by Chuck Brownman
This story was previously published in 2015 in Death Edge Tales Vol. 4.
“I don’t like this, Ferry,” Mr. Grossman said, his sausage-shaped fingers gripping Tim’s monthly report.
“Not one bit.”
Tim clenched his teeth. Not only was the new boss continuing to mispronounce Tim’s last name (it was Feret and rhymed with the French hat), now he objected to a report Tim had been doing the same way for the last seven years.
Mr. Grossman shifted his bulky body, causing his desk chair to squeak in protest. Tim’s attention diverted to a slim red book that lay behind Grossman on the credenza. Squinting, Tim could make out its title, Financial Analyses for Idiots. Sounds right.
“I want the data from these seven columns condensed into four and moved to this side,” Mr. Grossman continued, his words speeding up as if anxious to escape his mouth. “Then add two bar charts and graphically represent your results in three brighter colors to better highlight the results. Then, um,” he glanced down at a sticky note positioned before him, “I want you to re-calculate these changes by month, fiscal quarter, and year-to-date for each division, business unit and department, incorporating a three- and five-year year-over-year moving average and a standard non-parametric variance analysis. Then …”
Mr. Grossman’s voice droned on, the terminology making little sense. In Tim’s mind, the sound morphed into an airplane’s rumble. Perhaps an airplane that had lost an engine, threatening the lives of all on board. And there sat Tim, in the pilot’s seat, landing the damaged plane, the passengers chanting his name … Feret, Feret …
“Ferry? Ferry!!”
The triumphant image evaporated, replaced by his supervisor’s scowling face. “Are you there, Ferry? Anyone home?”
“Yes, Mr. Grossman.”
“So you’ll make these changes, right?”
Ignoring the sounds of people walking past the manager’s office door, Tim said, “We’ve done it this way for years, sir.”
“Precisely the problem, Ferry,” Mr. Grossman said, tossing the pages in Tim’s direction. They landed with a thwack and slid across the desk’s polished surface. If Tim hadn’t reached out, they would’ve fallen.
“In the three weeks since the head office sent me to this corporate backwater, what I’ve observed is that this entire department is in a rut, doing things the same old ways. No improvements, no increases in efficiency. Time to drag all of you into this century.”
Mr. Grossman leaned forward, his thick eyebrows coming together like a fastened seat belt. “Anyone who doesn’t adapt will find themselves out on the street.” He pointed a stubby finger at Tim. “You in? Or are you history?”
Tim’s stomach did a quadruple flip with two impossible reverse twists. Sheila had warned him. Stay on Grossman’s good side; get the assistant chief analyst’s promotion.
Tim looked down at his lap. “Of course, sir,” he said softly. Waste of time. This report’s fine.
“Good. On my desk by eight a.m.”
Tim trudged through the long room where he’d worked for years. This was his domain, the fluorescent lights shining on row after row of analysts, all clacking away on their keyboards, talking by phone to employees in other departments, or consulting with nearby co-workers. It was nearly four, and making Grossman’s changes would take at least three hours. Better call Sheila now and get it over with.
Reaching his cubicle near the back corner, Tim awakened the spreadsheet program and saved his report as a new version before picking up the phone. He punched the buttons of his home number and then jammed the phone between his ear and his shoulder. He started typing as it rang.
“Why are you calling now? You know better, I’m watching my programs and resting.”
“Yes, dear, I remember.” But even after being reminded dozens of times, Tim was still unclear what she was resting from, since she neither worked, cooked, nor cleaned. “I have to work late tonight, Grossman wants changes to my monthly report.”
“The things I put up with. I hope you don’t expect me to pick up dinner.”
“I’ll get something from the vending machine.”
“What about my dinner?”
“I’m sure you can find something at the house. Or call and get something delivered.”
Sheila sniffed. “It’s not the same. They never get it right. If you cared a smidgeon about me, you’d come home and take care of me. I’m having one of my spells.”
“Take some aspirin, dear, you know, the orange kind. I’ll be home as soon as I can.” He hung up, ending any further protest.
His email icon showed he’d received five new messages during his meeting with Grossman. Better check those first —
“Do you have a minute, Timothy?”
Tim didn’t have to look up to recognize her voice. But he did anyway.
Leslie stood at the opening of his cubicle, long auburn hair cascading down, a half-smile gracing her face.
His heart pounding, Tim stood. “Having more problems with that new program?”
She entered his cubicle, her two short strides bringing her next to him. Despite Leslie being petite, their eyes were almost level with each other. Standing close to Leslie made Tim aware of how average he looked and how sweet her perfume smelled. Sheila didn’t wear perfume.
Leslie smiled. “I couldn’t help overhearing some of what Grossman said to you. It’s not fair.”
An image appeared briefly of himself as a knight slaying a Grossman-looking dragon. “It’s okay, he’s just doing his job.”
