by Dan Yaeger
The clinical walls reminded me of my corporate jobs as did the nausea. That world, one I did not enjoy remembering, was a game. It had been a nonsense that people had invented to feed themselves, or trick others into feeding them, and avoid real work.
As I moved, I felt a sense that even walking down a corridor was better than some of the waste of time meetings and presentations I had to endure in my work. I remember sitting in a room with two other people, a hologram and a number of people dialled in from a remote location. We all sat there talking about sales that “would” (never would) happen, we had to commit to that or risk intolerable harassment. Similarly, fat, lazy, ill-informed desk-jockeys commented about work on the ground none of them knew about or were involved in. All pontificated, gave their opinions and towed the line that the company was going to be successful in some devious Machiavellian plans that the customer had never agreed to and never would. We were talking about work, reviewing work and describing what would happen, who would buy milTigers of dollars’ worth of products and services with no outlay or investment from our greedy masters. One man in the room literally, leaned back in his chair, double-chin in full-view and drooled at the thought of the money, revelling in the greed, his coffee and a muffin. It was this image of the man in the black suit, the grey-haired, faceless man, the quintessential fat capitalist; head of the evil empire. He cackled and drooled and wiped moist crumbs with fat soft hands that left a smeared trail of greed on his suit. What made me smirk was that guy’s name; “Eaton Payne”. Consumption and pain in one name and personality; it was so perfectly awful. The Doc would have fit right in.
What was funny, in retrospect, was that if such plans and verbose hubris, as being bounced in that room, were shared with a customer, they would never have worked with me or that firm again. I had been successful by saying one thing in the company and being a human being with my customers. What the company wanted was just beyond the pale. The whole situation was against my DNA and being part of it was becoming toxic to my health at that time. I had been in sales work for over five years and I was feeling ill, fatigued and struggled to get out of bed every day. Miserable from the inside and the inside was bursting to get out.
If you had looked at me with a lens of a person of the time, you would have said I had had it all; the car, the house, the nuclear family, the money, the career. The truth was that I was rotting. All of us were. “Were we just zombies ourselves?” I thought. I had concluded that Divine was the convenient, inevitable means to end it all and make official the depths humanity had sunk to.
Back in the depths of those awful corporate constructs, no-one wanted to be there in that stale air-conditioned air and bad company. I wanted to be in the Rock just about as much as those corporate prisons. None of us had the courage to tell the Vice President of some ridiculously titled marketing arm of the organisation that the whole thing, all these plans, spreadsheets and nothing plans about irrelevance was a load of bullshit. An old song about plans for nothing, plans for nobody, kept playing through my head like a broken record. I sometimes amused myself in meetings by humming the tune and seeing if anyone would get the reference. No-one ever did.
One phrase to sum it all up was; “They need to invest 3 mil and they will get a return on investment in weeks.” Specific money someone else had to fork out coupled with generalisation, no commitment and lie. “Don’t you think that organisation needs complex analysis of its sales to find how they can make more money?” Keith Cohen, one middle-manager said to me, trying to get me to commit to selling some product and service that the customer found unpalatable. Not so affectionately named Keith the Thief by people around him, Keith was a moron who just said stuff, in a bullying way. It was as though if he said something enough, it would become true. I just couldn’t take it anymore and I responded by saying “Yes, but that is like asking if they need air and water. It’s a given, move on.” I couldn’t contain the frustration any longer. The insult and the pointing out the stupidity, that the Emperor wasn’t wearing any clothes, was too much for Keith. He probed and prodded and attempted to bully me for a few hours afterwards, asking what I would replace a deal that wasn’t going to happen with. All of us sat there, bad circulation, constipated on crap “catered” food and couped up like prisoners “by choice”. He shouted and ranted and raved about my rudeness and threatened my tenure with that firm. “Fuck you,” I had said nonchalantly. “What did you say?!” Keith yelled, at my final insult. Instead of addressing him, I reminded him of the most hurtful insult; he had no game, nothing to offer beyond the obvious.
