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The PICTURE OF SHAME
The world seemed to blur and move before his glasses, which Marge, his wife, had always said were far too outdated to continue wearing every day, as if they were still within the mad vogue of 1966.
The days of bell bottoms and The Gap Band.
As he listened to his boss, a short, unseated looking man named Herb Cantor who wore too much cologne and had a continuously bad case of acid reflex, speak into the already rather cramped, tension filled atmosphere of his small cubicle, telling him of the day's progressions and failings, William Nord thought that seeing the world turn hazy and frantic might be a far better reaction to going insane than most.
The man who was standing to his right, with a bit of what he apparently thought was a comforting smile upon his face, was firing him.
"I'm sorry Bill, but progression's the key to remaining upon the Career Train in this place, and you, " He shook his head a bit, pulled upon his dark red tie with a sort of nervous tic, and gritted his teeth, "...you just haven't got what it takes to keep up anymore."
The smile appeared upon his face again, showing his teeth in a rigidly straight line. They were stained a light shade of brown. Cigarettes and coffee were old friends to this leering, pompous man. The three of them had been able to move what the bastard had surely perceived as mountains in his hey day, working together for the common good, the three of them.
Bill continued to stare down upon his desk, his breath not coming too easily, his hands shaking. His eyes were darting across the cluttered surface of his desk like ants upon a hot tin roof. There was his wife, grinning out of a silver framed picture at him from the year 1976. She'd been slimmer and more sexy, then; able to produce the best cooking of her life with a smile and a hand of brag. He'd been with Quartz Diamonds for thirteen years in the world of that picture. Here was his son, Ben, staring off into the right of yet another picture, this one framed gold and white, with a baseball bat poised over his right shoulder, his eyes fixed and determined. His team, The Wandering Whistles, had won the game that day, 29-7, what a game.
Now Bill saw his work at the front of the desk, resting against the outer wall of his tiny cubicle, a great, tottering pile of call records, sales pitches, contact addresses, and phone numbers. He'd had twenty straight refusals today, a bad day, to say the very least. His boss saw his eyes come to rest on this pile in particular. "Now, Bill, " he said, putting his hand upon the terminated man's slender right shoulder, where he could feel it slightly quaking as if the man below was about to explode, "I know you think that these past two months have been a bit of the normal slump, and by God, you're right to think so." He smiled again, showing his stained teeth and bright arrogance, and clapped Bill on his back. People busying themselves with calls and paperwork allowed their eyes to stray across the pair of them, The High Boss and The Fired Mooch. "But two months is far too long for such a drag to continue. Twenty missed or failed calls a day won't cut it, and I'm afraid our funds will no longer be able to support you."
He paused, rose from his bend, stared out at the room and remaining employees within it, then bent again and said, "I'm sorry. Have this area cleaned out in twenty minutes."
His eyes had suddenly lost their compassionate shine, and his mouth was tight, a mean little line upon his face.
"It wouldn't be a smart thing to say your goodbyes within the building on a particularly busy workday, yourself excluded, Bill. Have a wait in the lobby for the quitting hour if you wish to bid your former co-workers farewell. Have a cup of Joe and a toffee, on me, to pass the time. Goodbye and good luck."
And with that, he walked back into his office and closed the door with a dry snap.
Bill rose, not even looking around at the office and people about him, even though they were indeed staring at him. He took a large, empty box that had once held call records, phone numbers, and other work related rubbish from beneath his desk and carelessly pulled all of his belongings into it. His wife fell into a paper trail, busywork hell, still smiling her smile, still giving him the best years of their marriage from the year 1976. Her smile flashed for a moment in time, and then she was buried beneath the thousands of numbers and results that Bill had acquired in the last two months.
Bill pushed his swivel chair into the hole it fit, coughed into his closed fist, and then exited the large, cherry wood front doors that led out of his prison of the past thirty years and into the world of the free and nonplussed that lay beyond, snatching his rather tight tie from around his neck as he did. "There'll be other jobs, " Bill spat into the day, his face very much unemotional, although his hands, quaking, told a very different story.
"There will be other jobs, ” he said again as he walked his way down 5th and 7th Streets, heading for the subway and deep thought. "But first, there will be revenge." |
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