All the People who Hate You

  Tom Raimbault

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2010 Tom Raimbault

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  All the People who Hate You

  How many times have you laid in bed at night while thinking of all the people who hate you? Maybe it’s done in the early hours, in substitution to counting sheep. Maybe it's done in the middle of the night, lying awake, while the world dreams of it’s despise towards you. I can't say that I, myself, have experienced this; but sadly, it's a common occurrence for Geoffrey as he imagines the face of some random person in his life. "Does he hate me? Does she hate me?" Based on a statement or observation of the person in question, Geoffrey concludes that his suspicion of that individual is correct.

  What a sad way to fall asleep in the evening! But similar thoughts invade his mind, in the bathroom mirror, while shaving or combing his hair. Geoffrey looks deeply into his own face and studies the features. It has to be something of his appearance -- something that he is unaware of. Maybe it's his eyes. Maybe he has that psycho, jack-the-ripper sort-of gaze about him. Perhaps it's his blank expression that invites the conclusions and labelings of those around him. Then again; maybe it's nothing -- all in his head. Certainly not one to dwell on such a silly anxiety of being a most-hated man, Geoffrey places his mysterious suspicion in the back of his mind, quarantined as a delusional thought that should soon be deleted once proven against.

  Today is Saturday which means a week has passed since mowing the lawn. A quick breakfast with the wife and kids and brief mention of his plans to uproot the dead bush for a new one; Geoffrey steps outside to organize the yard, pick up trash, and prepare for the mowing. But he soon imagines the faces of neighbors who watch behind windows, in scrutiny and criticism, while speaking against him.

  "Oh look, Geoffrey is outside working in the yard today!"

  "Probably doing his weekly mowing of the lawn..."

  "Now, why does he pick up the blown wrappers from his lawn that way? Does he not know that he's doing extra work?"

  "Oh look, Geoffrey has started his lawn mower! Someone should go out there and inform him that he's doing it ALL WRONG! It's so funny the way he perimeters his yard twice... oh, last week he made north & south cuts. This week he makes east & west. Jeez, such a fool!"

  After making 3 passes on the lawn, Geoffrey found himself in extreme anxiety from being in the spotlight of all the neighbors' criticisms. But this was silly! Surely his neighbors had more important things to do on a Saturday afternoon, than carefully watch and scrutinize his every activity. Geoffrey concluded that his feelings of being watched were all in the imagination.

  Mowing the lawn leaves much time for the brain to think, speculate, and daydream. In those moments alone, under the hum of the engine, Geoffrey dug deep within his soul for some traumatizing experience in life that may have caused the delusion of being under neighbors' criticism. It was almost as-if he could hear negative shouts and cheers from the surrounding houses, designed to break down his confidence -- replaced by feelings of worthlessness.

  Cheers and crying out his name could be heard as Geoffrey ventured back to his childhood -- in particular -- a quick game of Nerf football, on the school playground, during recess. A group of older kids who were miserable and unhappy -- for one reason or another -- found great satisfaction in tormenting Geoffrey during recess. On that day they would stand at a distance and call his name in mockery.

  "Geoffwey! Geoffwey wanna pway foot baw? Awe... poor witto Geoffwey didn't get da baw dat time. Someone pwease pass da baw to Geoffwey!" The cruel boys continued to laugh as they spoke with baby voices to torment the younger child who, until now, was enjoying a game of Nerf football with his friends.

  MYSTERY SOLVED! While mowing the lawn, Geoffrey concluded that his delusions of being under extreme scrutiny and criticism of watchful neighbors were most-likely brought on by the unpleasant experiences of the school playground. His suspicions were completely removed from the mind so that he could finally mow the lawn in peace.

  After a quick break with a tall glass of water, the shovels, pitchfork, axe and wheel barrel were brought out to the front yard for the removal of the dead bush. Mrs. Loomsburg, the old lady and widow of the neighborhood, lived in the duplex section, just across the street. This morning -- which was rapidly turning into noon -- she stood out on the driveway of Geoffrey's next door neighbor, and spoke with Frank -- in an appearing moment of harmful gossip.

  Geoffrey continued to work, but placed his attentiveness on whatever words could be understood from a distance. "I've seen those kids squirm in fear as he passes by. I know he does; he more-or-less admitted it to me last night."

  Who in the world could Mrs. Loomsburg be talking about? Surely, Frank would visit Geoffrey after the moment of juicy gossip and share. And he did; moments after Mrs. Loomsburg crossed the street to her duplex, Frank approached his next door neighbor who was covered in sweat while digging up the bush.

  "How's it goin' Geoffrey?"

  "Eh... once I get this dead bush out of the ground, everything will be fine."

  "What's that?" There was almost a note of rudeness to Frank's response that suggested Geoffrey wasn't expected to reply when spoken to. He set the shovel down, partially to take a rest and partially in curiosity of Frank's unfriendly tone of voice.

  Then he restated the reply, overlooking the rude suggestion of Frank's voice and maintaining a note of friendliness. "We got this bush that's pretty much dead, now. I'm going to rip it out and head over to the lawn and garden warehouse for a new one."