“Why are you defending him?” Leslie’s pale skin reddened. “He hinted strongly that he’d fire you, he’s unilaterally changing established practices, and he’s threatening to promote Mark Donaldson, even though you’ve got seniority and know twice as much as him.”
Her words warmed him. Combined with the light hazel color of her eyes and the cloying sweetness of her perfume, they gave Tim the strength to not correct her grammar.
“You need to stand up to him, Timothy.”
Tim wanted to answer her, but his tongue felt twelve inches thick. Words that sounded strong and assured in his head now seemed so lame and weak that even a dentist couldn’t extract them.
Leslie’s shoulders sagged. “No, I suppose not.”
They stood there. Tim looked down at his shoes, wishing he could say something sophisticated, something witty. Or just something.
The silence stretched out like a rubber band.
Leslie broke the quiet. “I want to give you something, I think you need it more than I do.” She pulled his arm toward her and pressed a metallic disk into his hand.
Puzzled, Tim looked at her.
“It’s my lucky coin, silly. And if anyone needs good luck, Timothy, it’s you.”
Vaguely disappointed that she believed in such nonsense yet not wanting to disappoint her, Tim studied the coin. Slightly larger and thicker than a quarter, the rusted and mottled surface prevented him from identifying its features. Although his hobby was collecting and cataloging stamps, he had more than a rudimentary knowledge of coins. Even so, he couldn’t determine its country of origin. The only characteristic he could recognize was its warmth … from when Leslie’d gripped it in her hand.
“Did it bring you luck?”
She giggled. “Not really. I saw it in an antique store a few weeks ago. The man there said it had ‘mystical powers.’ I bought it for entertainment value.” She closed Tim’s fingers around the coin, its rough edges digging into his palm. “But I want you to have it. Maybe it’ll bring you good fortune.”
She smiled again, her expression tinged with something Tim couldn’t quite identify — sadness, perhaps. Maybe pity. Both of which he’d seen more than once. Whatever it was must’ve been contagious. When she left, he felt worse than before.
Sinking back into his desk chair, Tim continued studying the metallic object. He looked around, then rubbed it, feeling idiotic … what did he think it was, Aladdin’s Lamp? He made as tight a fist as he could muster. His hand tingled. Luck? More likely the exertion cutting off his circulation.
From the other end of the room, Mr. Grossman called out to his secretary that he was leaving for the day. Everyone said he did it purposely, gloating in his new assignment as chief analyst. Tim hadn’t given the matter much thought.
But Mr. Grossman’s noisy departure reminded Tim that he needed to finish the revised report tonight. He sighed. All those changes. He’d check those five new emails, then start.
After switching from the spreadsheet program to the company email system, Tim scanned who the senders were and each email’s subject. All work-related messages … except one, showing as “external,” the subject line reading “An Offer.” Puzzled, Tim clicked it open.
BOSS GETTING YOU DOWN? WE CAN HELP!
We are not spam. We are a service organization designed to assist deserving individuals. Since you are a new user, we are offering you the chance to try our basic service. This involves neither money nor financial information. To accept our offer, merely press the “ESC” button on your keyboard. If you do nothing, this message will delete in one hour and we will not contact you again.
Spam, regardless what the ad said. Or maybe …
Tim popped up from his chair, sending it rolling backwards where it clunked against one of his file drawers. He stood on tiptoes and craned his neck, peeking over the cubicle walls, seeking the peals of laughter, the “gotcha’s,” that would identify the practical joke’s perpetrators. But everyone was hard at work. No one paid him any attention.
Tim was relieved … but disappointed, too. That’s how he knew he was part of the group, when they made him the focus of their little pranks.
He retrieved his desk chair and sat, re-reading the email. If not a practical joke, then certainly spam.
He moved the cursor to the delete button and then stopped. He wondered how the email sender could help … he could see it now … Grossman re-assigned, they needed someone to step in and run the department to save the company, Tim saying, “I’ll do it,” while everyone cheered, nudging each other that Tim would see them through this crisis. He saw himself sitting in Grossman’s office behind the mahogany-colored fake wood desk, sun streaming in through the one-and-a half windows, summoning everyone to his office, issuing orders. And the benefits — more money, Sheila being sweet to him …
“Having X-rated thoughts, Timmy old boy?” Mark Donaldson asked, his face poking over the top of the cubicle.
“Hmm?”
“You’re staring into space with the biggest cockeyed grin I’ve ever seen.”
Tim felt his face get hot. He cleared his throat, then started moving his mouse across the mouse pad.
“No, just … just thinking about revising this report.”
“Uh huh, sure.” Mark grinned, that know-it-all grin that seemed permanently plastered across his face as, day after day, he entertained the staff with anecdotes and jokes. Mark winked, then his head lowered as if he were descending in an elevator. At least this time he didn’t call me “Ferret” like he sometimes does. Tim heard Mark pick up his phone and start a conversation.
Come on, Tim, get started. But with his finger again hovering over the “Delete” button, he couldn’t help thinking, Just for fun.
