“Not trying to be nosy, Wilton, but why the latex gloves?”
Wilton, armed with a rational explanation, chuckles. “Well, Mr. Simms, I contracted a rash working in the flower garden, and my hands are slathered in oint—”
“You’re good to go now. Remember to follow that sequence to run the inventory software without crashing.”
“Absolutely. By the way, Mr. Simms, do you know the status of stationery supply? I’ve been calling all morning and—”
“You need to order through the employee portal now. Sign in, request a PO, enter an expense code. You know the drill, right? Gotta run.”
As soon he’s alone in his cubicle, Wilton pulls off one of the gloves. The condition is spreading. Scales soon will cover his wrists. He turns to his computer and manages to lock himself out of the employee portal. He puts on another glove, slips on his suit jacket and straightens the 35-year service pin on his lapel.
As he walks to stationery supply, he tries not to limp. The tail he’s growing is getting harder every day to keep strapped to his leg. The clerk helps Wilton place an order through the portal, and Wilton returns to his workstation with a dozen pencils and a new sharpener. By the end of the day, he’s crossed the last item, Keep sleeves down, off of his handwritten To Do list.
Driving home, Wilton ignores the blaring horns when he stops at a yellow light. He takes a deep breath when a minivan cuts him off. At last he pulls into his driveway, gets out and lifts the garage door.
The next morning, a Saturday, Wilton intends to change the oil in his car but discovers his fingers have fused together. He manages to turn on the radio and spends the day with big band music and a history of the Balkans, until flipping the pages becomes too difficult. He turns in early and dreams of lush forests with ferns the size of trees.
By Monday, Wilton’s face, neck and arms are covered with scales. He has no choice but to phone in sick for the first time in 12 years. His boss’ admin tells Wilton to log his absence through the employee portal. When Wilton sighs, the sound is a mix of a boa’s hiss and a lion’s roar.
Wilton feels as if his bones are cracking, nerves are on fire. He finds the pills his wife took to sleep through the pain in her final days. The next thing he knows, it’s dark out and hunger is clawing his stomach. He goes to the kitchen and devours a head of lettuce and a half-dozen apples, core and all.
The family photo album he spends hours with is on the table. He’s always wished his son and daughter didn’t live so far away. Now he’s glad they do. He hopes they understood all the times he resisted their suggestions. No, son, my land line is good enough. I appreciate that, sweetie, but I’ve no use for cable.
He draws his hand across the album’s open page, snapshots taken at an amusement park when his children were toddlers, but instead of fingers caressing the pictures, a talon rakes them.
Feeling as if his heart might burst through his chest, as if the house is closing in on him, he trudges toward the back door. Floorboards creak under his weight, and he lowers his elongated head to not bump the ceiling. His thick, rough tongue scrapes dagger teeth, and he knocks over the sofa. Finally, he’s outside.
The night is clear, and the Milky Way shimmers. Wilton stands tall in the middle of the yard. He bellows like thunder. He watches for falling stars.
literally stories 