One
Three men in Armani suits come to fisticuffs, literal fisticuffs, sliding across the long, mahogany table, turning over mugs of coffee and all but obliterating the black, squat, space-age teleconference machine adorning the table as centerpiece. They tug, pull and rip one another’s suit jackets spraying cufflinks and buttons everywhere, skittering across the table top, and bouncing across the room; one grazes Malcolm’s Dockers-clad shin. Malcolm Davis, looking up, doesn’t even seem to grasp the hilarity and gravity of the situation. He is in another place- any place but here. Two pudgy, over-the-hill security guards come clamoring in the door and drag the two over-emotional men out of the now cluttered boardroom. Another eight men in their three-piece suits look on, regaining their poise and composure, straightening ties and clearing throats, the deal will continue as planned. Just like that, a man at the end of his game loses his entire life’s work to a man with more power, money and youth. Just like that, what was his now belongs, like so many others to one man. That one man happened to be the CEO and part-owner of Goliath Conglomerates Incorporated, a Mr. Everett S. Livingston. And just like that, Malcolm had his story.
Malcolm was working, quite against his better judgment, for the publication by the name of “Businessman’s Monthly”. He hated it. He hated the fact that he had to write what people told him to write. He hated the fact that he couldn’t write about subjects which he gave a damn for. But most of all, Malcolm Davis hated the fact that it was the only way for him to make even a paltry living. Malcolm Davis was a sellout in his mind and he hated that most of all.
It wasn’t as if Businessman’s Monthly was a bad publication, on the contrary it was quite good, not only the top Business-related publication in the city, but it was amongst the top in the nation. Malcolm had always thought that the name of the magazine was a big, public, menstruation joke, and that often gave Malcolm a bit of an edge at office parties and such. That, he didn’t mind. It wasn’t as if he hated the business world either, there was even a semester or two during college that Malcolm had majored in Business- he was fine with that. But Malcolm had always considered himself a writer, not a journalist- an artist, not a reporter. Every time he found himself submitting a story about what somebody wanted to hear, a little bit of him felt dead.
‘Businessman’s Monthly’ had been around since the time of the great depression.
Back in those days it was mostly just a club, more than anything. A handful of down-on-their-luck businessmen who had to find something with which to occupy their time and keep them from contemplating the end. Several of them had a bit of a knack for writing, so from their collective intellects and boredom was spawned a small circular, usually no more than a few pages.
As it happened, one of the men involved, a Mr. Jordan Farlane, eventually found his way back to his feet, and began to set aside capital for his new project: the birth of “Businessman’s Monthly”. It was to him that those men had come to owe their lives and eventual riches to. But, it was to his grandson, Rufus Farlane, that Malcolm owed his job.
* * *
Malcolm hailed a cab outside of Goliath, a building which he secretly couldn’t wait to get the hell away from. Though he thought it was cowardly and silly, somehow the look of the towering edifice, and the artistic, backlit ‘G’ logo gave him the absolute creeps. He could swear the ‘G’ looked like Satan, Malcolm always did have a creative intellect.
Stepping into the cab, he was immediately hit by the smell of a stifling amount of lavender air-freshener, which was an obvious cover-up for a smell that was not far removed from that of throw-up.
“Afternoon there Mr. Big business man!” the cabbie piped. “Taking an early lunch break I see, well I must tell you I think I know the perfect place for a man of your stature and position, that’s not to say that I think I know you, in actuality I don’t know you at all, course how well does one really know anybody, I mean we barely know ourselves, how are ya’ by the way? Names Bob but you can call me Robert!” The cabbie spoke feverishly and never stopped for a breath. He was a thin man, wiry with a scant bit of hair covered up by one of those god-awful golfers caps.
“God, please, I’m not a “businessman”, I’m a journalist. And as a matter of fact-”
Bob the cabbie opened his mouth again and began spewing words, running poor Malcolm right over: “God?? No, no god here, just me, good old Bob- but you can call me Robert. Course you know I guess ya’ cant say no god a-tall, because of course old god, well he’s everywhere, he’s nowhere, he’s in the trees and all.”
