Marshall Spencer worked in the basement records room of the cancer center in downtown Kalamazoo. I know this because I worked two doors down the hallway, stashed away in a small nook of a cubicle where I typed mailing addresses onto envelope labels eight hours a day for forty hours a week, and also because the two of us had been best friends since grade school.

The records room was a sweet deal of a job. Aside from Marshall and myself, there were no other men on staff save the few who worked maintenance and one or two oncology docs stationed two floors up. Of the five people regularly staffing the medical records department, Marshall shared close quarters with Kath, the hip fifty-year-old supervisor, and three fit college girls fresh out of high school.

I would often have to scold Marshall for complaining about his job, as while I was fiddling away in windowless corner, alone with the drafts and a fortress-like encasement of envelope stacks, Marshall could be heard chatting it up from down the hall with the ladies. If anyone had a reason to complain, it was me.

But Marshall didn’t see it that way. Marshall didn’t see most things the way I saw them. He had these high ideals, these grandiose expectations of the world and of himself that the records room, stocked as it was with bouncy young coeds, simply couldn’t live up to. He couldn’t resign himself to the fact that he was just a records clerk.

“Medical Records Technician,” I’d tell him. “You’re a technician, not a clerk.”

“Yeah,” he’d say, smirking. “And when I pushed carts at Meijer I was a Transportation Engineer.”

Meijer was the local super-store grocery chain. Marshall had spent the better part of his high school years divided between the service department of Meijer – bagging groceries, pushing carts and mopping up puke – and the dish pits of various local mom-and-pop restaurants.

“There you go,” I’d say, “at least you’re not mopping up some bratty kid’s puke. You’re in an air-controlled, professional environment with scenery that any man would envy. I mean, all I’ve got to look at all day is the wall or the computer. I’m not even hooked up to the Internet for God’s sake.”

Marshall would just look away, blandly agreeing with me, but his heart was never into his job. His heart was never into any of his surroundings. He was always looking for something more.

* * *

Marshall had a crush on one of the girls he worked with. Her name was Liz, and it seemed like everyone knew he had a thing for her except for him. She was a thin brunette of about average height, with big brown eyes and dark, exotic-looking skin. For living in Michigan, her skin was the shade of most other girls’ skin after a day lying out at the beach.

Liz had a thing for Marshall as well – or at least she teased him like she did – and wasn’t shy about it. But Marshall was too aloof to notice, or he was too shy to do anything about it. Once, I tried to get him to make his move.

“She digs you, man, seriously, everyone knows you two dig each other,” I said. “All you gotta do is ask her out. To dinner, to a movie, anything.”

“I don’t know,” Marshall said, averting his eyes like he always did. “I don’t think she’s as into me as you think.”

“Man, she’s all over you Marsh, she hangs on everything you say.”

That may have been true, but what did I know? I was down the hall, locked away in my cube. But Marshall must have taken what I said to heart, because one day not long afterward he came down into my room looking distraught, his cheeks flushed. He looked sick.

“Oh, man,” he said. “I’m so stupid.” He sat down on the chair behind me, against the wall, and dropped his head to his hands.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I said, swiveling to face him.

“No, seriously. I screwed up. I’m such a dork.” It was then that I realized he’d finally made his move.

“You didn’t,” I said. He looked up forlornly. I was ecstatic. “You talked to Liz? You asked her out?” I stood up and clapped my hands together. I cupped them around my mouth as if announcing to a large crowd, “Ladies and gentleman, I’d like to announce that Marshall Spencer is a real man!”

Spencer pulled me back into my seat. “Cut it out man, seriously, it was bad.”

I settled in. “How bad could it be Marsh, really?”

It was bad.

Apparently, Marshall had learned a new magic trick. Every once in a while he would find me during work and show me some new card trick he’d learned by reading magician David Blaine’s biography, and while they seemed to work for David Blaine, they never worked for Marshall.

Marshall had been filling in that week for Christine, the switchboard operator, and had been confined to a three-by-three foot office on the first floor answering and directing calls for the past few days. I’d done it before myself, and after hearing his story I would attribute the isolation and annoyance caused by the work to be responsible for his embarrassing behavior.

Liz had come up to the switchboard booth to drop of a small stack of loose work to be filed alphabetically in Marshall’s down time, thus expediting the process of filing the records into patients’ charts later on. As she turned go, he grabbed her hand.

“Wait,” he said. She was startled. Marshall had never been so forward. She had touched him many times – on the arm, the shoulder – but as far as either of them could remember he had never instigating any kind of contact with her. The air inside the small room grew thick and awkward. Marshall coughed to clear his voice.

“Do you…wanna see a magic trick?” he stammered.

