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Author's Note: This is a short story of mine that I've split into four parts to be more manageable to read. No single part has any real ending save the last one.
For the remainder of the drive, neither said a word, Robert fiddling and fidgeting with his tie, trying to ignore the writhing barbwire in his gut while Tommy cast anxious glances at him, feeling terrible for not being able to help. The silence was far louder than the music. After a time massive sky scrapers rose up all around them as they entered the heart of downtown and Tommy pulled up beside the Harrison Louis building where Robert’s future waited. Though smaller than the others surrounding it, the Harrison Louis felt like the tallest.
“Here we are, man.”
“Thanks for the ride,” Robert said. He stepped out of the car, knees cracking like gunshots, and released a mighty exhale.
“Sure you don’t want a ride back? I could hang around here, grab a coffee or something and wait for you,” Tommy said. Again there was the anxious look on his face, and Robert loved him for it, but ever with a drop of resentment for being the cause.
“Nah, I’m sure. I have enough money in my pocket to hop a bus. Besides, you have a job to go to. Let me worry about mine and you worry about yours now, okay?”
“If you’re sure,” he said, but sounded uncertain. A car blared its horn at him. “I better go. If you change your mind, just give me a call on my cell and I’ll be right here. Knock ‘em dead, buddy.”
Robert shut the door. “You bet.”
Tommy nodded at him through the glass, shot him a smile, and drove off.
His body tingled with electricity, well, this is it, don’t fall. Robert swallowed hard and walked in through the brass revolving doors of the building.
Where it was hot and humid outside, the lobby was blessedly cool. Men and women in trim, pressed business suits wandered hither and thither, Blue Tooths corked in their ears as they chatted on. They all looked so nice (and purposeful); Robert was beginning to wonder if it was a mistake to neglect a sports jacket. He walked to the reception desk that was set directly in the center of the lobby, his Nun Bushes clicking on the polished marble floor.
A young man with gel stiff hair leaned carelessly against the receptionist counter, talking animatedly on a Razor cell phone. His face still bore the marks of acne, bright red zits burning on the bottom of his jaw and above his eyebrows. “Yeah, I got the job!” he said happily with an air of smugness. Robert felt a pang in his stomach at the mention of a job. “My uncle just about gave it to me. I’m so stoked. It isn’t that important of a position or anything, but it still pays pretty well,” the kid paused, bobbing his head. “Yeah, yeah, that sounds sweet. Let’s say you and I get some dinner tonight and celebrate—okay, cool, cool, see you tonight, babe.”
He clicked the end button and pumped his fist in victory. Robert hoped he’d be that exuberant soon. The kid turned heel to make his exit and bumped Robert hard, causing him to stagger and almost fall. “Watch where you’re going, dude,” the kid sneered and strutted off.
Robert thought of grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and introducing him to the ridges of his fist or at the least the verbal equivalent of a Nun Bush to the ass; it's what THAT GUY would have done, but Robert wasn't quite THAT GUY yet.He had better things to do than to waste his time on little snots like that. The job, the job is what’s important. It would give him the silver bullet to put down THAT GUY for good. If little pricks like that are capable of finding work, then I must be a shoe in, he thought. He may not have a rich uncle, or a rich anything in his family or Janine’s for that matter, but it wouldn’t do to be so pessimistic so close to his interview. He glanced down at his watch: 9:51 am—he’d better hurry.
He knocked twice on the receptionist counter, an old fashioned dark cherry wood that seemed out of place in a world of iPods and cell phones where cheap plastic imitations reigned. The receptionist looked up automatically from the computer she was working on, typing faster than Robert would believe possible and fixed him with a mechanical smile. She was young and chic, wearing Vogue glasses and had chestnut hair streaked with highlights, held in a bun with two chopsticks. Robert wondered if she ever used those chopsticks to eat. “Can I help you, sir?” she said, flashing him with brilliant white teeth with an unusual straightness that could only have come from two years of braces.
“You could, um . . .” he glanced down at her name tag. “Donna. What floor is Nestlé on?”
“The company?”
“The very same.”
“It’s on the fifth floor. They occupy the entire level so you shouldn’t have any problem finding them.”
