Atlas, Broken

by Jeremy Tyrrell

wouldn't be having this discussion.”

  “What? Mister Miro, the merger isn't going to magically go through if I hassle the client. That'll just piss them off.”

  “See? You clearly don't understand what's required to get the job done. You haven't got the nous, the gumption, the instinct! And that's my fault.”

  Henry, doing his best with a coffee stained napkin to hold his eye steady, looked back at Miro, “Your fault?”

  “You're not a go-getter, Ludlow, you never were. And I knew this. I thought you could change, but you can't! I thought giving you responsibility might make you grow,” he seethed.

  Henry stood up, “Mister Miro, my eye is really bugging me.”

  “Sit! Sit down!”

  Henry paused. His head was in pain. His hand throbbed. His leg was screaming at him. And Big M was just staring at him. He didn't care for Henry, that was obvious.

  Just five minutes, Henry thought, five minutes of peace and quiet. Or five minutes alone in a room with Big M and a cricket bat. Either way would be good. Either way would yield satisfactory results.

  He obediently plonked back down.

  “Good boy. So, if you're listening... you are listening, aren't you?”

  “Yes, Mister Miro.”

  “I've reassessed your position on the merger. I've spoken to the Board. This can't go on any longer. I'm putting Roger on the case with you.”

  “Roger?” he gawped, “Roger? But he'll...”

  “Get the job done, I know. You could learn a thing or two from him.”

  “But the client will respond any day now! He's got no input! It's a finished affair. Sir, there's nothing he can do or say that could possibly alter the outcome. The ball is in the client's court.”

  “And when the response comes through, I think you'll find that it will be a favourable one. Roger has done this kind of thing before, you know.”

  “I don't believe this!” Henry began, but he was cut short by Big M's famous victory voice.

  “Believe it, Henry!”

  “If you put Roger on... that will split the commission!”

  “Money? Is that what your motivation is?”

  Henry was fuming, “But – but I've done all the work!”

  “Really? I've seen you sitting on your butt and complaining a lot. Doesn't sound like work to me. I've had you coming in late every day for a month. That's not work,” Mister Miro said, “Roger, on the other hand, comes in early. Roger knows when to push the client and when to back off. Take notes, Henry, he's worth at least two of – oh. Oh, pick that up!”

  Henry's eyeball had wiggled its way out from its socket and popped out, flying in an upward arc. Henry had snatched at it as it flew through the air, but he only succeeded in knocking it over the partition.

  “Really, Henry! You're a disgrace to the firm. How do you expect to function without an eye? And what's that smell?”

  “Probably my hand. You see...”

  “Get yourself sorted, Henry. And the next time I see you, I want you to be shaved!” Miro ordered, storming off.

  Geoff peeked over the partition and handed Henry his eye back.

  “Thanks, Geoff,” he said, brushing his eye off and attempting to insert it into his socket.

  “Don't mention it. No, really. I had to fish it out from behind my monitor.”

  “Explains the dust.”

  “You nearly got it in my coffee.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Pah. You should know better, Hank, answering back to Big M like that. Anyone would think you wanted to share your commission with Roger.”

  “I didn't – I don't. I worked my butt off for this merger. It's consumed my bloody life! What's wrong with this world, Geoff? Why can't something just go right for once?”

  Geoff nodded sagely, “Things go right all the time, Hank. Just not for the right people.”

  Henry made a couple more goes at getting his eye back in. After the third attempt, with a push, a shove and a squeeze, it noisily sucked in, bringing his eyelids in with it. It was a few more minutes until he had it happily sitting still.

  “You alright?” Geoff asked, handing him a fresh coffee-stained napkin.

  “You know, I envy that damn statue out the front.”

  “Really? Why's that, Hank? He's got to carry the world. That's a pretty tough ask.”

  “Yeah, but everyone can see that he's carrying it, you know. It's pretty bloody obvious. You won't catch anyone asking him to drop the Earth and go get some sodding milk and bread, you know? And if he complains of a bad back, people would nod and say, 'Well of course!'” Henry explained.

  “And it looks like he gets plenty of exercise and fresh air,” Geoff mused, “Still, I reckon having pigeons poop on you all the time wouldn't be all that great.”

  “Ha ha. Yeah. Yeah, I reckon that'd be pissing him off.”