He pressed the ESC button. The email faded from the screen, replaced by the familiar view of his email inbox. Tim waited.
Nothing.
He wasn’t sure what he expected: static or crackling on the monitor, beeping or some other sounds, lightning, something. He looked around. Everything was the same as it had been a moment before.
Even though he’d known the message was spam, Tim felt let down. He shrugged, dropped Leslie’s coin into the middle desk drawer among his extra office supplies, and focused on making Grossman’s dumb revisions.
Four hours later, driving his six-year-old sedan toward his tract-home neighborhood, Tim replayed in his mind the day’s events: Grossman’s demands and threats, Leslie’s pity and good luck charm. Weird day.
For the millionth time, he wished he could be more outgoing, stronger. Not a jokester like Donaldson, with all his snappy one-liners, bad puns, and practical jokes, No, that would never be my style. But at least stand up for himself to bullies and know-nothings like Grossman. If he had, he’d’ve told the manager that the report was fine the way it was, that the department was fine the way it was, and that he, Tim, was just fine the way he was, too.
Pulling into his driveway, Tim sighed. Like all his best comebacks, this one was several hours late and had only himself for an audience.
Tim entered the house through the garage door, turning on the light in the darkened kitchen. After pouring a glass of water, he walked to the family room, hoping that Sheila would surprise him and be sympathetic. There she sat, in her usual spot on the beige sofa, her thick legs covered with a blanket, a box of mixed chocolates on the table next to her elbow. Her eyes flicked briefly from the romance novel she was reading to Tim and then back again.
“So you’re finally home,” she said, her voice its usual combination of boredom and irritation.
“As you can plainly see.” Tim sat on the matching loveseat, sinking into one of the too-soft cushions
Sheila preferred. “You’ll never believe what happened —”
“Don’t forget, tomorrow’s Tuesday. The trash needs to go out.”
So much for Sheila being interested. “Why do you remind me every week? Don’t you think I know that I need to put out the trash?”
“Why are you getting so upset? Are you sick? Maybe I need to take your temperature.” Sheila closed her book with a loud thunk and set it aside, her eyebrows lowered in a look of concern. “I hope not. I have several errands you need to run tomorrow, so I can’t have you underfoot, expecting to be waited on.”
Her voice faded as Tim imagined a totally different Sheila, one who saw to his every need, constantly asking him how he was doing, checking to see what he might want, waiting for him to bestow a smile upon her, holding him gently. What can I do …
“Do you hear me? Are you off in one of your trances?”
“Hmm?” The loving and caressing hands faded away, replaced by Sheila flapping a piece of paper at him, the action causing the extra skin between her shoulder and her elbow to jiggle.
“This is the list of errands. Do a couple during your lunch break, then you can take care of the others after work. You should leave early.”
“I have too much work to do.”
“Hmpf. I told you all along, you should’ve gotten that chief analyst’s job.”
Her words of support pleased and surprised Tim. Married a dozen years with no children, things hadn’t always been this way between them. At first, they’d gone out and done things together, laughing, sharing their hopes, dreams and ambitions. But over the years, with Tim spending more and more time on his job and his stamps, Sheila seemed to lose her focus, bouncing from one interest to another, never staying with one thing long enough to master it. Her only constant was wanting more.
Sheila continued, “It pays more money. We could go to Europe in the fall. Bitsy told me about this fantastic tour she and Eddie went on, and we could go, too.”
So it wasn’t the encouraging sign he’d thought. But it would be nice to be chief analyst. Or at least the assistant chief analyst. And he deserved it, even if he was the only one who thought so. Well, Leslie, too; she’d implied as much.
The day’s events swept again into his mind, like high tide engulfing a sandy beach. Grossman’s threats, Donaldson’s jokes, Leslie and her coin, the changes to the report. Too much. If he wasn’t careful, he might lose his temper, and then he’d be —
“__history,” Sheila concluded.
“What?” Tim said, startled that she’d seemed to read this thoughts.
“Europe. Castles. Crown Jewels. History.” Sheila rolled her eyes. “I swear, you never listen to a thing I say.”
“Of course I do, dear.” Tim stood and kissed his wife on the cheek. “I’m going to look over my stamp collection, get ready for the club meeting tomorrow.”
“Don’t stay up late, you obviously need your rest.”
* * *
The next morning was an overcast Tuesday. Tim arrived at the office a few minutes earlier than normal. He wanted to make sure he personally put the revised report on Mr. Grossman’s desk. He’d tried to do it last night, but by the time he’d finished, the cleaning crew had already locked Mr. Grossman’s office.
Opening the departmental refrigerator, Tim was relieved to see the right side of the middle shelf still empty. Sometimes Mark or another office prankster put things there just to discombobulate him. He placed his egg salad sandwich and carrot sticks on “his” spot, deciding that today was off to a good start and would be an improvement over yesterday.
