I didn't actually look up. Policy.
"FOOL!" The voice was more insistent, this time. A bit thundering. I looked up quizzically, with a "who's yelling?" look, pointedly not a "responding to 'FOOL' as if it were in fact my name," look.
It was John. Again.
"Look, John. What's the problem, okay? I don't need your shit right now." I had been thumbing abstractedly through the third drawer of a five-drawer filing cabinet, which is third from the top or third from the bottom. It doesn't even matter where you start counting, or whether you consider yourself an optimist. The drawer was half full, more or less.
"Listen, pal," John began. We weren't pals, either. "I've installed a little improvement I'd like you to get a look at." His was one of those voices in which the italics slant all the wrong way.
"Later, man. Can't you see it's not important?" I lowered my eyes back to the contents of the file drawer. I had begun beating my thumbs rhythmically between the folder for "AAF" and "BWW." It was a kind of flamenco polka rhythm. Suddenly I was whistling, determinedly but dispiritedly. John huffed, and the door slammed.
I looked up with relief, "Thank go-"
My lips bit together. John was standing there, grinning. I slowly rose to my feet, formulating some choice words of disdain. As I did, John's hand nonchalantly flicked the light switch next to the door - the switch that controls the ceiling fan.
My scalp felt like somebody had latched a man-eating hat onto it. My neck jerked taut and my feet began sliding uncontrollably around, legs stretched and straining to keep some kind of support underneath me, as my entire body revolved crazily, describing wild tippy-toe circles, scuffing the drab tiled floor of my office.
All I could know for sure was that the ceiling fan had somehow latched onto my head. I was caught by the hair, bitten by a million pulling roots. My scalp felt like it was pulling away. Like it had air under it, and my bare skull floating underneath. There were tears welling from my eyes; not just welling, but dancing out into the air, like distress-drops flying out from the head of a cartoon pugilist who just got socked a good one - as I most surely had. The room spun, and my throat began making "Gurk! Gurk!" noises.
For what seemed like at least a minute and a half, I could not form one coherent thought. Then one came: maybe I had been treating John a bit unkindly, recently.