Malcolm felt it was his turn to interrupt, “Look,” Malcolm rubbed the back of his neck (as he often did when he was uncomfortable), “can we just listen to some music, I just got out of someplace I really didn’t want to be and my head is just frigging pounding- I’m sorry- please?”
Bob the cabbie fell quiet. Was he hurt? Malcolm had wondered.
“No problem a-tall,” Bob began yet again, apparently unscathed: “If it’s one thing old Bob knows how to do it’s stop when he’s supposed to stop, ya’ get a red light, well by me, you stop dead, and buddy I got a red light outta you so I tell you what I’m gonna do I’m gonna stop right now.”
But Bob didn’t stop, in fact, Bob didn’t breathe.
“So if you hated it so much in there why would you be in that particular building in the first place? I mean Goliath incorporated is a place for businessmen among businessmen, and you said yourself you ain’t no businessman so then just what were you doing then?”
Finally, Malcolm was given a long pause, a reprieve, a miracle.
“As I said, I’m a journalist, I have to do a piece on Goliath incorporated and this new acquisition of Allied Steel. It’s apparently a big deal you know?” Malcolm let his head roll back, remembering the veins on the poor old bastard’s head when he flew across the conference table.
“Oh sure, sure,” Bob began again, this time Malcolm blamed himself: “That Allied Steel has been around for quite some time, quite some time indeed, in fact it was one of the few little dealies that made it through the depression, that and that magazine, ‘Businessman’s Monthly’, great magazine, great history. You know that magazine-“
Malcolm could take little more, he had nearly rubbed his neck clean off by now.
“Please, I know, I work for them, I write for them, I live there, I KNOW. Okay? Spare me? Please? I’m exhausted and I think you’re beginning to make my ears bleed.”
Malcolm again let his head roll, out of the little triangular side window, he noticed two girls playing with a pile of broken glass at the mouth of a rather dank-looking alleyway. They had chosen a spot just on the edge of the shade from the waning sunlight, and were apparently trying their best to shred themselves to ribbons. They were twins, that much was for certain, of about six or seven years old, though they lacked the usual energetic giddiness of the youth of that age. One was dressed like every china doll Malcolm had ever seen- red and white candy stripes with lace. Her little head was covered with bouncy blond curls, held back by ribbons on two sides. The other though, was clad in perhaps the filthiest most decrepit nightgown one could’ve found. Her hair was like a dirty wire brush.
At once, they both looked up at Malcolm. He gasped, the shadow cast by the building next to them darkened out their faces and eyes, they looked almost ethereal and really rather creepy. The dirty one smiled at him, the most tranquil, sweet smile Malcolm had ever seen, but with a bittersweet tinge that made Malcolm nearly want to cry. Her cleaner counterpart, in contrast, stared upon Malcolm with an empty, nearly scowling gaze; Malcolm had to look away.
“Those girlies are all over town, I tell you I see ‘em everywhere, and I would know, I know this town like nobody else.” Bob had noticed them too. “Your magazine, you know,” he began again, “is that a funny name or what?” This time, the cabbie actually waited for an answer.
“What do you mean, it’s just a name man.” Malcolm replied.
“Monthly?” Bob-you-can-call-him-Robert began, “Businessman’s Monthly? Well if you ask me it sounds a bit like a little joke, you know, ‘monthly’? Get it? Like when a woman-well…you know.” The taxi came to a stop, “here ya go pardner, safe and sound.”
Malcolm grabbed his things, hoisting himself up and unsheathing a single cigarette, “thanks pal, what’s the damage?”
“Damage?” Bob began, “nope, no damage here chief, I was on my way someplace myself, you seem to be having a tough go of it so don’t you worry about it, next time maybe.”