Walking toward his cubicle to retrieve the report, he saw several co-workers standing in the aisle, gesturing excitedly and filling the air with a feverish buzz.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it? One day he’s here, the next moment, poof.”
“Just goes to show, you never know when your time’s up.”
“I think it’s creepy.”
“What happened?” Tim asked.
“Grossman had a bad car accident last night coming home from work. He’s going to be laid up several months, maybe longer.”
A sliver of unease crept up Tim’s spine. A coincidence? Had to be.
A few minutes later, Paul Belmont, a lanky, gray-haired senior manager from Finance, came out and announced in his gravelly voice that, for the time being, he was assuming Mr. Grossman’s responsibilities. For now, everyone should continue doing what they did. Tim liked that Mr. Belmont wasn’t making unnecessary changes.
As everyone dispersed, Mr. Belmont beckoned Tim over. “You’ve been in this group a long time,” he said, clapping Tim on the shoulder. “I’m counting on you to help me manage things.” Mr. Belmont started walking away.
Pleased but worried, Tim followed. “Mr. Belmont, do you know anything about a revised monthly report? Mr. Grossman mentioned it yesterday, but …”
Mr. Belmont slowed but kept moving, forcing Tim to follow in his wake. “I’ve only been here an hour or so, and I’m still finding my way around.” He looked over his shoulder at Tim and smiled. “For now, just do things the way you always have, then we’ll figure out what needs changing. Okay?”
They separated, Mr. Belmont walking towards what was, for now, his office, and Tim scurrying back to his cubicle. People still stood around, continuing to speculate on what would happen, repeating the news for late arrivals. Sitting at his desk, Tim clutched the revised report. All that work, useless and wasted.
He opened a file drawer, placed the revised report inside, and delicately slid the drawer shut. The click sounded loud.
But he couldn’t file away his curiosity. Was there a connection between the email and Mr. Grossman’s accident? It seemed unlikely. But it was a weird coincidence.
His imagination unleashed, Tim’s mind leaped from one wild possibility to another, each new idea bringing a wave of dizziness, until Tim was nauseated. He tried sipping water, but with his hand trembling, he spilled more than he drank.
He tried pushing the thoughts aside. But like any pest, once inside they were impossible to get rid of. Had that crazy email worked? Had he unleashed some mysterious lethal menace?
Everyone worked quietly in their cubicles, jokes and banter banished as if by telepathic consensus, the silence punctuated only by booms of thunder and sporadic thunderstorms making the windows vibrate. Tim’s day was dominated by crazy ideas and frustration as he kept looking for some kind of acknowledgement that never appeared.
By five forty-five, having accomplished almost nothing despite staying later than his customary departure time and resolving that he’d work harder tomorrow, Tim put the papers from his desk in the drawer where his unfinished projects went each night. The bare desktop pleased him, and seeing the clean surface each morning made each day easier to start.
His trip to the church social hall where the monthly meeting of the Fatal Philatelists was held (He thought the play on words corny) took precisely forty-one minutes, six minutes longer than usual due to ponding on the roads from the earlier storm and a continuing drizzle. Still, Tim arrived a half-hour ahead of the meeting’s scheduled seven P.M. start, early enough to grab his favorite spot, the chair in the circle closest to the corner of the room. After getting out his magnifying glass and stamp tongs, he opened his newest album to page thirteen and his latest acquisition, a vintage 1939 Mississippi stamp he’d spent months searching for. It wasn’t that valuable, only worth about fifty dollars, but its value to him was much higher. It completed the southern state segment of his collection of maritime stamps. He collected stamps on many maritime topics, but he was partial to those depicting ferries, similar to his name. With the same anticipation he’d felt since acquiring the stamp two weeks ago, he could already imagine the group’s reactions, their oohing and aahing, and even that loudmouth Jerry Silber being impressed.
Other group members drifted in one and two at a time. Tim said hello to them all but sat while conversations on other subjects swirled around him. Small talk disconcerted him.
By a few minutes after seven, most of them were there — but not Jerry, Tim noticed — and the group was finally ready to begin. After the customary welcome from Vicki, the group’s current leader, they spent a few minutes talking about the latest stamp collecting news. Then came the moment Tim had been anticipating. Vicki asked, “Anyone have any acquisitions to show us?”
Tim hesitantly raised his hand. Vicki smiled encouragingly at him.
“Two weeks ago, I located —”
Jerry Silber burst into the room like a rocket. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was a nightmare, an accident on Warren Street and all the cars diverted onto Spring. But not to worry, I’m going to make it up to you.” While talking, he’d removed his coat and flung it on an empty chair.
“Actually, Jerry, I just called on Tim —”
“He’ll wait once he sees this.” Jerry flourished a glassine envelope. “Yesterday I bought a collection from a dead guy’s heirs who didn’t know squat about what they had, and they sold me one of the few remaining 1935 Prussian Blue stamps. Worth forty cents when first issued, now valued at over twelve grand.” A murmur rose as everyone expressed their astonishment. “Gather ’round and eat your hearts out.”
