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Big Jake
Timothy J. Warrick

Big Jake is 5' 7", 110 pounds, pogo stick legs and limp noodle arms, junior accountant for Blake, Bronson and Smith. On a good day, he can hold up his accounting pencil. Like Caesar on his throne, he sits in his rotating chair, and the young ladies, giddy with desire, thrill to his manliness.

I gave a deep sigh and, I swear, the room assumed a light tint of green. Sour grapes? Jealousy? You bet. I was determined to bring him down today. I wouldn't be such a sourpuss about this weakling of a man if it weren't for the gnawing fabrications that he uses to draw attention to himself. Really. If he'd allowed me the adoration of even Lousy Louise, who is the crabby office incompetent, I would have been happy for him. Instead, he gobbled up all of her attention while leaving me in the dust, my stories trampled by his worldly boasts.

"A four-foot-high greyhound," I said the other day.

Lousy Louise lapped her lips, she was so riveted. "I just love dogs," she said. I felt the air puff out my chest as another office accountant, Betty, arrived at the coffee maker. In walked Jake. As usual, he ran past the group into his office in a heated sweat in order to impress the others with his industriousness.

"Dave's got a new dog," Lousy Louise said to Jake.

"Great," he said. He whipped his coat off and assumed his place behind his desk. The attention of my audience slipped toward Jake, and I couldn't help but tilt my head to peek into his office.
 
"Big Jake, do you have a pet?" Lousy Louise asked.

My skin crawled and I had to twitch at the offense that the one word brought me. Big. Big?
Do you know what big is? My arms are bigger than his torso. And I'm a wimp. But I have half
a mind to break him in half. Where were all of the good days when personal value was limited to
the size of your arms and not the fabrications of your mind and wit?

Then I saw it. Like the loading of a gun that shoots down its prey, a trickle of a smile peaked out of the corner of Jake’s mouth.

"Yeah, I have a pet," Jake said. "A pet alligator."

"Really?" the two women said in unison, like the Mormon tabernacle choir warming up. The real object of my affection, Betty, by the coffee maker, grabbed her chest in disbelief, horror, and ecstasy. Lousy Louise made a dead sprint to Jake’s office door, the fastest that I've seen her move since Betty brought in her famous apple pie. Once again, I—Dave Brighton, former member of the human race—no longer existed.

"I got the alligator last week," Jake said. "Three feet. I feed him hotdogs and bologna. He eats right out of my hand."

"Wow," Lousy Louise said.

"Three feet?" Betty asked. "Did it get maimed in an accident?"

"No, it's three feet long."

"Oh." They both laughed their caressing laughs, much to my anguish. What I would give to gain the gleam of Betty's eyes! New to the office, Jake played up his mysteriousness like the hero of a good Stephen King novel. There was no way that he had done half the things that he boasted of.

On his first day of work he shook everybody's hand with a sweaty grip and blurted out his first boast, not 10 seconds into his short tenure.

"My name's Jake. They call me Big Jake."

"Right,” I said. “And I'm the incredible hulk." Was Betty watching me?

"Why do they call you Big Jake?" Betty asked. I tilted my head back.

"They've called me Big Jake since my junior year in college. I'm a black belt in karate. I was getting the usual abuse because of my size, but then one of the guys pushed me. Since it was the fourth time these boys on the hall had given me guff, I figured there was only one way to put an end to it. So I side-kicked the one into the wall, did a spin-kick across the other, and flipped the third onto his back. They never bothered me again.

”The hall mates said I packed a big punch. So they called me Big Jake. I guess it stuck."

My smile sunk like the Titanic into the frigid
Atlantic . After three years at the office, I was just about to get up my nerve to ask Betty out on a date; just that quick she was gone. Oh, she
never left. But ever since, she forgot that I worked there. Jake’s daily stories of the Mount Everest expedition, his meeting with Harrison Ford, his entrepreneur endeavors at the age of
16, his parachuting, pilot's license, and his ownership of a Harley-Davidson, BMW and a Corvette, left me and my dog stories, which consisted of picking up poop in the park, somewhat uninteresting.

Then there was yesterday's story of his turkey-hunting expedition. "In order to gain the confidence and attention of the turkeys," Jake said, "you have to do a series of six yelps followed by multiple clucks. This is their mating call." I was sure that he was going to jump onto his desk and do the yelps and clucks for the ladies, but he didn't need to. The ladies began clucking their mating dance into his office every day.

