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Poicephalus

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Solitaire.  Darn that Solitaire game, with its sneering monarchs and its high addiction level, always sucking me back in like a vortex.  Inescapable, that's what it was.  A big, black hole of office boredom.

It's probably why I got fired.

"Clean out your desk, Stevens.  You're outta here.  You haven't filed the first report in the past two weeks."

My brain had completely bypassed my boss's words, instead continuing to focus on that blasted Jack of Clubs.  I must have had some sort of reflexive reaction, because I muttered an insignificant "that's nice" while simultaneously piling up a red ten.

"Stevens.  Stevens!" he shouted at last.

I looked up, immediately irritated at whatever was keeping me from my high score.  Honestly, didn't my boss understand my need to strive, to fight, to conquer?  Don't employers look for that kind of.. you know, stuff?

"Get out.  Now."  He said this as if it was all I needed to hear.  But honestly, how was I supposed to know what he was babbling on about?

"Out, sir?" I replied, in what I thought was a rather succinct voice.  "Out where?"

"Out of here.  For good.  Since you obviously didn't here me the first time around, I'll repeat: you're fired."

He then turned in a somewhat haughty manner and pranced away, rather like a ballerina would.  If the aforementioned ballerina had just had a bit too much vodka.  At least, that's how I perceived it.  But at that point, I might have been a little biased.

It was as I was cleaning out my cubicle that I realized I had an obsession.  Perhaps the biggest clue was the fact that I hardly cared about my sudden inability to pay my bills.  Rather, my attentions were drawn to my lack of a computer.  My office PC was my only source of virtual Solitaire.  I had no computer at my apartment.  And now, without an income, I would be unable to buy one.  The only solution was the deck of cards stowed in my dresser drawer.  But laying out an entire game of Solitaire could take forever; the more time sorting out the cards, the less time I'd have to actually play.  Drat.

That was when it dawned on me: I need help!  Serious help, if my current situation was any indicator.  Looking around at my ex-colleagues as I morosely trudged toward the elevator, I noticed that none of them seemed to share my unfortunate addiction.  True, Jenna Freidman could be caught sneaking in bouts of Minesweeper, and George Andrews's love of FreeCell was well-known.  But were either of them fired over their gaming passions?

The elevator ride down gave me a chance to review my most recent job history.  Did I ever turn in that report for what's-her-face?  It didn't spring to mind.  What about that research I was supposed to do about company costs?  No bells were ringing.  Was all of this proof of my mental deterioration into an office sloth?  I was starting to lean toward 'yes'.

So now that I had identified the problem, it was time for a solution.  Obviously, a psychiatrist was out of the question, since they tended to charge money, and I didn't have such a bright future in that department any more.  Group therapy?  Pleasant thought, but I didn't recall seeing those sorts of help sessions around.  They should, really.  I mean, Solitaire is far more addictive than alcohol or cigarettes.  Right?  Of course.

The only other thing my tired, muddled brain could produce was cold-turkey.  Surely it couldn't be that hard, to just give it up all at once.  No problem.  I'll just get a new job, somewhere without a computer, and never play another game of Solitaire again.

So that was my new commitment.  And immediately, I started looking for a new, PC-free job.

Of course, it seems about 99 and a half percent of current businesses use computers.  Phooey.

At last, though, I found a suitable form of employment: at an old-fashioned bookstore.  

The owner must have been 102.  And my resume wasn't particularly astounding.  But compared to the rest of the applicants, most of whom were in the 16-19 age range, I radiated sophistication.  Or so I thought.  Later I found out I was chosen because I was short, and the owner liked to feel taller than everyone else.  Typical.

I was an instant hit at the bookstore.  I quickly learned all of the classical writers, all the literary terms (I was even using words like 'anthropomorphism' in conversation) and all of the bestseller lists.  I was making the same payroll as my old job in that stuffy office (it should be noted that my new employer was rich, and could thus afford to pay me more than the standard book clerk would make).  I was fast making friends in the field of literature.  And the best part was that there wasn't a Solitaire-enabled computer in sight.  I was free.  At last, I was free.

It gets better.  One morning, as I was getting dressed for work, I received a call from Bonnie, the bookstore owner's great-granddaughter and only living relative (who, I believe, secretly fancied me).  The poor thing was in tears.  It seemed that dear old great-grandpa had passed away.  And he'd left his entire fortune to beautiful Bonnie.  She got everything.  Everything, that is, except the bookstore.

You guessed it.  Mine.  Seems the boss was a little fond of me after all.

I immediately started marketing in a way that the old coot would never have been able to dream.  Soon, the little bookstore was on it's way to becoming a superstore.  In a little over a year, it was.  Then it was nearing the chain store phase.  My latent business skills were paying off at last.

Once I passed the millionaire mile marker, I made another life-altering decision.  I finally asked Bonny to marry me.  She, of course, accepted.  A couple of years after our marriage, she gave birth to my first-born daughter.  Another couple of years, and we had a son.

My life was at its peak.  A family, a fortune, and a place in the world.

There was only one thing that could mess it all up.

One of my assistants (for I had many) came into my office one day, with a package in her hands.  She was smiling like it was Christmas.

"I brought something on behalf of your senior staff, Mr. Stevens.  We all pitched in."  She was actually blushing.  Aww.  I was touched.

Upon opening it, however, I was stunned beyond belief.  It was a computer.  (Like you didn't see that one coming.)

Up until that time, I had left the computing to employees, using the good old-fashioned paper if I ever needed to keep records or that sort of thing.  A PC was just the sort of thing that could start me back into a downward spiral.  I had to be rid of it.  Immediately.  My life depended on it.

It seemed rude to throw it back into the faces of my senior staff, though.  And since my Junior Assistant was standing there expectantly, no doubt waiting for me to power up this obviously advanced piece of technology, I decided to humor her.  I'd just turn it on and look around.  That's all.

Of course, the first thing I found was Solitaire.  And I just had to play.  Just one game, that was all.  And then I'd be rid of the ill-fated computer, once and for all.

Yay, I'd won the game!  But what a low score!  Surely I could do better than that!

My second score was a little bit better, but by no means what I considered good.  Very well, another game, just to prove to myself that I was better skilled than my previous scores showed.

Diamonds, hearts, clubs, spades.  They all started to blend together.

You can probably predict the rest.  The one game soon became dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of games.  My company fell apart without my constant attention.  And after a while, my wife divorced me, took the kids, and moved to Brazil.  I lost my mansion, bill collectors were starting to re-emerge, and I was right back at where I started.

The moral of this story?  Don't bother typing out short autobiographies.  They will just depress you and keep you from playing Solitaire.  Which is all that really matters.  Darn it.