I stood up and walked over to him. He stood up and puffed out his pigeon-chest, looking inadequate and scared. “Air and water,” I said smugly, getting in his face. I could see he wanted to hit me, be human and react like our wild ancestors, instead he died 2 years later from a heart attack; he’d never lived in his 64 years of life. At the time, his face went red and he almost blew a gasket. I had started a war with him and would not last out another year in that place. I left of my own accord but it was like being let out of a prison. A great outcome: personally and spiritually, not so good for my finances. I would deal with the Doc in a similar way.
That thought made me smirk. “You’ll be free of this place, just like you got out of the other prison,” I told myself. A spark of the old Jesse was still there and smirking.
The corporate world before the Great Change was all about people being bullied into making fat, greedy people more money than they needed at any cost. It was selling out to sick, corpulent people controlling others. It was power, corruption and absolute power corrupting absolutely. I was encountering such corruption and foulness in Doctor Penfould. He was nothing new. The memory of that time and place in the corporate world had almost served its purpose and it was time to cast it off before it led my mind back to my old life and all its tragedies. “My fam-No. Don’t do it.” I thought about work again and the parallels to the Rock.
I returned to my present and we walked on. I stood as tall as I could. Trying not to stoop or succumb to the feeling of starvation, injury and exhaustion that teamed up with my old friend nausea.
I noticed Sam looking at me now, regarding expressions; a smirk to sadness and resolve in just moments. I gave her a gentle smile and looked away. “Jen,” I thought to myself as I looked forward again, she reminded me of Jen.
“Oh Jen“, I whispered. Any outside chance or hope she was alive and still out there was all but gone. Every moment I remained a prisoner in the Rock diminished what little hope I had that she lived. The captivity was beyond my control; powerless and hopeless. It and that moment’s thought took a little more wind out of my sails. It is amazing how powerful the mind is. The thought of Jen wasting away, turning and becoming my enemy, a zombie, my nemesis, was heartbreaking. I felt it, the heartache. My rush of blood, that second wind after my cleansing and bathing had gone from a gale to a zephyr and then a puff. I was levelled again. I knew I had to get my mind straight, to channel my thoughts.
I had an appreciation for what people talked about when they said people had a broken heart. The feeling was heavy, a focus on the loss that bordered on obsession and a blur surrounding everything else. I had felt that feeling before, only twice in my life. My shackles felt like far less an encumbrance than the overwhelming sadness that challenged my very soul, my being, who I was at that moment.
Like in the corporate world, I could only supress my true self before it came through like a phoenix rising from flames. But I was still grieving.
Rob led us without malice or ceremony; he was in a rat-race of his own, like the one I recalled from a time before the Great Change. He did what he was told, despite not wanting a part of it or wanting to be there. Survival instinct had kicked in for him. Rob had left Barlow’s door open and I asked “What’s in there?”
I said it without thinking and, without thinking, Rob answered, “That’s our armoury and jail.” The crates and supplies made it obvious but I had to ask to be sure. I
was still myself and I could not repress the inquiring mind that inquired, gathered intelligence for a plan or a solution to a problem. The problem was the Doc and the Rock in all of their awfulness. I didn’t like the feelings that place invoked and I didn’t like what its prison wardens had done or would do to me and the people there. “It is time to split the rock with a sledgehammer. For Jen,” I said to myself as I put on a positive front and continued the conversation.
“Is anyone in there? Who looks after your weapons and prisoners?” I was acting generally interested, but like always, I had a plan in the works, despite the general malaise and sadness. “Well aren’t you perking up?” Sam smiled and gave me a friendly wink. I smiled back and then made eye contact with Rob who looked away. My questions and a lucid moment of observing and planning reminded me, yet again, that I would be OK and that I still had some spark. “Come on, rise to the occasion Jesse,” I told myself. Healing required reassurance and being buoyed in dark moments.