The turkey story firmed my resolve to expose Jake’s lies. Enough of taking a back seat to this guy. I leaned into his doorway, interrupting Betty’s cackles.

"Hey," I said. "Why don't we all head over and take a look at your alligator after work? And you can show us your cars and pictures of Everest."

"Nah," Jake said. "I can't tonight. I've got to go to a bungee jumping class right after work."

"Wow," Betty said. I was sure that I saw a quiver in her knees. "Maybe we can do it another time?"

"Sure."

My lips tightened. That night after work, I waited in my car in the dark for Jake to leave the office, late as usual. To change my identity, I slipped a cigarette into my mouth and spat tobacco out the window. Jake whisked out of the office and dashed for his car. I flicked my thumb on a match, which burnt my thumb. I dropped it into a fast food bag near my foot, which sparked a fire.

My suspect began his getaway. I didn't know whether to put the fire out or engage in pursuit. Vision occluded by my $3.99 sunglasses and the smoke, I cranked the gearshift, screeched my tires, and choked out a raspy cough. I made my pursuit, one foot clamped onto the accelerator and the other busy with a frantic stomp to snuff the fire that had spread to my pant leg. I dumped my remaining soda pop onto the fire. My head wove left and right through the smoke to see Jake's car fade from sight. One hand waved at the smoke, the other tossed the sunglasses out the window. I redirected the wheel.
But I got a beat on my suspect. He headed into
Maple Woods Court . I was certain that this residential area didn't harbor any bungee jumping classes. I had my man. I followed him down a street to see him pull into a modest home whose driveway did not sport a Harley or a Corvette. Bingo. With the eyes of a crook, he raced out of his car toward his front door. He spotted my car. I jumped out and chased after him like a clueless Columbo, still spitting tobacco.

"Aha!" I said.

He slammed the door, and I heard several latches close. Like a vampire at dawn, he had made it back to his casket. Unfazed, I knocked on the door several times on the remote chance that I might be able to close the deal on his fraud. He poked his head through the curtain, unlatched the locks, and opened the door.

"Come on in, Dave," the criminal said in his polite tone. I knew I was right, but my joy was eradicated when I stepped into his house. The door was a fortress of locks, and the house was a trap for every paper, book or magazine in existence. They filled the tables and the floor next to his chairs. Books and sticky notes surrounded his computer. When I saw the helpless look on his face, I couldn't even gloat. Something was amiss. My self-proclaiming nemesis was none of the things that he said. But what up?

"I'm agoraphobic, Dave."

"Agor- So all your stories?"

"Nah."

"Why? Why such a show?"

He ducked his head and laughed. "You know, I guess it's an old coping mechanism. Anyway, I love to research and read on things."

"But you never step one foot out of your door?"

"No, I even have my books delivered to me. I really wish I could do some of these things, but it's too overwhelming."

"How do you get to work?"

"It takes every bit of energy to get to the desk at work, and then I feel okay. It's hard to get back home too."

"Don't they have something for that kind of ailment?"

"Yeah, but it's pretty overwhelming even thinking about getting to the doctor. I've tried certain drugs, and they help a little, but I feel safest at home." He looked down at my shoes.

"Is that a burn hole in your pants?"

I guess we both had some owning up to do. We talked for an hour and I shook his hand and
left. I stepped out of his house with a new appreciation of how easy it was for me to walk to the car.

The next day, I came to work with sober thoughts. I stood by the coffee maker until Jake arrived. I wondered what he'd do. I wondered what I'd do.

"Hello," Jake said. He whisked by me into his office and sat at his desk. The girls huddled into his office as if he had just blown his turkey mating call.

"How was the bungee jumping class?" Lousy Louise asked.

Jake lifted his eyes to me. The power was mine now. I cleared my throat and stepped forward into his office. But I didn't see the boastful fraud, only a fragile man behind his facade. I smiled.

"Big Jake was telling me about his bungee jumping class last night," I said. "Tell them about it, Jake."

He had gotten that familiar curl out of the corner of his mouth. "Well, let me tell you, it's quite a thrill."

Big Jake gave a vivid description of the bungee jumping that he knew so well but had no direct experience with. He continued his stories during the many weeks that followed. Though the ladies remained hooked on them, no one enjoyed the stories more than I did. He had such a passion; it made every event sound appealing. You know, maybe he did make the stories up, but in his own way he actually did those things. Listening to his stories became the best part of the day, and it gave me a chance to stand next to Betty. I still haven't asked her out...but I might.

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