Makin Copies

Makin Copies

J.M. Snyder

Working Man

Price: $1.49 $1.25


Photocopying his butt at the office Christmas party sounded like a cheap thrill at the time, but what does Johnson tell his boss when Mr. Sanford finds those copies on his desk the next day?

PUBLISHED BY: Aspen Mountain Press
ISBN: 978-1-60168-072-3
CATEGORIES: Romantic Fiction
KEYWORDS: working man, gay romance, office party,

EBOOKS BY Aspen Mountain Press


COPYRIGHT J.M. Snyder/2006

I’m at the water cooler, listening to Kevin’s story of how he fought off a horde of housewives for the last TMX Elmo in Toys ‘R Us, when I hear my name bellowed from the boss’s office. “Johnson!”

The few co-workers near me scatter. I wonder if I can slink away to my desk and pretend I didn’t hear when Mr. Sanford yells out again. “Johnson! In my office, now!”

“It was nice knowing you,” Kevin says as I toss my cup into the trashcan. I know all too well what this must be about—the office Christmas party last Friday night. God! Kevin claps a hand on my back like a nail hammered into my coffin. “The Rich-Meister, caught makin’ copies.”

“Shut up,” I mutter. With my head down, I move through the cubicles in our small office like a man going to the gallows. Ahead Mr. Sanford’s door is open and I can see him sitting behind his desk, his movie-star good looks warring with the intense blaze of hatred in his eyes. He’s found out then, I know he has—someone mentioned it in passing, or maybe they narced on me deliberately, who knows? Who cares? Somehow he knows about the copier and that’s it, I’m fired. Day before Christmas Eve, too. Fuck.

I glance at his secretary as I pass but the smirk she gives me isn’t sympathetic. “You’re dead,” she mouths. Though she holds the phone to her ear, I know she’s talking to me.

Stepping into his office, I figure the best course of action is to play dumb. Pretend it wasn’t me, or say I don’t remember it, I was too drunk. That’s mostly true…stopping in front of my boss’s cherry wood desk, I swallow past the lump of fear in my throat and squeak, “Yes?”

Shit. I even sound guilty. Clearing my throat, I try again. “Mr. Sanford, yes.” Then, realizing that’s not a question, I add, “You wanted to see me?”

“Johnson,” he says, his booming voice filling the room around me and rolling out into the hall, where I’m sure my co-workers hang on his every word.

There’s a manila folder on his desk, dead center, all by itself. The way he clasps his hands over it tells me that whatever I’m in here for is documented in it. I stare at those tanned hands with their well-manicured fingernails and wonder if this is going to be long and painful or quick and easy. Just fire me already, I want to say, but I’m too scared of my boss to speak to him in that way, or any other way. I can’t even look him in the face, this close. Suddenly I’m seven years old and waiting in the principal’s office for the shit to hit the fan.


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