Everyone stood to look at Jerry’s stamp. Tim sat like a statue, his mouth open. Their backs to him, all the members jabbered excitedly, nudging forward to get a better view of Jerry’s rare stamp. Jerry went on and on about how smart he’d been, how cagey he’d played the ignorant heirs.
This was supposed to be my night.
Tim slowly closed his album, gently rubbing the front of the book. He could wait until the excitement died down, but then he’d be an afterthought. Again.
He took his coat and left quietly.
After driving aimlessly through rain, mist and fog, he headed home. Thinking once more about the meeting, his knuckles turning white around the steering wheel, Tim imagined pushing Jerry aside, showing his own stamp, and the group stampeding around him, mobbing him, patting his back as if he’d just single-handedly won the big game. Best of all, he visualized Jerry standing at the edge of the group, ignored. Alone.
Sheila looked away from the television as he entered the family room. “You’re home early.”
“We didn’t have as much to talk about as usual.” He collapsed into the loveseat.
“Are you hungry? You could fix something for yourself.”
“Just tired.” As the silence grew, he tilted his head back, massaging his temples, annoyed yet relieved that she hadn’t asked him about what had happened at the stamp club.
“How was work today?”
Tim told her about Mr. Grossman’s accident and Mr. Belmont taking over. He didn’t mention the bizarre email or share his uneasiness.
Sheila nodded. “I don’t mean to take advantage of the injured, but since Belmont is new and likes you, maybe he’ll make you his assistant. It’s the least he could do, since you should’ve gotten the top job in the first place. Yes, this could all work out.” Sheila looked around the room, her disapproval forming a squinched-up nose and sour expression. “And once he promotes you, we could redecorate.” She sat up. “Or even buy a new house. That would be great. Then …”
Doesn’t she know I can’t just ask for that promotion? Tim tuned her out. Eventually, the company will realize how valuable I am …
“Did you hear me?”
“What’s that dear?”
“I said that when we decorate the new house, Eileen and I could go to all the trendy art galleries, she knows them all. We’d create a whole new ambience from this old place. You won’t even be able to tell it’s our house.”
Tim’s eyes strayed to the three paintings hanging on the cream-colored wall behind Sheila. Colorful splotches displayed in random patterns, the “latest thing” according to the dealer who’d unloaded them on her. To Tim, the paintings looked like what an agitated chimpanzee would throw against the canvas. Unable to imagine what Sheila’s “new ambience” would look like, he shuddered.
“Are you questioning my taste in art?”
“I was just thinking of other things. I do sometimes think, you know.”
Sheila’s mouth pursed as if she’d bitten into a lemon. Turning back to the television, she said, “You’d better go to sleep. You’re tired.”
Instead, Tim climbed the stairs and entered his “study,” as they called the extra bedroom he used to house his stamp collection and tools. After shelving the album, now just one more painful memory, he logged on his computer to check his email. Perhaps he’d heard from his brother, or maybe he would read the discussion on one of his stamp collecting list-servs. Scanning the new messages, he saw an unsettling subject line — “2nd Offer.”
Tim swallowed hard and then clicked on the email.
STANDING BY YOURSELF AT SOCIAL EVENTS? WANT TO BE THE LIFE OF THE PARTY?
We are not spam. We are a service organization designed to assist deserving individuals. As a prior user, you are entitled to utilize our enhanced service. This involves neither money nor financial information. To accept our offer, merely press the “ESC” button on your keyboard. If you do nothing, this message will delete in one hour and we will not contact you again.
Tim stared at the email. It seemed identical to the one he’d received yesterday.
Was Mr. Grossman’s accident not a coincidence? And was Jerry now being targeted?
This email was sent to his personal account, so not a co-worker’s practical joke. And only he knew what had happened at tonight’s meeting. What could cause this? A weird internet glitch? Some cosmic event, like solar storms?
There was no rational explanation.
Nor an irrational explanation.
Afraid of whatever this was and what it might do, he still wanted to push the button.
Jerry was like all the others, treating Tim as if he didn’t exist. But he did exist. He had thoughts and feelings.
Tim’s hand clenched into a fist as he remembered a childhood filled with his father’s admonitions not to make waves. A lifetime of slights, insults and jokes. Maybe this was his chance to get even.
But was it worth the price? And what was the price? Tim didn’t want to contemplate what their “enhanced service” might entail.
He moved toward the Delete button, the honorable and easy path. His hand stopped, then moved toward the ESC button. His breathings turned ragged. What should he do?
A series of images played out in his mind. Jerry bursting in, certain that Tim would step aside. Leslie’s sad smile. Mark Donaldson’s mocking grin. Belmont blowing him off. Sheila’s pushing.
It would serve Jerry right. Serve them all right.
A lifetime …
Tim pushed the ESC button.
As before, the email faded, with Tim’s anger receding, too. Now able to think more calmly, one thought dominated. What have I done?