Despite a pregnant pause and knowing he should not answer me, Rob gave me more information. “Barlow, mate. Barlow is our armourer and he watches prisoners. You will be going there after the meal with the Doc. Now that you killed Xavier and Squad X, you’re too dangerous to let out on your own.” Rob looked across at me nodding in acknowledgement; respect. “Barlow doesn’t have much else to do. He’s a weird guy, mate. Be good and get out of there if you can.” Rob concluded.
I was intrigued “You said Squad X? Is that Squad Xavier?” Rob nodded and looked me in the eye. “Yeah mate. Take your pick: Squad Xavier, Squad Extreme or Squad Excess. The Doc loved ‘em. We all hated them. Plain nasty mate, the worst.” Rob shook his head and almost shivered and offered a theatrical grimace. I felt this country boy that was clearly good hearted had some potential. He showed some morals and personality that I could work with. Rob continued his description of Xavier and his squad as my mind considered Rob and his way, his potential. “Squad X was prisoners from the jail that caused trouble but did the messiest work for the Doc,” Rob had held my gaze for the longest moment we had spoken. “I think you done a good thing killing him, mate, and his squad too. Full points in my book.” Rob nodded. I also nodded acknowledging the compliment and his affirmation of goodness in my actions. It was one of those things that buoyed me up in my time of grieving Jen.
Sam looked across at me, feeling a sense of connection; the beast had shown its tame side. “You are Jesse? Right?” she asked. I nodded and smiled.
“No talking to ‘im, OK?” Rob was trying to do his job. “If anyone hears, we’re all in the shit.” I smirked at him, furrowed my brow and we kept talking as we passed the kitchens. Noises emanated from the kitchen as did the smell of cooking meat and vegetables. Food!
“Sam, Samantha Emery.” She smiled a genuine smile. “Jesse Stadler. It’s nice to meet you.” I said with a smile that made bare full teeth and her eyes sparkle. I was a normal man who hadn’t asked her for a thing. I was a reminder of her life before; good times with a normal bloke like me.
“Guys- Please! What did I say? We’ll all end up in shit and sitting with Barlow.” Rob said with a sharp whisper that was a blunt attempt at seizing control. Rob finished with that statement as they arrived at Penfould’s chambers. His nervousness had dramatically heightened the closer we got to the Doc’s chambers. It was an important measure of what I was dealing with. I took note.
Rob forgot to knock and the door opened to reveal the Doc’s chambers. It was a sort of anti-climax as the door slowly opened to reveal something I wasn’t expecting; a dated, tacky room that looked like it belonged in a 1920s adventure movie about mummies and pyramids or jungles and archaeology. It was a pompous, wood-panelled affair with paintings, sculptures and ornaments. I wondered if I was in a museum: a British colonial-era men’s club is what it looked like. Penfould seemed to like the Age of Sail with a range of pieces that were inspired by Australia’s or the world’s nautical past and was reminiscent of the work of Turner. I nodded, noting this. He also had a few weapons on display; samurai swords that looked authentic, sabres, flintlock pistols and muskets. He was not a man of war but wanted to show the world he had the balls of a man who was. Many leaders in history felt they needed these relics, symbols of power, to rule. Penfould was no different.
He had plants across the vast space which must have been fitted out and furnished by the work of the squads I had eliminated. I noticed more; pith helmets and Pickelhaubes to Victrolas and leather bound books. It was art imitating life, imitating art; “Am I at the Raffles in Singapore in the 1800s or in Cooleman?” I asked myself as we walked in slowly. I was intrigued and beginning to get into the head of this man. The Austrian blood in me wanted to psychoanalyse him, like Freud and his Vienna cohort back in the 1900s. “How appropriate”, I smiled to myself. The hate and resentment were muffled by curiosity and intrigue. This situation reminded me of great distractions of the past like when friends held murder mystery game nights that included fancy dinners in retro hotels. Instead of finding a body on that night, we were about to uncover another evil: the Doc. “Maybe there would be a murder tonight?” I considered with a smirk. I partly blamed the Doc for losing Jen and I would channel that energy later.