  If Frank's tone didn't give hint of sudden dislike, his comment would re-affirm Geoffrey's suspicions. "Well it's a good thing you have something to do today. You might have to get drunk and beat your wife & kids." He quickly turned and walked away while shaking his head in disbelief. Geoffrey could only stand motionless.

  That malicious, crazy, old bitch, Mrs. Loomsburg: Geoffrey had wondered if there was a motive behind the strange conversation between him and her, the previous evening. It was around 7:00 pm, the wife was at the grocery store, and Geoffrey sat in a chair, in the front lawn, watching his kids ride their bikes and enjoying a much-deserved ice-cold beer.

  She took sight of him from her front porch and then crossed the street. With a fixed gaze on the happy-the-week-is-over man, Mrs. Loomsburg stepped on the grass and drew near Geoffrey.

  "Good evening, Mrs. Loomsburg."

  "Same to you. I see you are drinking beer."

  Geoffrey had wanted to take a few gulps from his half-finished bottle but kept it in his lap. "Yes, just the thing after a long week at work."

  "So is that your 1st, 2nd... maybe 3rd?"

  "Oh, no Mrs. Loomsburg! It's only one. My wife went to the grocery store and when she gets home I'm gonna put some brats on the grill."

  "Oh... I see... And you're kids are whizzing up and down on the sidewalk in their bikes."

  Relieved that Mrs. Loomsburg appeared more-at-ease, Geoffrey took a gulp from the bottle. "Yup! I took Billy's training wheels off last month. We're probably going to get him a big-boy's bike at the end of the summer."

  She complimented his children, and then took the conversation in an unusual direction. "They're such big kids now and SO well behaved. I have no doubt that you give them a few good FIRM beatings every now and then -- just to keep them in line."

  How does one react to such a statement? "Excuse me?"

  "Oh Geoffrey, you don't have to pretend with me. I'm old fashioned and can tell a well-behaved child who has received his or her share of moral beatings. It's what the world needs more of, if you ask me."

  "Well Mrs. Loomsburg, maybe when they were the toddler age, there may have been a crack across the diaper. The sound probably scared them more than anything. They're too big for that now."

  Mrs. Loomsburg listened to Geoffrey with wide-open eyes and nodding her head in agreement. "Oh yes, I know exactly what you mean. They get bigger, and the punishment should be harsher. Spare the rod and spoil the child: that's a good rule to live by. And the same could be said about a wife. Many a wife receives a loose tooth at night, just a reminder to be obedient and respectful."

  Clearly off her rocker and in need to go back to her duplex, all Geoffrey could do was entertain the old lady who might get out of control if disagreed with. "Ya, I'm sure there are a lot of unfortunate women who have to go through that. Sad..."

  Mrs. Loomsburg's voice rose to that of stern outrage, "VERY SAD INDEED!" Then she left the man, crossed the street, and went back into her duplex -- where she belonged.

  ***

  "Honey, you're not going to believ e what just happened out there." Geoffrey spoke of the previous evening's conversation with Mrs. Loomsburg and implied the connection between that and the peculiar comment made by Frank of drinking while beating a wife and kids.

  "Oh Geoffrey, you get carried away. I think you're delusional sometimes -- drawing conclusions. It was probably nothing."

  He looked out the kitchen window in saddened speculation. There was just something not right about the neighborhood. Moving in over a decade ago, the surrounding families welcomed Geoffrey and his wife with such cordiality. It was always a pleasure to stand outside and visit the neighbors, who often assembled at any random driveway, sharing drinks and laughter and stories of their lives. Then one June, the shared friendships had grown cold as neighbors had alienated Geoffrey, his wife, and kids. One-by-one they ignored him, keeping distance and prohibiting their children to play with his. By autumn, real estate signs had been placed in the lawns of all the surrounding houses. One-by-one they left, not even saying good bye. Even Geoffrey's wife was affected by the strange phenomenon as she broke down in silent tears one Saturday afternoon. "What did we do? What did we do wrong? I just wish I knew."

  Geoffrey could only embrace his wife, "It's my fault, honey. You and the kids haven't done anything wrong. There's something about me... something I haven't been able to put my finger on. I think I create a weird vibe that people eventually hate. Don't cry... it's all my fault..."

  New neighbors replaced the old who kept a considerable distance from Geoffrey and his wife. Frank and his wife moved in earlier in the year. But were they next? It just had to be in his imagination! There would be no logical reason for a sudden dislike! "I suppose you're right, honey. Everyone knows Mrs. Loomsburg is off her rocker. Even if she made something up like that to Frank, why would he believe it? And maybe he was just joking with me a few minutes ago. You're right... I take things too seriously."

  In a deliberate attempt to forget the two incidents of the early-weekend, Geoffrey had no further moments of speculating hatred against him. But he was met with new troubles, on Monday morning, while arriving to the office.