“Um…actually, I have to…”

“No, really, it’s really cool,” Marshall said as she turned to go again. “It’ll only take a second.” He fumbled with a deck of cards as Liz waited impatiently before the door, arms crossed, not necessarily in anger, but presumably because she was so uncomfortable.

Marshall’s trick was a variation on a trick called the “Twenty-one Card Effect,” a card trick based on the premise that a card chosen at random by an individual – in this case Liz – would be stacked back into the deck inconspicuously in such a way that guaranteed it would be the eighth card from the bottom of the deck. Liz chose a card, gave it to Marshall, and Marshall pretended to think really hard.

“Okay,” he said, still fumbling, still awkward. “Now, we need a phrase, something I can use to help me find your card.” He pretended to be deep in thought. “It has to have your name in it.”

In truth, any phrase consisting of eight letters would work for Marshall’s purpose, and he had spent the entire morning coming up with the perfect phrase to shape the climax of the trick.

Suddenly, Liz said, “Liz has to work.”

“What?”

“Liz has to work, Liz is working, I don’t know. Why is it so hard to pick a phrase, just pick something.” This wasn’t going as Marshall had planned. It had all gone so smoothly in his mind.

“Alright,” he said, “I think I’ve got one.” He looked away from Liz, down at the cards. “Liz is hot.” He started to cut the deck accordingly. Liz blushed.

“Marshall…” she began, but Marshall cut her off, still looking down.

“Just wait, just wait,” he said. “It’s almost done.” He could feel his own face turning red. His chest was on fire. He finished cutting the deck and counted up from the bottom, card by card, letter by letter.

“L,” he said, lifting a card and tossing it aside. “I, Z, I, S…” He continued till he reached the end of the phrase, triumphantly raising the eighth card. “T! Is this your card?!” He spun the card around to reveal the King of Hearts.

Liz looked at the card, then at Marshall, then back at the card. She shook her head. “No,” she said. “That’s not my card.” She turned through the door and walked across the hall to the elevators. Marshall just sat there, stunned and embarrassed. Suddenly he stood.

“Wait,” he called. She looked at him silently from inside the elevator. “What was your card?”

She looked at him as the doors slid shut. “A Joker,” she said. And she was gone.

* * *

In the weeks that followed the incident with Liz, I saw a lot more of Marshall. It seemed like he was always hanging around my cube, even if I wasn’t there. One day he asked if I wanted to switch positions with him.

“Switch?” I said. “C’mon man, don’t tease me. You must be kidding.” Marshall shook his head.

“No, man, not kidding. I just don’t like filing anymore. It’s so repetitive, you know? Mindless.”

“What, and typing out mailing labels isn’t repetitive? It isn’t mindless?” I said. “I don’t think you know what you’re asking.” I shrugged it off and went back to work. As much as I wanted Marshall’s job, I wasn’t about take it just because he was going through some kind of quarter-life crisis.

About a week later I was called in to Kath’s office. As far as supervisors go, Kath was about the best boss you could have. She was fair and laidback, and if for some reason you were late to work or couldn’t make it in at all – as long as it didn’t happen too often – she was cool with it.

“The less you do the more we have to do,” she’d say. “That’s job security.”

On this day, however, she didn’t seem laidback at all.

“You seen Marshall?” she asked flatly. I hadn’t even sat down yet. I decided to remain standing.

“No,” I said. “Not since yesterday.”

“Do you know where he is?” I hadn’t seen Marshall since lunchtime the day before, and until that moment had assumed he was in the records room.

“Well, I’m assuming he’s not here,” I said. “So no, I have no idea.”

Kath scribbled some notes on a paper on her desk, then turned in her chair and dismissed me coldly. “That will be all,” she said. “Thank you.”

I turned to leave, stopping in the doorway, and considered asking what was up. I opened my mouth to speak, but couldn’t find the words. Marshall had never missed a day of work in his life, and somehow I knew he wouldn’t be coming back.

* * *

I was wrong about Marshall never coming back. The next day I passed him in the hall on my way to the bathroom.

“I called you last night,” I said, stopping as we neared each other. “I’ve never seen Kath so pissed. She called me into her office.” Marshall kept walking. “Marshall, hey Marsh!” I called as he disappeared around a corner.

I started to follow him, but thought better of it and continued on my way. Then, as I was washing up at the bathroom sink, Marshall walked in, white as a sheet.

“Hey, dick,” I said, and continued washing my hands.

“What? Oh, hey man,” he said. He moved next to me and leaned on the counter. He was staring at the floor.

“So what’s the deal Marsh, first you skip a day and don’t even call to see if I’ll skip with you, then you don’t answer your cell and then you ignore me in the hallway. What’s goin’ on with you?” Marshall looked oblivious.

