any chance she could to put off the same old conversation she had fake smiled her way through a hundred times before. She walked over to the booth Eddie had manspread himself into, and flipped to a new page in her order pad.</p> <p>“Alright, Eddie, what'll it be today?”</p> <p>“What, no specials?” He asked with the tone of someone who wasn’t talking about food.</p> <p>“Do you really want the specials?” She responded, with the tone of someone who wasn’t, either.</p> <p>“I just like hearing you talk.”</p> <p>“Do you just want your usual?”</p> <p>“Sure, you know me too well, Eve.”</p> <p>“It's Evelyn, and I kind of hope not.”</p> <p>“Haha, nah.”</p> <p>“I'm just finishing my shift, but I'll get this in for you.”</p> <p>“Oh, well, maybe I'll just get this to go and we can hang out.”</p> <p>Evelyn finished jotting down Eddie’s order, and suppressed a wince. What she needed was a big couch, a big beer, and a big distance between her and any thirsty boys.</p> <p>“Not tonight,” she said. “I, uh, have plans.”</p> <p>This was true. She always had standing plans specifically to be not hanging out with Eddie.</p> <p>“Oh, sure,” Eddie replied, trying and failing to look nonchalant about it, “maybe next time. I want to make sure you get a tip, though. You know I tip well.”</p> <p>He didn’t.</p> <p>“Just put it on your receipt when you pay, like usual,” she said.</p> <p> </p> <p>Margaret’s boss, one of the partners of the firm, walked by <em>Greg’s</em> desk looking over some papers. He was much taller than <em>Greg</em>, a fact that often amused Margaret while her mind wandered during tedious team meetings.</p> <p>“Hey Margaret,” he said, “make sure you get that environmental impact report on the Northbrook project to me before you leave today.”</p> <p>His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. There was a different fabric print on the inside, as if they were designed to be rolled up to his elbows. One arm was rolled slightly higher than the other. All of this was deeply troubling to Margaret.</p> <p>“Sure, I was just about to send that to you.”</p> <p>“You know,” <em>Greg</em> chimed in, leaning back in his chair. “I was thinking about that - there are definitely some simple ways to avoid some headaches on the plans.”</p> <p>“Yup, I-” Margaret attempted.</p> <p>“That's a good idea, Greg,” said their boss. “I think we'll want to make sure we get that into the report. Margie -”</p> <p>“Sir, it’s-”</p> <p>“Go ahead and send your findings to Greg so he can get that added in. Greg, you can get that to me next week some time. Thanks.”</p> <p><em>Greg</em>. At least he didn’t have to stoop very low to reach the butts he kissed.</p> <p>“Sure thing,” he said.</p> <p>“Great work,” said their boss with a smile. “Have a great weekend, guys.”</p> <p>Margaret sighed. She had been working on that report for two weeks. She had researched code requirements and survey reports on the site itself, and reconciled them with the needs of the client. That was, in her estimation, her job as an Architect, so it barely needed mentioning. However, considering <em>Greg</em>probably didn’t even know what survey reports even were, she always felt the bar was pretty low (bonus height joke).</p> <p> </p> <p>“You should smile more,” said Dickweed Barista.</p> <p>“Why?”</p> <p>“I see you in here working all the time. You'll brighten my day.”</p> <p>That was enough for Diana. She slammed her laptop closed, and started collecting her things. A young woman out in public generally is going to get hit on, but she didn’t have to like it. Diana had done as much as she could, covering herself in tattoos and piercings, occasionally even shaving her head, but still the idiots would come along with their suggestions for how she could be prettier.</p> <p>“Listen, you're really not my type,” she said.</p> <p>“Oh, you're probably into, like, artistic guys?”</p> <p>“I'm not into guys at all.”</p> <p>“Oh awesome,” he said with a stupid grin. “You're a lesbian? That's hot.”</p> <p>“Ugh, you just lost your talking privileges.” She said, visibly cringing.</p> <p>“Hey, I'm just trying to be friendly, honey.”</p> <p>“Well, you're doing a real shitty job, sport.”</p> <p>She stormed out of the coffee shop, leaving Dickweed holding his hands out in confusion.</p> <p> </p> <p>Margaret gave her desk toy a flick and started working on an email. At least she still knew the shortcuts to Outlook.</p> <div class='quote'> <p><em>Greg</em>,</p> <p>Attached is the document I have been working on for the last few weeks. Let me know if any of this goes over your head.</p> <p>-Margaret (not Margie)</p> </div> <p> </p> <p>Just in time, Evelyn’s replacement, Vickie, arrived. She had the fresh, simple smile of someone who was prepared to commit to that smile professionally for the next several hours. Evelyn handed the order to Vickie, and they shared an eye-roll. Eddie was Vickie’s problem, now.</p> <div class='quote'> <p>Dine in</p> <p>Club sandwich</p> <p>No tomatoes</p> <p><u>~ EXTRA TOAST</u></p> </div> <p> </p> <p>Diana was eventually able to respond to that comment, because wasn’t the sort to leave something unremarked. She stuck to the one thing she knew would make the idiots even more mad than just the fact she was a woman with an opinion.</p> <div class='quote'> <p>RE: Death to Diana</p> <p>*your</p> <p><em>Posted by Diana Harbinger</em></p> </div>