My eyes scanned the antique and faux antique furniture and spotted Dr Penfould sitting in a contrived casual way in a stereotypical psychologist’s chair. He was in a smoking jacket and, with true Penfould style of verbose cliché, he was smoking his pipe. Using his pipe as a tool of gesture, he waved us in lazily and with the aloofness of a British lord. We were led by Rob to a wonderful dining table that appeared to be of some French design with curved legs, leonine rosettes and the paws of Tigers at its feet. “Magnificent and nothing fake about this piece,” I thought. We sat down on some chairs that needed restuffing. I was in for a hell of a night.
“Welcome guests.” Penfould leered at us with his false smile. “Please be seated.” It was an order and Rob gently but clearly “helped” us into our seats. “A drink or aperitif?” he enquired. I was about to ask for a water but another man emerged from the blur that was the room. I was still not myself and I had not noticed him. Then I realised why; a man in full Indian Sepoy regalia stepped forward holding a silver tray from next to a wooden carved statue that looked exactly the same, also holding a silver tray. Penfould loved the fact we were all surprised and he let out a “Huzzah! Thank you Leon!” and slapped his thigh and made a snorting laugh interspersed with childish “tee-hee” noises. “What a wanker,” I thought to myself, smirking at him, not at his joke.
He had shown us that he wasn’t a gracious host or munificent leader; just a pretentious dick. We were all slaves and oddities to him and we were all being used and exploited like a British Brigadier would a Bibi during the Raj. “A Gin and Tonic, my good man,” he said it with a contrived British accent with all the pomp and ceremony of the time and character he was trying to act out. I concluded he was, on some levels, many levels, mentally ill. “Had to have been,” I thought with certainty.
“Jesse, simple Jesse, I don’t have cask wine or beer,” He trailed off with the intent of passive humiliation. “A sherry or G and T? Sorry, a “Gin and Tonic”; there’s a first time for everything.” The Doc’s awful, false smile spread across his moon-face. Again, it was an order wrapped in nasty intent rather than actually giving me choices. I wasn’t ready to battle him and I liked one of the options so I simply replied “A G and T please,” nodding politely at Leon who was playing the role of waiter. I added a couple of top-shelf brand names, clearing my throat, to eliminate the Doc’s attempt at turning me into a simple brute. I could see the Doc and the room uncomfortable with my additional context. It made the Doc look like a fool and the people in the room were reminded their leader was an embarrassment who assumes too much. Leon uttered, “Got some of the best stuff ‘ere mate; you’ll get a good G and T.” He winked at me as if to say, “Ignore the Doc, he’s an idiot. While Leon was janitor and dog’s-body by day, I could see he must have b
een capable in his own right to fulfil so many roles, including chef and butler by night. “Thanks, you are a consummate professional”. He nodded in response and I could see he appreciated a little respect. The Doc hated it and reasserted himself.
“Sam will have Champagne as usual. Some of the French stuff.” There was no choice in the matter and Sam looked down and nodded as if to agree with the whole charade and appease her warden. Penfould noted the subjugation and smirked. I noted he had a sort of tally going, when he had some shtick that worked; he kept upping the ante to some sort of climax where he congratulated himself.
Predicably and true to the modus operandi he continued his unfair insults on the French “Indeed Champagne is about all they are good for!” He slapped his thigh and snorted at his own joke. “That, furniture, fashion and brothels! Ha!” he revelled in the ribald hubris he created and enforced. “Isn’t that right Rob!” he was laughing or contriving a laugh so much he was struggling with breathlessness. The real chauvinists were already dead and Penfould was missing the company. Rob stood in for them weakly, nodded and said “I ‘spose Doc. Never met many French people.” Penfould looked at Jesse, a wounded version of Jesse and smiled his vile smile. “Oh, you have Rob. Jesse here is French I believe? Stad-lair?” His attempt and French accent of my name was poor but his understanding of names and their origins was worse.