“The hallway? What? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just turned in my keys, man, I quit.” There was silence for moment before I spoke.

“You quit?”

“Yeah man.”

For the first time he looked up at me, and I could see by the look on his face that he wanted to cry. But he didn’t. He rubbed his temples vigorously and let out a groan.

“Ohhhh, I just don’t know anymore man,” he said. “I just don’t get it. Everyone just seems so happy all the time, so content with where they are in life. I’m just not there, you know?” He looked at me, pleading. I faltered.

“I, well, I guess so. I mean nobody wants to work a crappy day job nine to five but Marsh, we’re only twenty years old, what else are we supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know and that’s the point. Stupid Disney.” He turned to the sink and began splashing water on his face.

“Disney?” I said. “Like the cartoon Disney? Marsh what are you talking about.”

“Can you hand me some paper towels?” He said, his face dripping with water, eyes clenched tight. He could’ve been crying and I wouldn’t have known the difference. I pulled out a wad of paper and handed it to him. “Thanks, man,” he said.

“It’s Disney,” he continued. “It’s all Walt Disney’s fault. Despite our differences, what is the one thing that every single person our age has in common?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Debt?”

Marshall shook his head. “I’m serious man. Look, ever since we were kids we’ve all been force-fed these television shows, these cartoon movies where every girl becomes a princess and every princess gets her prince.” I still wasn’t following.

“Yeah? So?”

“So that’s not how it is,” Marshall said. He was animated now, pacing. His eyes were set with purpose, a strange kind of confidence I’d never seen him show at work before. “Nobody grows up to be a princess, don’t you get it? Things don’t always work out how we want them to – we’re told since birth that we can do or be anything we want but it’s just not true! We won’t grow up and live in a castle, we won’t fight a dragon or save a village or whatever. We won’t do anything! We’ll live and die and fade away and no one will know the difference!”

I didn’t know what to say. He was staring at me, practically panting. His eyes were wild.

“Doesn’t that bother you?” He said, pleading again. I looked away from him. I was getting uncomfortable. I shrugged.

“I guess I never really thought about it,” I said. He stared at me in silence for a long time.

“Well,” he said. I thought he was going to start again, but he stopped short. His voice fell. “Well…” he said again. Then he turned and left the bathroom.

Kath met me in the hallway as I made my way back to my cubicle. “I guess I can bitch now that that little shit is gone,” she said. I stopped at my door and turned around to face her, shaken slightly by Marshall’s odd turn in the bathroom.

“What? Which little shit is that?”

“That friend of yours, Marshall. The little shit called me drunk off his ass at four in the morning night before last and ranted on my voicemail for ten minutes about ‘thanks for the opportunity but I just can’t do this anymore’ blah blah blah.” She stared at the floor, arms crossed. “The kid’s full of ideals, but ideals don’t pay the rent, you know?”

I was stunned. As far as I’d even known, Marshall had never touched a drop of alcohol in his life. I’d certainly never seen him drunk.

“Yeah,” I said, uncertainly. “Weird.”

Kath huffed. “More like pathetic if you ask me. I didn’t mean to be a bitch to you yesterday, but I wanted to make sure this whole insubordination thing wasn’t a twofer, you guys being friends and all.”

“Oh, yeah, no problem,” I said. “I actually had no idea he was quitting. He never said anything to me about it. I just found out a few minutes ago.”

Kath waved her hand as if brushing away even the thought of Marshall. “Yeah, well good riddance if you ask me. I got my two cents in, anyway. I knew he had to drop off his keys and made sure I was here when he did it. I gave him an earful, let me tell you. He looked like he’d seen a ghost when he left my office. Carry on.” She moved on down the hallway. “And if you see him again tell him I said go to Hell.”

* * *

I never did get the chance to tell Marshall to go to Hell. I didn’t get the chance to tell him anything. His cell number was disconnected when I called it that night, and later when I went to his place it was all locked up. The neighbor said he’d just up and moved out.

I’m not sure what Marshall was trying to tell me that day in the bathroom, what was going on inside that made him flip out Jerry Maguire style, but I know it had something to do with Disney. And I know it had something to do with what happened with Liz in Christine’s office up at the switchboard that day, because when I checked my box in the mailroom that last afternoon – the day I saw him for the last time – there was nothing in it but a deck of cards.

—

Simon Thalmann is an assignment editor for the special sections  department of a family of newspapers based in Southwest Michigan. His writing has appeared in many publications, both in print and online, most recently in Verbicide, Weird Tales, Gargoyle, Niteblade and Mythic Delirium. He has work forthcoming in Spillway, Scifaikuest and A Thousand Faces.