Aaron Burch
1. THE DISPATCHBonus Scene from Year of the Buffalo
Scott walked into his boss’s office. Stood for a beat, waiting for Ed to ask what he needed while Ed stared at his computer, waiting for Scott to start.
“I think I need a new chair,” Scott said.
Ed nodded. “There are a few extras back by Lisa. You know you can just help yourself to any that aren’t being used.”
“Sure,” Scott said. “Of course.” He waited another beat, cracked both thumbs at his sides. “But… actually. I think I need something more… ergonomic?” He said it like a question, like he wasn’t sure if that was the right word or not. He knew it was, but he didn’t like that he knew, didn’t like the feel of it in his mouth. It made him uncomfortable, lessened his confidence, though Ed didn’t seem to notice. Holly would, he knew. Too fancy for you? he could picture her teasing. Too new-age-y? He put his hands on his hips and arched his back, as if to prove his need for the word, for the chair itself. And then, the bending that was supposed to act as a kind of proof of pain caused the pain itself: a pulse, he’d taken to thinking of it as, a popping inside the small of his back like a firecracker, a split second of the kind of pain that almost felt good, until it didn’t, until it left an echo of a duller but more constant sting in its wake.
Months earlier, some kind of ergonomic specialist had visited the office. She’d taken measurements, adjusted people’s seat heights, the distance from desk to chair, the angles of their keyboards and computer screens. She’d recommended better models of posture, encouraged getting up and walking around—or at least standing—at least once every half hour, and ordered a couple people new chairs. That’s what Scott heard when he asked what he’d missed, why his work looked slightly different than he remembered it, though he couldn’t place why.
Scott had been home sick, had missed it all. He couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe he’d missed the one day, the one office visitor, that seemed to have been intended specifically for him, if anyone. And he hated asking for anything, hated thinking he needed anything special. But he was the biggest guy in the office—not tallest, certainly not the fattest, just… biggest. He wondered if there was even anything that could be done to fit his body into his cubicle workspace, or vice versa, his workspace fitting around him.
“OK,” Ed said. Ed, who’d asked about the lost years on Scott’s resume when interviewing him for the job and so was the only one in the office who knew of Scott’s previous life at all. “A wrestler?! Really??” he’d asked before reeling himself in, but Scott could see the questions piling up behind the keeping-it-professional script—Were you ever on TV? What was and wasn’t fake? Did you know Hulk Hogan? (Or maybe Andre the Giant, Junkyard Dog, The Ultimate Warrior. As much as Scott hated the questions, he always found it interesting, people’s go-to “Did you know…?”) Later, Scott would wonder if even just asking about blanks on a resume was an allowable question for an interview, but then he got the job and it never came up and no one else ever mentioned it, so Ed must not have told anyone. Scott got the occasional muscleman pose when walking from desk to printer, the request to show off “his guns,” the jokey “you don’t workout, do you?” Meaning, the same reactions he got at the grocery store, the movie theater, most anywhere. He’d smile and oblige enough to humor them but not enough to encourage. He had this fine line nearly mastered.
“Shoot the woman an email,” Ed said, “and she’ll come back out. You still have her email? Kelly something?”
“Yeah.” Scott didn’t, but was sure he could find it in his deleted folder, or would ask someone if he couldn’t. Mary would still have it. Scott wasn’t sure Mary entirely understood email, the ability to delete, archive, create folders. The couple of times she’d called him over to her desk to help her word an email, he’d grimaced at her lack of organization—the one, big, full INBOX with thousands of messages, probably going back to when she was hired, or at least when the office had started using email, whichever had been more recent.
“Thanks,” Scott said. “I don’t need to do anything else, fill out a form or anything? Just email her?”
“That’s it. She’ll find a day she has available and will come back out.”
“Thanks,” Scott said again. He returned to his desk, stared at his monitor. He had work he could do—there was always work he could do—but he could also do nothing the rest of the day and still come to work tomorrow not stressed about having to get caught up, or even feeling behind or guilty. He grabbed his armrest, twisted to his left and then right. Cracked his back five times one way, twice the other. He flipped over to the Internet, checked his personal email. Two spam, a third that looked like probably-spam, maybe-not.
Dear Scott Isaacson, Dear “Mr. Bison” (?),
Sorry, I never know how best to address messages like this. Apologies, too, for the informality. It was tricky tracking you down. (Trickier still if this isn’t you?)
The gist: I work for a small gaming company. We’ve sold a few games to bigger companies (companies, unlike us, you’ve maybe even heard of? If you play video games?) and now, the game we really only made for ourselves (of course!), for fun, is garnering some attention and is going to go to auction. And…well…the hero of the game is…you.
We hope you’ll officially allow us to use your likeness, and we’re prepared to pay you accordingly. (Maybe, too, you might even be interesting in acting as some kind of spokesperson? Like, in commercials and other promotional stuff? Those details are far from worked out though, just me thinking out loud here. Or, not out loud, per se. Electronically loud?)
Anyway. Please contact me at your earliest convenience to discuss details. I hope you’re as excited by this prospect as we are! Go west, young man! (Too much?)
Sincerely,
Michael Leaf
Head Designer, CP Games
Scott alt-tabbed through his work spreadsheet, work email, the oddly-archaic-but-still-used-for-entering-new-orders DOS program, and back to his personal email. Read Michael’s email again. He didn’t do any more actual work before leaving at 5, but reread that email anywhere between twelve and twenty-six more times, each time letting it feel a little more like a real thing, an exciting thing. Letting himself feel excited about the idea.
2. BUREAU INVENTORYBotch mug
Gene Hackman pencil case
Sketchbooks and colored pencils (Early in the pandemic, I started painting, and I rearranged my whole apartment into its current configuration, mostly so I could paint while watching TV.)
Assorted paper (Usually some miscellaneous printed out pages of what I'm working on and/or stories or essays for Hobart that I'm editing.)
Legal pad (I usually write first drafts longhand, and often in a cafe or a library or somewhere out in the world, and then working at this desk in my apartment is more typing up and then editing handwritten pages)
100 Bullets (A giant, 1400-page comic omnibus that was a gift and that I peek at here, but also it's on my desk for Zoom calls.)
Moleskine (Sometimes used for notes about stuff, mostly just daily to-do lists.)
3. BIOGRAPHYAaron Burch is the author of the memoir/literary analysis Stephen King’s The Body; the short story collection, Backswing; and the novella, How to Predict the Weather. He is the Founding Editor of Hobart, and co-founding editor of its recent offshoot journals, HAD and WAS. His first novel, YEAR OF THE BUFFALO (from which this is a bonus scene), will be released in August 2022 by Buffalo Books.