* * *
The following day, haggard from a night spent tossing and turning, Tim turned on his office computer, anxious to see if he had an email from the mysterious “revenge squad.” He sipped chamomile tea from a favorite mug, one that depicted a lighthouse standing guard over a watery inlet.
He had mixed feelings about pressing the ESC button last night. Payback to Jerry for his behavior at the philatelists’ meeting, and to all the others over the years, sure, he got that.
But then he considered Mr. Grossman … seriously injured, months of pain. Regardless of how Jerry’d acted, Tim really didn’t want him, or anyone else, hurt.
His phone trilled. It was Mr. Belmont, summoning him. Tim hurried to the chief analyst’s office.
“I know you’re busy, Tim, so I’ll get right to it. Grossman’s going to be out for longer than we first thought, and this job’s more complicated than I realized. So I’m going to appoint an assistant chief analyst from among the group, and I need your help.”
Tim’s hopes soared. “Anything I can do, sir.”
“I haven’t fully decided yet, but I think the choice is clear. After reviewing all the personnel files, it really comes down to two of you.” He took a paper from the desk, and for a moment Tim imagined the Nobel Committee announcing he’d won the Peace Prize, all the reporters clamoring for his reaction …
“So Tim, what do you think?”
He cleared his throat. “Could you repeat that, Mr. Belmont?”
Mr. Belmont frowned. “Like I said, the two candidates are Mark Donaldson and Leslie Hamilton. You’ve been here the longest and know them both. What’s your opinion?”
Tim sat as if mummified, unable to think or talk. He blinked rapidly. Say something, anything. Before he thinks you’ve had a stroke.
“Well, er, yes. Umm … Mark and Leslie?” Tim adjusted his bow tie, knowing it was perfectly straight as always. “Both good workers. Well thought of, well-liked. Umm —”
Mr. Belmont looked at him quizzically. “Good, Tim, thanks.” He stood. “That’s a great help.”
As if in a trance, Tim stood, too. By the time his thoughts cleared, he was again sitting at his desk, although he had no recollection of walking there.
Mark? That joker? No sense of responsibility, procedures or protocols. Everyone liked him, they all thought he was funny. But that so-called sense of humor covered up his weak analytical abilities.
Leslie? Thorough, smart, lots of potential. But she hadn’t been here long. It was premature.
He wanted to march back into Belmont’s office, pound on the desk and yell, “What about me?” That’s what he should do.
In fact, that’s what I will do.
Tim stood, took five steps toward Belmont’s office, slowed, and then stopped. What if he says no? What if he laughs? What if he gets angry and fires me?
Tim shuffled back to his desk. Best leave well enough alone. Barging in on Belmont wasn’t the answer.
Barging in … that brought back the memory of last night’s meeting, and being so angry to push the ESC button and trigger the “enhanced service.” But today his anger had dissipated, and his frustration at being overlooked for the job was overshadowed by concern. He had to know if anything had happened to Jerry.
As soon as he could, Tim accessed websites reporting on local news from last night and this morning. Multiple burglaries, the storms blamed for dozens of car wrecks, even a man struck by a bolt of lightning. Tim could relate. But Jerry’s name never came up.
Tim gnawed his lip, uncertainty and fear mixing together into a stew of outright panic. He had to know about Jerry.
Unable to wait for an email reply, Tim decided to call Vicki, the stamp club leader. Minutes ticked by while he searched for her number. After five rings, Vicki’s voice mail clicked on.
After the beep, Tim said his name, then continued, “I was calling to find out if Jerry was …” What? Injured? Dead? And how would he explain even asking? “Umm, I’ve had a bad feeling about Jerry and I need to make sure he’s okay. So can you call me? Right away?” He left his office, cell and home numbers, and hung up, realizing how much he sounded like a lunatic. On hearing his message, Vicki would probably question his sanity.
The rest of the day was worse than the day before. People had to repeat his name to get his attention, he made multiple mistakes that luckily he caught before they went out, and once he rose from his desk and walked off, forgetting who he was going to see and why. He felt lucky to arrive home in one piece.
That night felt like torture. Tim’s misery came with him, as if he’d packed it in his briefcase.
All evening, his thoughts ricocheted between Jerry’s condition and Belmont’s Mark-vs.-Leslie decision. Could anyone take Mark Donaldson seriously? Was Jerry dead? Leslie possibly … if she had someone guiding her, teaching her …
He imagined them having long meetings, Leslie sharing her ideas and he sculpting and refining them. He’d be the power behind the throne, and everyone would know it. With a frown, he’d reduce co-workers to towers of shaking flesh; with a raised eyebrow, he’d bring meetings to silence, other employees fidgeting while awaiting his approval. Like Caesar in the Roman Coliseum, giving an upturned thumb to the gladiator who’d live or a downturned one to he who would not.
“Salad? You want a salad now? We finished dinner an hour ago.”
