OKELNARD

He methodically checked off the words: doncture, poolemna, roodoob, sholent, lod, owoil, leeyualocus, lutricia, forezfire, olor, faur, noomunoomi, underbloat, patgious, witheringhue, lonnicrastissy, and hamburgerhome. These were the code names given to "b-networks" or otherwise low-numbered networks which can be cross-referenced using the pre-sort forms. Benny scratched the slightly greasy scalp inside his dark, stringy locks and throttled the right hinge of his brown, tortoise-shell glasses. Really, he was a good worker - not the fastest, but the fact that he took much pride in his work pleased his boss, Jim Reffler. He may not have been quite as ambitious as, say, Patricia Stove in Marketing, or Rianne Wallard in Finance, but Benny was probably the happiest employee on staff. Only a certain type can take a big stack of forms and calmly comb through them with Zen-like focus, day in and day out, without boredom or remorse. So he checked his columns, double checking the balances, looking up any missing "link-numbers", recalculating any overages, amortizing any underages, and finally submitting the form, invoice and all, to the top of the sales office master pile which would later be consolidated and collated into summary packets and shoved into Jim Reffler's in-box.

This routine went on smoothly and pleasantly for months, years even, until one day Benny noticed an anomaly. A 412-type reconciliation invoice appeared on Benny's desk with many of the same code names as usual - owoil, underbloat, lod - but then there was "okelnard". It took him aback. He thought he remembered the term from a form which crossed his desk two or three months ago, but Benny worked in a precise way and felt obligated to re-reference "okelnard". Soon he discovered that it was hard to get anything on it. Since no one else seemed to know either, he went into the archive files, hidden in the pre-shred warehouse, to find his own forms (referred to by his colleagues as the "Benny-forms") from two or three months ago. What really was disconcerting in looking through these old, wilted files, which had been stacked up against the back wall of this quiet, grey room, was the absence of many files that should have been there. Not only couldn't he find the okelnard invoice, but Benny couldn't find any of the forms he had created. So was this the wrong place to be looking? The only way to really know would be to back-track one step at a time from this collection of archive files. And one step at a time, he marched a peculiar course from Mary-Patrine's pre-archive sort, to Scottem Legro's office chart, which led to a brief, uncomfortable visit to senior vice-president Mariot Hin's key-rec files with Mariot looking on impatiently, to Jasper Welloroy, senior comp-op tech, which led to Luder Vander's cart (Luder was petite as well as slow), which carried papers directly from Jim Reffler's out-box, and, finally, to Jim Reffler's office, where only the most recent of Benny's forms should be found.

But they weren't found, not even the recent ones. He had turned in a pile just the day before, and they should have reached Reffler's desk hours ago, but there were no Benny-forms in Jim's out-box, in-box, desk, shelf, files, or anywhere. Very mysterious. And Reffler wasn't there either. Benny scratched his head again, caught in a daze, a blank face, no smile or frown, just calm wonder. BAM-Jim walked in and startled him; Jim had a way of smiling uncomfortably around Benny.

"I didn't mean to be snooping around or anything; it's just that I came across a code-name, okelnard, which didn't seem too familiar. So I've been trying to trace it, and I browsed the archive warehouse, and-"

"You went through archive files?"

"Well, I just couldn't find okelnard anywhere, and I didn't really see any of my old forms or any of my forms at all there, or in Legro's office or anywhere. So, really. I guess I'm just, sort of, looking to find, or to see, ahm, what's happening to, ah, my forms." For a momentary spell, the air conditioner chimed in with its gasping swell.

"I see...look Benny, sit down for a second." Jim had a way of sounding very nice in trying moments. His fuzzy, brown mustache was well-groomed, but afforded him an endearing quality when he rubbed it. He could seem sheepishly apologetic and maintain a voice of status simultaneously, "What it is-well, really what it is is that we're not using your forms. I mean, really we haven't been using them for months now."

Benny felt his heart wobble. Normally cool with detachment, he was surprised to feel an emotional zeal. The situation wasn't something he understood; it didn't make any sense at all. There was a long pause. He started to mouth a question but let it go. Another pause.

"You know, Benny, maybe it would be better for you to work for Steen Mance in Marketing. You could start this afternoon-of course you'll have to set up a new desk. You know Benny, people here like you. I think it's important for you to know that." Jim's phone beep-blipped. "I really better get this-why don't you make this shift, okay?"

Benny was too confused to say anything, so he left. It took over two hours to move all his stationary and other belongings to a new desk. He didn't know why the shift, why his forms had been neglected or discarded. After everything was arranged, and Mance had described the new work, Benny sat facing his first new document. Unlike the old forms it had a title. It was titled, "okelnard". Well this couldn't be referenced; he was sure of that. It was a brand new form, a new job, and despite the confusion things felt fresh. After a day or two Benny was cranking out forms as quickly and happily as he had before. Sure there was something unresolved, but it wasn't in his nature to worry for very long.

Okelnard, it turned out, would be a common code in the marketing department. It was often the title of one of those "new" forms. He really embraced the new forms too, putting his full self into them. Perhaps it was Benny's naiveté that allowed him to focus so well, and beyond focusing what else can a human really aspire toward anyway? The job transition had been smooth and forgotten. Really it must have been something about the old job and the old forms that somehow didn't suit the company well, and Benny was glad to be in a position where he could be appreciated. Weeks went by and his new found hope inspired him to pick-up his phone a lot more, rather than sending memos, and he was in good spirits when he called Jasper Welloroy to check a computer log for an unbalanced okelnard form. Jasper, the old clog, sounded a little confused.

"Okelnard?"

"Yeah, it just came up a little short, so if you could just give me the pre-sort figures then-"

"Actually, we've never used a code-name okelnard."

Benny froze, dropping the phone. He sat there for two, four minutes, an hour. This was the company's fault. This was Benny's own fault. He packed up his Rembrandt stapler, his calendar and desk photo (the one that had come with the frame), four carefully-spun tubular black-ink pens, an award from the company table-tennis tournament, two pads of yellow lined paper partially soiled by a cod sandwich, a stained thermal coffee mug, hastily cramming it all into his leather tote, and he walked down the narrow carpeted staircase, past Helenly the receptionist, out the glass door, and he walked home.

At home, many bumblebees had edged their way along screen-side into Benny's small, white living room area. He sat in a chair, still, as they buzzed around singing wholeheartedly. And the song they sang was called "Okelnard". And it went, "Okelnard, okelnard, I'm a bee, but damnit, okelnard". Forms scrolled like credits in Benny's head, and the codes-patgious, owoil, faur-flashed and flickered as he sat with bees, not stinging. Then: "Wijowz!" And with a stinging, his mind cut to black. He and the bees hovered together, not breathing, as Benny extended his index to dial.

"This is Benjamin Okelnard. Tell Steen Mance if he wants to pay me to shuffle papers, I'm happy to do it. Tell him

I just forgot who I was."