The Mannequin Challenge
Kealan Patrick Burke
Theo sat in his car brooding for close to twenty minutes before killing the engine. There was still time to leave, still time to concede to the voice inside his head that told him this was a bad idea. He didn’t do parties, festive or otherwise. To him, it was all a bunch of small talk and big expense with no reward at all. Thus, the notion of standing in a room off the clock with a bunch of people he could barely stand to be around during work hours made the muscles in his shoulders tense up until he felt like he’d forgotten to remove the hanger when he’d put on his coat.
He looked out across the dark parking lot to the block of lights on the second floor of the building in which he had worked for the past eleven years. In honor of the season, orange blinds had been installed in place of the customary Venetians. They were shut, but through them he could see the silhouettes of people dancing, guffawing, or swilling drinks. Multicolored spots of light flashed against the windows, presumably from some kind of disco machine. Theo rolled down his window and heard the faint rhythmic thump of the bass, as if the building had developed a heartbeat in the three hours since he’d gone home. A pair of scarecrows flanked the entrance, arms spread in idiot welcome. Black vinyl silhouettes of witches, bats, and haunted houses had been stuck all over the glass double doors. Those were going to be a nightmare to remove, and Theo didn’t intend to be the one to do it. No, sir. Let whoever put them there be responsible for their removal.
Squat pumpkins grinned toothily at him from the steps to the front doors, the candles in their heads flickering in the slight autumnal breeze.
Theo pictured the faces of the people in the office, many of whom would be drunk by now, some of them obnoxiously so. He imagined trying to navigate a room full of gyrating hips and flailing limbs, hooded eyes and insincere cheer, spilled drinks and dropped finger food, and shook his head. Keying the ignition, he felt reassured by the hum of the engine, which represented one of his most critical tenets: forward momentum. Always be moving forward to the next place, the next goal, the next objective. No, he was not the partying type. It represented stalled motion with no legitimate benefit. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d gone out in the afternoon to anything more exciting than a movie at the dollar theater (he’d be damned if he was going to suffer the exorbitant costs imposed by the bigger chains) or to walk his Labrador, Freddy, around the neighborhood. Thinking of his beloved pet—dear, uncomplicated, and quiet Freddy—made him yearn for the warmth and familiarity of home, and he started to put the car in gear. Started, then stopped, his hands on the wheel at ten and two, eyes on the empty cars around his own, foot poised above the gas pedal.
Nothing about this idea appealed to him.
Nothing at all.
And yet . . .
Copyright © 2017 by Kealan Patrick Burke. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