His vision melted like ice cream in July. And once more Tim found himself in his living room, sitting on the couch, a movie on the television. He looked at Sheila as if seeing her for the first time. “What are you talking about?”
“You said ‘Caesar’ plain as day. You’re hungry? At this hour?”
“Of course not. I was thinking about sculpting people.” Seeing her look, he continued, “You know, sculptures, art objects.”
“Why on earth would you think about that?” Sheila leaned forward, peering at him. “Do I need to call Dr. Tompkins?”
“I’m fine. What’s this movie about?”
“You’ve been acting odder than usual all evening. Did something happen at work?”
Tim felt his face turn hot. Hoping he wasn’t flushed, he replied that everything that was fine.
“No one could tell from your behavior. But since you’re okay,” she said, holding up a bowl, “bring me some more candies. You know the ones I like.” Out of habit, Tim rose and walked out to the kitchen.
In the middle of the TV movie Sheila had selected, the phone rang. It was Vicki, the stamp club leader.
Finally.
“Sorry I didn’t call earlier, but it was one of those days. A sick kid, work was nuts and —”
“Believe me, I understand. About Jerry —”
“Wasn’t that amazing about his stamp” And where’d you disappear to? I looked for you.”
“I had to get home. Do you have Jerry’s number?”
“Sure. Here you go. Gotta run.”
After hanging up, Tim looked at his watch. Almost ten, later than he’d consider a polite time to call. But this was literally a matter of life and death. He couldn’t wait.
Jerry answered after the fourth ring. “Jerry, it’s Tim, from the stamp club. Are you … okay?”
“You kidding? After what I went through?”
“How badly are you hurt?”
“Man, it hurts as bad as anything I ever felt. How’d you hear about it? Don’t tell me you had some premonition?”
Deciding that explanation was marginally less crazy than the truth, Tim allowed that the storms had left him with a bad feeling.
“I appreciate you checking, Tim. I’ll be okay. But I don’t know if I’ll ever find another one.”
Another what? Limb? Tim asked Jerry to explain.
“Stamp. Whaddaya think? Another Prussian Blue.”
“Wait, I’m lost.”
Jerry chuckled ruefully. “I’m running back to my car after last night’s meeting, it’s pouring and I don’t want to get soaked. I stumble off the curb and break my arm. But I dropped my album in a puddle and all the stamps, including the Prussian Blue, got ruined. What’d you think?”
Tim was torn between relief and glee. “I thought you’d been physically hurt. Like in a hospital.”
“The arm’ll heal soon. But losing that Blue, that hurts more.”
“Yes, I can imagine. I’ve got to go. See you at next month’s meeting.”
For the second time in as many nights, Tim slept fitfully, this time chased by nonsensical dreams of Caesar salads, Italian sculptures, Roman gladiators and old coins. Once again, he arrived at work groggy, exhausted, and on edge.
Pull yourself together, Tim … no distractions, no hocus pocus, just work. And despite his fatigue, Tim stayed focused until just before eleven, when his computer dinged, signaling the arrival of an email. Assuming it was a response to emails he’d sent earlier, he opened the message without looking. He inhaled sharply.
The heading of this email was “Final Offer.” Licking his lips, knowing he should just delete it, Tim opened the message.
We are not spam. We are a service organization designed to assist deserving individuals. As a user of our enhanced service, you are entitled to one final opportunity.
Below you will find four options. You may click on ONLY one box.
This involves neither money nor financial information. To accept our offer, merely click on one of the four boxes on your screen, and then press the “ESC” button on your keyboard. If you do nothing, this message will delete in one hour.
Tim scrolled down and found the four boxes, each with a name inside.
Paul Belmont
Mark Donaldson
Sheila Feret
Leslie Hamilton
His heart pounding, Tim stared at the screen. He couldn’t, wouldn’t … The first time was a whim; the second time he wasn’t sure but gave into anger. He didn’t know who was behind this, or how, or why. But after the first two emails, he no longer doubted. Something would happen to whomever he chose.
He closed the email, but first checked the time stamp: ten fifty-five. Now it was eleven oh-three. Just ignore it for fifty-two minutes until it expired.
In the break room, he gulped three cups of water from the cooler, like someone who’d survived a trek across the Sahara. He wobbled into a seat and held his head in his hands.
“Headache, chum?” Mark Donaldson asked.
Tim looked up into the younger man’s grinning face.
“I don’t blame you, this place can pound a guy like a hammer.” Mark clapped Tim’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, when I’m in charge, I’ll take care of you.” He winked and walked out.
Tim had no misconceptions about what the office would be like with Mark running things. Daily pranks, more humor, everything so relaxed and protocols not followed. Mark in charge? Not if he had anything to say about it.
Returning to his cubicle as fast as he could without running, he re-opened the email. Eleven fourteen. Forty-one minutes left.
He really didn’t want anyone hurt. But even more than the event with Jerry, this could be his chance, his one chance, to control his life instead of taking whatever Life sent his way.
But who to pick?