  Starting at the company -- 9 years ago -- fellow account-executive, Leticia had long, brown hair. But recently, she made some dramatic alterations to her appearance. Hair had been cut to shoulder-length, and dyed near-white. And on this particular morning, Leticia wore a rosary -- which was wrapped around her neck, crucifix suspended at the center of her chest. She walked past Geoffrey, slowly, with both hands held together as-if praying. If Geoffrey didn't know any better, the woman was attempting to emulate a statue or some classic painting of the Blessed Mother, Virgin Mary. In fact, the shoulder-length, white hair was formed in such a way that it resembled a veil over her head. Leticia looked EXACTLY like a walking statue of Christ's mother, as seen in a church. Although not a catholic, Geoffrey still found the display of the rosary, worn as costume-jewelry, to be offensive. And that's what resulted in the double-take to Leticia’s chest.

  She approached him with open palms together and fingers towards the heavens. "Excuse me; I don't appreciate the way you were gawking at my breasts."

  "WHAT? No, no! I'm sorry; out of the corner of my eyes I thought I saw you wearing a rosary. I had to look, just to make sure and... Well you certainly have a rosary around your neck. It's not every day someone wears one as jewelry."

  She maintained a saddened look of disappointment for his untruthful nature and lack-of self-control. "Don't lie! You were gawking at my breasts. And if you do it again, I'll report you to the manager -- that's sexual harassment."

  The woman had demonstrated herself as a dangerous person to be associated with, years ago -- around the time that Geoffrey started at the company. Leticia had been kind and welcoming, inviting him to join the department for lunch and offering idle conversation during down times. But then she developed the peculiar habit of resting her open hands on him, citing that Geoffrey was in need of healing -- going so far as to informing the man that he was searching for something. It was a strange religion that the woman belonged to: nothing Geoffrey had ever heard of; but a name which implied a supreme order of mystics that could merge with entities, allowing them to heal and do other miraculous works. But it wasn't necessary! Geoffrey was very happy with his own church, and very happy with his own life. And the touching was beginning to disturb the new employee.

  "You know Leticia; I realize you mean well, but I would appreciate it if you would stop touching me like that. People aren't going to understand what you are doing, and then they're going to talk. I can't lose my reputation and career." She seemed to take his request well, but the friendliness tapered off. In its place; subtle reminders -- often done in the presence of clients and coworkers -- were verbally spoken to Geoffrey of how his life needed much correction.

  Some moments after Leticia’s warning of not to gawk at her non-existent breasts, a hand covered in a leather glove, holding a small axe, reached around the entrance of the door and put violent slices into the drywall. Whoever owned the mysterious hand ran away, leaving the gashed up wall for Geoffrey to deal with.

  "HEY! SON OF A..." Geoffrey ran out his office door, down the hall while glaring into co-workers' offices. The person of assault could not be found, leaving him no choice but to approach his manager to inform him of the incident.

  "Mark?"

  "Ya, what's up Geoffrey?"

  "Is maintenance doing some work in the offices today?

  "No... Why do you ask?"

  He took a deep breath while searching for a way to describe the unbelievable attack of just moments ago. "Someone reached their hand around the wall of my office and put holes in the drywall with an axe."

  Sure enough, the description was too bizarre to understand; and the manager appeared to not fully believe Geoffrey. "Well, did you see who did it?"

  "No, the person hid behind the wall and reached his or her hand around to do the damage."

  The manager now sat back in his chair, hands behind head. "Here's the thing, Geoffrey: I've got a business to run here which means I've got constant meetings, updates to give to upper management; and I don't have time to baby sit and watch over a bunch of nonsense from employees. Get on the phone, call maintenance, and have them fix the supposed holes in the wall; okay?"

  Frustrated, Geoffrey stormed out of Mark's office where he would encounter an occasional co-worker that glanced confusedly at the agitated man. The office was becoming just like the neighborhood with increasing alienation and hostility from those who once treated him well.

  About mid-morning, Geoffrey answered an urgent call from Mother Nature and paid a visit to the bathroom stall. While seated, the assaulting hand in leather glove, with small axe, reached under the wall and proceeded to chop away at the tiled floor -- aiming for Geoffrey's feet!

  "HEY! HEY! STOP IT! STOP IT!" He managed to stomp his foot on the thrashing hand, then quickly barged out of the stall to meet the attacker with a bit of rage of his own. But no one could be found. Somehow, the person who owned the assaulting hand had, once again, escaped. This was crazy, if not terrifying! What if the axe-wielding hand succeeded in striking Geoffrey?

  Attentively listening to the distant surroundings of voices who could possibly speak in animosity against Geoffrey was becoming a 2nd nature habit. While quickly walking back to his office in a panic after the attack, the bellowing voice of Paul could be heard, providing important information to a select group of co-workers. "He's got some serious issues. I really wish he'd go see a doctor and get the professional help he needs. I guess this morning he smashed a bunch of holes in his office wall and tried to blame it on us." Although nothing more than a fat slob with a thick beard and a bellowing voice, Paul had a gift for gab and a talent for waiting many months before receiving a first impression of an office co-worker. Discovering some iota of a negative attribute from a co-worker, Paul could embellish and extrapolate his findings to management. He was gaining the reputation of exposing the much-needed raw truth of the people he worked with, and many superiors valued the opinion of the fat slob who was nothing more than a professional liar. Although most people learn to hate such a person, his destined promotions made him a figure that "smart" co-workers would attempt to ride his coat tail to the top.

 

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