The taxi sputtered off and turned the corner. Malcolm headed up to the door of the apartment building. “That’s weird,” Malcolm stopped, speaking to himself, and then continued down the sidewalk. He couldn’t ever remember telling the cabbie where he lived. Maybe he’d had him before, maybe he needed some sleep for Christ sakes. Turning on his heels he headed away from home and down the street to Caffeine, Bean, and Espresso Machine.
Malcolm breathed putrid Camel fumes, “I wonder if Chrysta is on tonight”.
* * *
Two
The analog Westclox on the wall seemed to tick louder and louder the more attention Chrysta paid to it. When she looked away, the grinding, almost malignant ticking noise disappeared from her soft ears.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” Chrysta had thought to herself.
When Chrysta looked again at the jumping, crawling hand, the noise started again, weak at first, and then gradually gaining intensity like the crescendo of a drum line. She could nearly feel her life slipping away tick by tick.
“Hey sweet-thing, cud’ja top me off?” A wiry, almost too skinny man with a thick, wild salt-and-pepper beard rasped at Chrysta. He had warm eyes.
“Sure thing Bry-man,” She smiled her wry smile that drove most of the men in her life wild. Malcolm had always said she had the charisma of Hollywood stuck in a waitress in Chicago.
“Why you gotta call me that ALL the time hon? C’mon.” Brian reached both hands out as if to plead, or receive a communion.
“Can we do just Brian once in awhile, Bry-man is so…”
Bry-man paused, reaching for words.
“…gay…”.
Brian, Bry-man, had been coming to Leon’s for four years now. When the First Stop-Last Stop, auto parts outlet would close, that’s when Brian would saunter in the door. Every night, nine-fifteen, and there he would sit, over a cup of roofing-tar flavored black coffee into which he always snuck something which Chrysta had assumed was whiskey or something equally as nasty. Four years ago, his wife had passed away, four years ago, Brian started coming in and, by now, like it or not, Chrysta felt that she knew Brian’s life story.
“Do you remember what I told you about that name, fuzzy?” Chrysta leaned in close and refilled the stained coffee cup in front of Brian. “Or does your ‘cough syrup’ there come with crazy pills too?” She winked.
Brian said nothing, only turning his palms upward, and made a face.
“You stop being the Bry-man, when I stop being the sweet thing,” she turned and set the coffeepot on to brew again, “…and that’s all there is to it…” the flourished, tossing her hair over one shoulder and throwing a one-eyed stare, “…sweet thing…”
Rusted bells jingled, pounding in the heads of the waitress and regular, the first noise above their voices in over an hour. Save for the cook in back who was, in all probability, getting stoned in the walk-in fridge, they were the only two souls in the entire diner, and had been for some time, and would continue to be.
“I need a drink, now please,” the man staggering in the door didn’t wait until he had both feet in to ask. His voice was choked, labored, and sounded as if it had resonated through the pock-marks in a rusted out radiator.
“This ain’t that sorta place boss, lord knows I’ve tried…” Brian joked with the stranger.
“Why don’t you piss off?” The visitor crooked his head, looking away into the distance, pulling out a cigarette. Quite surprisingly the man in the doorway was filthy, haggard and seemingly had not seen sleep in days, besides having apparent personality disorders.
“Dude, now why you gotta go there in front of a lady?” Brian was calm, not really thinking much of a foul-mouthed misanthrope at two-thirty in the middle of the city.
“Yea—lady right?” With an apparent limp, and slumped shoulders the dark man shuffled towards Brian, menacingly glaring at him, “Oh, is this your girl? Maybe I should fuck off then, huh? Maybe I should take a hike before you straighten me out, huh boss?” At this point, he was nearly breathing down Brian’s shirt collar, panting heavily, and his breath smelled like rotted hamburger, as far as Brian figured.
“Why don’t you just calm down man, have a seat, take it easy,” Brian had his hands up as if to show he meant no harm, “can we just have a cup of coffee or somethin’?”