“Thank you much,” Robert tapped his knuckles on the counter once more, gave her a nod and walked off to the elevators. More brass. He made it just in time to catch a ride upward and found himself surrounded by even more business men, a blue tooth rooted in every ear. Robert punched the button to the 5th floor. The cloying odor of a dozen mingled perfumes and colognes assaulted his nose and he almost gagged. He never understood why someone would be willing to put on a repellent like cologne, but it seemed like the business types loved the stuff and actually thought it smelled good. Nevertheless, like a sports jacket, it made him wonder if he had made some sort of error by not scrounging up some. He had to resist the urge to raise an arm and sniff himself, a scent that was no doubt that of his 99 cent Super Fresh! deodorant. Hopefully it would be enough.
Never in his life had he felt more out of place than he did at that moment. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been in an office building like this. A regular Joe-lunch pail like him had no place rubbing elbows with business executives, not even as a passerby.
Sooner than he expected, a loud ding filled the elevator and Robert was surprised to find himself on the 5th floor already. The brass doors slid open and found himself looking at the Nestlé logo written in black paint on an frosted glass pane. He jostled his way out and the elevator shut with another dismissive ding.
For a moment he just stood there before the Nestlé logo and stared at it. He looked up and down the hall and found it to be just as business like and severe as the logo, as trim and to the point as a mortgage company. Robert wasn’t sure what he had expected, but for a company that dealt in candy, he thought it would at least look cheerier.
Although uncertain where to go from there, he decided to go left, passing by many open offices with just as many harassed looking people clacking away on computers. He stopped at the first desk he came across and found a secretary—this time a young man—talking wearily on a phone.
Robert cleared his throat. “Ahem, excuse me?”
The secretary glanced up and held up a hand, index finger extended, asking him to wait. “Hold on one sec,” he said to the person on the phone and pressed the hold button. “Need help?”
“Yeah, I’m here for an interview with Mr. Dubois.”
“Name?”
“Robert Straussen,” he said, smoothing out his tie again.
The secretary made a few clicks with his mouse and looked up at Robert again, fingers resting on the keyboard. “Can you spell it, please?”
“Sure, S-t-r-a-u-s-s-e-n, Straussen.”
“Two s’s?”
“Two s’s.”
He typed rapidly and made another mouse click. “There you are, Robert Straussen. . . Hmmm,” the secretary squinted his eyes, made a few clicks, “This is weird.”
“What?” Robert asked, nonplussed.
“Yeah, it says here you did have an interview.”
Robert’s blood froze. “Wait, what do you mean ‘did?’” He raised his watch to eye level and read it over and over again, but it never changed: 9:56 am, and the interview was at ten. If his watch was right, that meant he was on time, with even a few minutes to spare, but then a storm of ideas clashed in his mind. Was his watch wrong? Did he come on the wrong day? August 30th; Robert was almost positive that that was the day, he had written it down frantically on a Second Notice bill on what he remember as one of the happiest days of his recent life, had memorized it, studied it, tattooed it into his memory. It had to be right. But suddenly, he wasn’t so certain. “It was for today, right? Ten o’clock?”
He was leaning forward, his hands on the table, gazing intently at the secretary who looked slightly uncomfortable.
“Uh . . .” he scanned a little more of the computer screen and shrugged. “Yeah, yeah. You’re here on the right day, but it looks like it was canceled about thirty minutes ago—didn’t you get a call? You should have.”
“B-b-but, I . . .” For a moment he was lost for words, shaking his head in denial. It couldn’t be happening: it was impossible. “No,” Robert said, finding his tongue, “I don’t have a cell phone anymore.
“Was my interview rescheduled?” he asked, hopefully.
The secretary scanned a bit more. “Um, nope, doesn’t look like it . . . sorry.” He shrugged his shoulders and gave him a sympathetic look. (Sorry pal, doesn’t really affect me, but sucks to be you.)
He took his hands off the desk and balled them into fists but strove to keep his face impassive and to remain calm. It wouldn’t do to yell, but hell, he was angry—no, he was as pissed as a grizzly. So close to getting a job and it was dashed before he even had a chance to prove himself, actually show whether or not he was qualified. It wasn’t fair, damn it, just wasn’t right. Still, he knew it would be stupid to yell, or show his anger. Nothing was definite, could still be a mistake and having a tantrum now would forever ruin his chances at this job, so he kept his cool. But it was hard. “The secretary handles these sorts of things right? If it happened so recently, why didn’t you just tell me when I showed up?”