Sliding the cursor back and forth over the four boxes. Tim pondered each one.
Mr. Belmont … even though he was nice to Tim, he hadn’t even considered Tim for the new assistant chief’s job.
Mark Donaldson, the joker who’d likely run the department into the ground.
Sheila … who’d once been so sweet … but could he ignore their history together?
Leslie … well, not really. Even though she was being considered for the new job, she’d been nice to him, even giving him that silly old coin.
Of the four of them, Tim couldn’t see using his selection on Leslie or Mr. Belmont. That left Mark and Sheila. Sheila or Mark.
Which one?
“Everyone! I need your attention. Come here please!”
Tim joined the others gathering in front of their new boss.
“I know the last couple of days have been chaotic. I’m still feeling my way along, so I’ve decided to appoint, as my new assistant chief analyst …”
Tim held his breath.
“ … Leslie Hamilton. Everyone congratulate her!”
Applause erupted. Tim smiled, especially at Mark Donaldson’s look of shock and disappointment.
“Lunch is on me. Grab your things, let’s go.”
Everyone scattered and then reassembled. Tim found himself swept up in the current, being carried along toward the elevator. He appreciated Mark flashing an obviously phony smile. At least that would be one less thing to worry about, although Sheila would still be …
Tim stiffened. Mark, Sheila … Time was running out. He had to make a decision.
He pushed against the tide, like a demonic salmon. At his cubicle, he awakened the computer. The email re-appeared. Twenty three minutes remaining.
As he moved the cursor over Sheila’s box, his hand trembled, his stomach twisted in knots.
Then he heard a voice, talking softly. Odd, everyone should be gone. He got up and walked slowly and quietly toward the voice.
It was Leslie talking on her phone, her back to him. “Piece of cake. Flirt with Belmont and Donaldson, make them feel smart and dominant. I even played nice with harmless old Tim, in case he discovered a backbone.” She laughed, the sound cutting through Tim. “I gave him that fake antique coin, like it was a good-luck charm. And he believed it, can you imagine?” She laughed again. “Once I’m running things, I’ll re-make this department, and then I’m on my way.”
Tim cleared his throat. Leslie whirled and saw him. “Call you later.” She hung up. “Tim, it’s not what you think.”
“I’ve been played for a sucker all my life, Leslie. I know what it looks and sounds and feels like.”
“Really, Tim.” The desperation in her voice was clear. “That was a classmate, someone who’s been successful and cutthroat all her life.” She lowered her gaze. “I was just pretending, wanting her to think of me as someone like her. I’m not sure why. I’m embarrassed and very sorry.”
For a moment, Tim believed her. Then he recalled the disdain in her voice, the callousness of her laughter as she talked about him. “‘Harmless old Tim?’”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“You’re right.” He held up his cellphone. “I recorded you.”
Fear creased her face, or perhaps it was annoyance. “What do you want?”
Tim pointed to her keyboard. “Type a letter to Belmont that says that, with my knowledge and institutional history, I’m too important to lose. So you’re appointing me as your deputy, effective immediately.” She started to protest, but after looking at his expression, she shrugged and then typed. After verifying that the words on her screen matched what he’d dictated, he said, “Print three copies, sign and date them.”
She did.
“Hand them to me.”
“This isn’t necessary.” She sighed and held out the pages.
Tim snatched them. “We’ll put two on Belmont’s desk, one for him and the other for HR. I’ll hang onto the last one.”
As they walked toward Belmont’s office, Leslie appraised him. “You’re not as weak as you appear.”
Tim allowed himself a brief smile, knowing that until ten minutes ago he was. “Maybe my backbone’s growing. Better late than never, right?”
Once the copies of the letter were safely on Belmont’s desk, Leslie went to her celebratory lunch, Tim saying that he’d be along in a moment. He returned to his cubicle. Eleven fifty-three. Two minutes to go.
Retrieving the email, he grabbed the mouse and moved the cursor once more over the four boxes. He clicked. The box containing Leslie’s name lit up.
As with the earlier emails, this email disappeared.
Tim picked up his phone and called home. “Sheila, it’s me, I’m fine. I’ll be home by six, and I want dinner ready when I arrive. You heard me.”
He replaced the receiver even as she yelled into the phone.
There’d be hell to pay tonight at home. And in the weeks to come, things here at the office will be crazy. He wasn’t sure he was up to the challenge.
But right this minute, he could smile. Having selected Leslie’s name on the email, he’d set in motion something happening to her. Belmont would rely on her letter to promote Tim to the assistant chief’s job. He surveyed the empty floor like a newly-crowned king standing over his dominion. King Timothy the First. Timothy the Lionhearted. Liking the sound of that, Tim laughed.
Opening the desk drawer to get his keys, he noticed the fake antique coin Leslie’d given him. Perhaps it wasn’t as worthless as she’d thought. The self-proclaimed monarch shoved the coin in his pocket and headed to lunch and his uncertain future.
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