  Henry looked at his hand. The gaffer tape was getting loose around the edges and had picked up some fluff and dust. He pulled a few of the looser bits off and tried to pat it down. The corners refused to stay and spitefully flipped back up.

  “Still. I reckon I'd do a sight better if I wasn't stuck behind this stupid monitor all day. A man needs exercise, you know. He needs to throw spears and wrestle and stuff.”

  “You reckon you could bring a deer down?” Geoff asked, “Or a kangaroo? How about a rabbit?”

  “Dunno. I'd give it a try, but,” Henry said, smiling to himself, “It'd make a decent change from this.”

  He pointed to the cubicle that surrounded him on three sides. Geoff nodded, shuffled his finger under his nose, and let Henry ruminate.

  “You know, it's not carrying the World on your shoulders that does it, Geoff,” Henry said finally, “Because that's what we were bloody well built for. It's the little things. It's the friggin' little things that wear you down and grind you to dust. Mark my words. That statue won't get squashed, it'll have little bits chipped off it. It'll have the rain wear it down. The acid in the bird poop will rough up the surface. It'll have a crack that forms up its butt that'll grow bigger and bigger until the bugger splits wide open.”

  “I hear you, mate,” said Geoff, “I hear you. Say, do you want to head over to pub after work?”

  The thought of a quiet drink in a dark bar, with no other sounds but the clanking of glasses and the rambling cricket commentator to interrupt his thoughts, was quite possibly the closest thing to heaven that Henry could think of at that moment.

  “Yeah, I would Geoff. I truly bloody would. More than anything,” he said, letting out a resigned sigh, “But I can't.”

  “That's OK, mate,” Geoff said, sitting back down in his cubicle, “Neither can I.”

  Home Again

  The Friday night traffic was shockingly bad. A tram had collided with a truck somewhere out of the way. Or maybe it was a fallen telephone pole. Maybe it was a fire. Who knew? The announcers on the radio acted like they had a hunch, but they were just reading off a screen.

  A detailed report would be on the news later that night for sure. It was something big. Everything on that side of the city got diverted. Diverted through a bunch of back-roads, through suburbs that showed Henry that his pathetic dwelling was clearly not up to the standards of what a proper house in a proper suburb could be.

  Traffic was like that.

  The starling was not there when he arrived. The fence was empty. Even the wattle-birds had gotten bored and went back to their nests to rest. It was far too late for all of that. Birds can only wait around for so long.

  “I'm home,” he announced, dragging his foot across the threshold.

  “I'm home,” he said again, shambling into the kitchen.

  “Dinner's cold,” Loretta said, storming past him, “It was hot an hour ago.”

  He appealed, “I sent you a text! I told you I'd be late!”

  “I'd already started cooking. It's over there, help yourself,” she said, taking her phone out and flicking through it, “I'm sick of this.”

  �
�Sick of what?”

  “Gary Thompson is never late.”

  “I'm not Gary.”

  “He and his wife always have dinner together.”

  “I'm still not Gary.”

  “I know. If you were, you would've been here. We could have had dinner together like a regular family.”

  “You think I don't want that?”

  “What do you want, Henry?” she asked pointedly, “What the Hell do you want?”

  “Silence,” he replied honestly, “Just a moment of pure, damn, sodding silence.”

  “Whatever.”

  Henry scooped up some brown goop from a pot and slopped it onto the plate.

  “Braised steak and onions?”

  “Yeah.”

  “From a can?”

  “You got a problem with that?”

  He did. He really did. He really, truly did. But he did not wish to cause an argument. He wanted that even less. Arguments were not conducive to silence.

  He relented, “No. No problem.”

  Food was food, after all. And, with an English muffin, it made a decent enough meal, even if it was a bit military. Justine Thompson, he thought, would have made it from scratch, with fresh ingredients. She would have adjusted the recipe to use a little less salt, a few more vegetables. She would have ensured it was piping hot, with rice and maybe a salad.

  And she would never have used a can.

  He decided not to voice his thoughts and, instead, tucked hungrily into his meal. Cold or from a can, it did not matter in the end. It was food and he was hungry. Very soon he was sopping up the remnants with the last bit of muffin.

  The empty plate looked up at him. He looked down at it. His eyebrows furrowed. Surely he had just eaten a meal. He was no longer hungry, which made sense. So why couldn't he remember even eating it?

  He sat, staring