The secretary edged back in his chair, worried by Robert’s tone that sounded gentle enough but still had an underlying edge to it, like a broken bottle buried under a pile of sand. “Well, I’m not Mr. Dubois’ secretary; I’m sort of everyone’s secretary, so this is the first I’ve heard of this. I’m really sorry . . .” And he did, but that did little mollify Robert.
So many thoughts poured into his mind that he found himself almost crushed, hardly able to think straight. All at once he felt a cold rage at the injustice of being denied his last chance, fear at what it meant that he could not get this job, confusion from what had occurred. The gravity of what he was told threatened to sink in, but he wouldn’t let it, not yet, not until he had some answers. “Where is Mr. Dubois’ office at?” He tried to sound casual.
“Uh, down the hall to the right. . .” the secretary said, absently, “No, wait, stop!”
But it was too late: Robert was already making his way down the hall looking from left to right for Dubois’ office until he came to the one on the end. He knocked lightly but urgently. “Come in,” he heard.
He did.
Dubois was a tall and stout man with a ruddy complexion and a barren, gleaming pate, whose mouth unhinged at the sight of Robert. The look on his face made Robert feel like a man clinging to the edge of a cliff while his fingers were being mercilessly stepped on. Dubois wasn’t wearing a sports jacket. “Mr. Dubois?” Robert said, keeping his voice steady, “My name is Robert Straussen and I’m here for my interview.”
The secretary came rushing in after him and strained his neck to see over Robert’s shoulder. “Mr. Dubois, I’m so sorry, he caught me off guard. Do you . . . want me to call security?”
Dubois looked from the secretary to Robert’s pained and fearful face and seemed to sag in his chair. He stood up, his shoulders slumped and approached them both. His expression was guilty. “No, no,” he said, “that won’t be necessary, Chuck, I’ll see him.”
The secretary gave Robert a fleeting glance, looking away quickly when he turned to meet it. “If you’re sure,” he said, and retreated back to his desk.
Dubois waited until the secretary had seated himself back in his desk before closing the door and turning his attention back to Robert. “Mr. Straussen was it?” his voice had a heavy quality to it.
“Yes it is, but call me Robert,” he said, not with the cheerful tone he would have adopted for such a situation, but one that was lusterless and flat.
“Okay, Robert, please have a seat.”
He gestured to one of the two seats that were in front of his desk.
Robert sat.
Dubois returned to his chair and leaned forward towards him, an unhappy frown on his broad face. His desk was littered with family photos and framed crayon children’s drawings with a near empty bowl of skittles beside his computer—an odd choice Robert felt for a Nestlé employee. Dubois seemed to be contemplating how best to word what he was going to say, then: “I’m really sorry, Robert, the position is no longer available.”
Silence had never been louder. The affect it had was not what Robert expected. Instead of erupting and losing himself in a furious tide, Robert felt every part of himself deflate. The churning acid and barbwire in his stomach evaporated, his drum roll of a pulse reduce to a slow but steady and heavy slaver’s beat, and the static in his nerves dissipated. He felt empty and cold. The rope had been cut beneath him. It was over. “Why did you call me for an interview then if you had already decided that I wasn’t the right man for the job before even meeting me?”
Despite the softness of Robert’s voice, Dubois winced. “I’m very sorry about this Robert, really I am. Me giving this job away so soon was not what I had intended—you must believe me on that.” He pulled a manila folder out from his desk that had Robert’s name scrawled along its front and opened it up. “I mean, your resume is superb: eight years as a warehouse manager and productivity skyrocketed under your leadership. You were never reprimanded for misconduct and you hardly had any sick days. You would have been perfect for this position—”
“Then why didn’t I get it?” Robert said, cutting across him in an icy voice. He was in no mood to be patronized.
Dubois looked more miserable than ever. “You have family, don’t you, Robert?”
Robert’s heart skipped three beats at this. No, he couldn’t possibly mean . . . “Yeah,” he said, trying to crush the absurd idea.
“Well, then you know a man needs to take care of his own, help them out any way that he can, so—”
“So you gave the job to your nephew.” Not a question.