“Or something…” the man’s muscles seemed to tighten, and Chrysta felt her heart jump a bit, she had seen this type of thing a time or two, but somehow felt like this time it would end a little worse. However, the man paused, or cringed, it was hard to tell, whipping his head around he gazed out the door, breathing hard and hissed,
“…shit…”
Spinning about wildly he dashed towards the door only to have it come jingling open for him. A man in a white jogging suit and not a spot of hair on his head came in the door, blocking the filthy stranger’s exit. The dark man stopped, rigid, in place and made scant eye contact with the newcomer who, in turn, rotated and with a flourish, beckoned him past. The dirty man paused for a second, glaring sideways at the dandy in the ice-cream jogging suit before bolting out the door,nearly slipping and falling, the man with the hamburger breath disappeared into the darkness of the open door. The white-suited man sat.
Silence set in for awhile as Brian and Chrysta attempted to make sense of what had happened. Suddenly a metallic clanging from the kitchen startled them awake. They both realized that the cook must have made an appearance unbeknownst to the two of them and that was what sent the troublemaker running. Three on one were worse odds, he must have decided.
“Excuse me there miss,” the white man read her nametag, “Chrysta, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, but I wouldn’t mind having a cup of that wonderful coffee that you brew up so well.”
Confused about the coffee comment, Chrysta baffled for a moment. Then, pouring a cup, inquired: “how would you know how my coffee is? I’ve never served you here before…” she put a hand on her waist.
Looking at her the man replied, “all I know is what I hear, and what I hear is that a young lady by the name of Chrysta makes a darn fine cup of Sanka and I knew I had to try it and see for my self.” He took a sip, winced, cringed and then set it down, forcing a smile as pleasant as roses.
Chrysta grinned, “no good huh? You know, I work daytimes at Caffiene, Bean and Espresso Machine, I think maybe the coffee is better when I make it there.” She giggled. “So who told you I’m the queen of the coffee makers?”
“A man, a nice man—boy really—but a manly boy, reporter type by the name of Davis, good kid—boy.” He was still drinking his coffee, still making faces.
“Yea man,” Brian piped, a little more drunkenly than he had before. “He is a good guy, make someone a real good boyfriend one of these days,” Brian snorted, shooting a glance at Chrysta.
“Malcolm? How do you know Malcolm?” Chrysta was genuinely interested now, and completely ignoring Brian.
“Client of mine really, I’m familiar with his work—good work, the kid’s a good writer, he’s got some serious talent—what time is it?” He swiveled his head around energetically.
“Quarter after, or nearly,” Brian belched.
“Late, darn it, darn the luck late for a meeting and I knew I would be, time stops for noone you know, least of all me, always on the move.” The white stranger all but fell off of his stool. “’twas a pleasure to meet the both of you, true pleasure…” he was all but out the door now, “we’ll see you Chrysta, Bry-man.” He was shouting nearly and about ten feet out the door now, which came clamoring to a rather jingly close.
“Dammit woman, you got everybody calling me that now,” Brian was sloppy drunk now.
“Put your head down sweet thing,” Chrysta poured another cup, trying to ignore the ‘Bry-man’ comment, “don’t doctor this one up now, you’ve got to walk home soon.”
* * *
Three
One, shimmering raindrop spiraled down the rusted side of a fire escape on a decrepit apartment building. The windows were darkened. The solitary raindrop followed it’s meandering, disjointed path down the railing, around a single bolt and then, hanging for only a moment, fell. It fell down through the grating of the next platform, and the next, picking up speed as it careened toward it’s imminent death upon the cold, hard asphalt. Shimmering it turned over and over until, about four feet from the ground, it halted, frozen in the air yet still pulsating, turning over and over.
There the raindrop hovered, trapped a few inches from the fingertip of a small girl—six—filthy and ragged but with a beautiful smile that could melt brick. She pointed, standing there staring at it, playing with the frail, crystalline droplet in midair. She made it hover, raised it, lowered it, as it followed her finger. Struck by another droplet, it shivered and doubled in size. The girl made little sideways curly motions with her finger and the droplet began to turn on it’s side, faster and faster with every movement of the girl’s finger. Behind her was her sister, speaking to a very thin man of about thirty, very bald. Next to them was the haggard dog, mangy and filthy with eyes that seemed to glow red, and a collar with spikes and a tag with the name ‘Serbie’. Serbie raised his head, turned it in apparent awe of the levitating raindrop, and then laid his head back upon his paws.
“Stop toying Philaie,” the pretty girl in the perfect dress behind her did not look at her, just commanded her. Philaie did not listen.
The thin man was wearing a white suit, an ice cream suit, white shoes white tie, the works.
“I really wish you would stop wandering around all over,” the man in white spoke to the perfect one, “it puts me ill at ease, something could happen to you” he was speaking with a somewhat sarcastic tone.
“We appreciate your…” the pretty girl paused, speaking with diction and dialect far too advanced for her petite body, “…concern.” She scowled, her eyes hollow—empty “…old friend…”
“Skipping about, having your way all of the time,” the man looked down, fidgeting with a crushed, rusty soda can beneath his professionally polished shoe, “must be awfully entertaining. I’m sure the novelty will wear off soon enough though, and then what? What will you do then?” He gently toed the can, skittering it a few feet across the greasy ally floor.
“What I always do,” Philaie had turned around and interjected, now she went back to her raindrop. Which was by now the size of a softball. Finishing her sentence, her cleaner counterpart piped: “Whatever we wish, why not?”
“And what about everyone else?” The man was looking sideways at her now, “you really don’t care what happens at all do you? Guess that’s why things are so different now, huh?”
“Of course, correct as always,” the pretty girl grinned, Philaie chimed, “…old friend.”
“You’re going to ruin him, you know that right?” He had squared off with her now and was looking down at her intensely. “You’re going to ruin them both, but that makes little difference, I suppose.” He bent his head back, looking straight up into the downpour. “You have always been so…” he searched for his words.
“Perfect?” She was telling more than asking.
“Sanctimonious”
“That’s your opinion.”
“Mine’s the one that counts though, isn’t it?”
By now she was tired, and a bit frustrated, and turned on her sister: “STOP TOYING PHILAIE, NOW!” She was screaming at this point, her tiny mouth opened wide into a demonic, howling scowl.
“Sorry Phoebie.”
Philaie let loose the raindrop, which was now a basketball-sized sphere of water, and it was ripped apart by shear virtue of it’s volume. It came splattering down all at once onto the ground. Philaie looked ruefully at her broken plaything, then turned and lay down on the cement snuggled close to Serbie, two filthy, wet mongrels.
Phoebie straightened her dress, regained her composure and glared up at the man with her dead, empty eyes.
“We’ll be leaving now” Serbie hoisted himself up and joined her side, followed closely by Philaie.
“Very good then,” the man bowed his head regally, then, turning on his heels he began to traipse away, “a dubious pleasure as always,” he said loudly, turning his head, “Phoebie”.
He caught her glance for a moment, chewed on her name and spit it out. He continued down the alley, into the light of a streetlamp which flickered, went out then came back on. He was gone.
The last in a series of three “Caramel Macciatos” had grown cold and snotty on Malcolm’s desk. Malcolm rolled back in his chair, rubbing his eyes and thought: God, what am I doing? His eyes felt like sandpaper when he closed them and the flickering glow of the monitor had finally gotten on his final, thin nerve- it felt as if he were getting tunnel vision.
“This makes three days now,” Malcolm said to the anime character on top of his desk, “three days, zero sleep”.
Leaning far back in his “five-wheel executive desk chair”, threatening to topple over, Malcolm imagined his finished product: a full-page article with graphic headers and the tag- M. Davis, on the bottom, all on shiny, delicate magazine paper, the kind that smelled a little like chemicals, the kind that people actually read. The kind which he had no problem churning out with rapid efficiency on a regular basis.
No comments:
Post a Comment