Their gazes met, Dubois’ surprised and discomfiting, Robert’s as dead as a cadaver’s. “How did you know?”
“Just a guess.”
“She’s my wife’s brother’s son, and you know how wives can be,” Dubois explained, wanting so badly for Robert to understand, even attempting a weak smile. “I really don’t care for the little bastard, but my wife love’s him to death and when she heard that I had a job available, she demanded that I give it to him. I tried to hold off on seeing him, even told myself I wasn’t going to give it to him, but he showed up this morning. The wife was going to put me in the dog house if I didn’t—is something funny?”
Robert was laughing, starting soft and then loud and hard as he was running his fingers through his hair. “Is something funny, he asks!” Robert said, wiping a tear from his eye. “Oh yes, this whole scenario I’m in is just fucking hilarious. It would put Mel Brooks to shame! So ironic, but I guess that’s just the way my life is right now, one big goddam shit-fest of a tragic comedy.” he stood abruptly, knocking his chair over and Dubois flinched. The look on Robert’s face was terrible, a crazed painful grin that was so dangerously close to a snarl. He looked like a man drowning. “Yes Mr. Dubois, I do have family, I have my wife, and I would do anything for her, but it appears that I can’t do anything for. All I want to do is provide for my wife, give her a life she deserves, and that’s my duty as a man, right, to provide? What is a man who can’t provide for his family? Me: a shit-stain on the fabric of society.”
He was trembling, his clenched fists shaking, trying his hardest to keep his voice low but largely failing. The hollowness in him was filled with fire and he wanted to rage, to hurt something. Dubois looked scared. “You know, I wish I was in a position to help my family,” he said, his voice brittle, “I wish I was in a position to fuck over more deserving applicants for the sake of little pricks who just happen to be related to my wife. I wish I had a job. I wish I didn’t have to live hand to mouth wondering if tomorrow is going to be the day when the bank forecloses on my house. I wish a lot of things; but this is my life and that is yours.”
Never taking his eyes off of Robert, Dubois reached a tremulous hand towards his phone. “No need for that, Mr. Dubois,” Robert said, quietly, “No need for security, I’ll leave.”
Robert turned to go.
“I’m really sorry, Robert, I don’t know what else to say,” Dubois said in a wretched voice.
Robert could give a shit about his apologies, because what did they matter? Was it going to pay the bills, was it going to save his marriage? He felt like telling him where he could stuff his apologies, but what was the point? “Yeah,” he said.
“If anything opens up in the future, you’ll be the first man I’ll call.”
Robert doubted that, but said “Thanks” all the same. He left the office on unsteady legs, people peering out from their offices to see what the commotion was about, casting him nervous glances. He ignored them. Deciding he couldn’t deal with being surrounded by more business execs and their awful perfumes, took the stairs. He was in a daze: it all felt so unreal, as if he were walking in a dream, and he found it hard to think, but one vague thought beat in his mind as often as a pulse and that was the knowledge that everything he had hoped to save by getting this job was lost.
The air outside of the Harrison Louis building was sobering and at last the reality of what had happened crashed over him like a tidal wave. Robert suddenly felt weak and he collapsed against the side of the building, tugging at his hair, wanting to rip it all out and wanting even more to scream until his throat ruptured. Why did this happen? he thought, WHY? It isn’t fair, it isn’t fair. We’re going to lose the house, and she’s going to leave me, she’s going to leave . . .
He decided not to take the bus home, to instead walk to try to relieve his troubled mind, but all it did was intensify them into what felt like a noose. Robert didn’t so much as remember the walk when he returned home as he did the excruciating worry that wracked him. What was he going to do? All of the bills were so late, and had he gotten this job, maybe, just maybe he could have paid them off before the collectors came and ruined what was left of his life. What were the chances he would be called for another interview that offered a position that was a good as the one that was snatched away from him? Slim to nil, leaning more towards the nil he figured, and it was like daggers in his heart. This is it, he thought. His last chance was gone; all that was left was to wait for the guillotine.
To be continued.
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One day me and my granpappy were goin' fishin' down by the crik. I slipped and fell on a rock, skinning my knee and my granpappy leaned in real close and asked: "Is the rock okay?"
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