Pride House: The Quest for Vainglory

by Rob Summers

Chapter 12 Gaining Influence

  Before the door of Mr. Influence’s office suite was a large waiting room in which Pride took the last available seat. Uncomfortable chairs lined the walls, and in them sat uncomfortably two dozen anxious young men like himself. A brief scan of their overhopeful faces and their suits almost identical to his own, and Pride elected to survey the carpet instead, while licking his uncomfortable lips.

  He had expected that Vainglory would have other suitors, but not that he would be crowded together with them like so many starving actors waiting to try out for a part. Besides, these were not her actual suitors; he felt sure that none of them had ever met her. It offended him that he who had received a special calling to protect and marry her should be classed with these callow opportunists. They were mere fans.

  These mock suitors sat in wretched, resentful silence, no man even looking at another. At last a splendidly dressed fellow emerged from the inner recesses of the suite followed by yet another identical suitor. They paused near Pride.

  “We’ll call you or drop you a note,” said the splendidly dressed man. “It’s all going rather well, don’t you think, Mr. Dryhope?”

  “Oh, yes, I believe I can say that now,” answered the youth. The boy looked so pathetically eager and lap-doggish that Pride had to look away. “I want to thank you, Mr. Pretense,” the boy said somewhat shakily. “A chance to meet her—it means everything.”

  They exchanged a warm handshake. Mr. Dryhope departed and Mr. Pretense looked around the room.

  “No need to cut off your conversation because of me,” he said, smiling. “I know you’re building some lasting friendships here.” His words bore no taint of sarcasm. “We’re making your waiting time as short as possible. In the meantime, make free with yourselves—stretch your legs. Smoke if you have ’em.”

  Pretense now took in tow the suitor with the earliest appointment, and they disappeared within. The remaining suitors observed each other’s expressions by means of quickly averted glances. No one talked or stood or smoked.

  Time dragged. Pride thought of Fame. He thought of her without desire. The time for his appointment was long past.

  In the hours that followed several of the suitors got up and left. Pride stayed where he was with a determination to make his life mean something; and Mr. Pretense made his rare appearances until at last he favored Pride with a nod. Though they all had had appointments, Pride was the last to be admitted that day. The remaining ten men had to go home in near despair and face the formidable challenge of arranging another appointment.

  Pride was taken into a windowless room, little different from the one he had just left and bare except for a long battered table and some chairs. One of the mock suitors who had gained entry before him was sitting at this table, filling out an application. Mr. Pretense guided Pride to a chair, handed him an application form, and then disappeared through an unmarked door so quickly that Pride had no chance to question or protest.

  Fortunately he had brought a pen.

  He looked through the application’s five closely typed pages. They wanted everything: education, job history, annual income, illnesses, hobbies, police record, military service, references.... Pride had missed lunch waiting to see Mr. Influence, and now he must spend a good hour on this. The other suitor, scribbling doggedly, looked about half finished. Pride began.

  As he wrote he fumed. All the suitors could have filled out applications in the other room, was not that obvious? Why must he be delayed twice? To make matters worse, he found that many of the questions could not be answered without access to records he kept at home. Others were maddeningly vague. He blundered along as best he could.

  The room seemed to have no ventilation.

  By the time Mr. Pretense looked in a half hour later, the other suitor was finished and was led through the mysterious door. Pride plodded on in a concussed state.

  Have you ever suffered from a respiratory disease?

  The question lay before him like a twisted limb. He was aware of the sound of his own breathing and of the pen tip scratching across the paper. He had to strain to remember why he was here. For Vainglory, yes. But who was she, anyway? God? She was a mere mortal, after all, so why this preposterous maze of defense around her? He determined to do away with it all after he would marry her.

  Have you ever been diagnosed as having heart disease?

  He wrote on desperately, skipping questions, giving approximate answers, qualifying everything. He was expected to append typed references from influential acquaintances; but no one had warned him, so he had none. He was reviewing the pages, making little explanatory notes in the margins, when Mr. Pretense came for him.

  They went through the mysterious door into a hallway where again Pride was asked to be seated. Nearby was a door with an opaque glass pane in it; on it was printed ‘Mr. Influence.’

  “I’ll just run your application in to his desk,” Pretense explained breezily. “If he likes what he sees and has time, he may want to see you.”

  “But that’s what I came for,” insisted Pride. “I had an appointment.” He just did restrain himself from adding “hours ago.”

  “Of course. Quite sorry about the bottlenecks here. The whole thing is being straightened out, naturally, but today Mr. Influence may not see you. He usually leaves for home by five and it’s just past. But I’ll tell you what, since I see it means a lot to you, I’ll do my best to persuade him to give you a few minutes.”

  Pride thanked him, wondering if he was lying. Then he was left alone again. The hallway was more pleasant than the waiting rooms: it had a carpet and a few pictures. He comforted himself with the thought that it would all be over soon, either way. He was bothered, however, by an unpleasant smell. In a few minutes Pretense beckoned him into the office.

  Mr. Influence was fleshy, ugly, and bald. What is more, he reeked. In his presence the unpleasant odor Pride had noticed in the hall was strengthened beyond belief. He knew the smell did not come from Mr. Pretense, who stood by without seeming to notice. Seated behind his great desk, leaning forward slightly and eyeing Pride narrowly, Influence himself did not look as if he cared. Pride’s application was not to be seen, but Influence held open in his hands a large, black appointment book.

  “Let’s get to the point, Pride,” he said roughly. “You want to get to meet Fame, right? Right?”

  “Well, yes, I—”

  “That’s all I need to know. This is her appointment book. I keep it for her. She’s busy—all the time. You want to ask me when her next free evening is?”

  Pride felt a humble nod to be appropriate. This man was so crude; how could he possibly be Miss Vainglory’s secretary? And his odor! Pride had not known that a human being could smell that bad. He wondered if Influence ever took a bath.

  “Never!” Influence boomed, and Pride started. “She’s booked up till the crack of doom. We can’t fit you in unless somebody cancels, and they never do.”

  “But—but all these applicants—and forms,” Pride stammered. “Why bother if she has no time?”

  Pretense stepped in suavely. “Miss Vainglory has time for those who really want to meet her. She unfortunately doesn’t have a free evening for a date. However, she attends parties, and we might possibly get you onto the guest list at one of those parties.”

  “Yeah, it all depends,” said Influence. “It all depends.”

  An uncomfortable silence followed, and Pride thought he saw Influence and Pretense exchange a glance.

  “Look, about those references,” Pride said wretchedly, “I just didn’t know ahead of time that you’d be needing them. I can mail them in—”

  “Your references don’t matter, kid.”

  Another silence. Mr. Pretense strolled to a window. Influence studied his desk top. Pride felt something was required of him, but had no notion what.

  “Look, I gotta get out of here,” In
fluence said suddenly and almost angrily. “Here’s a party she’ll be at in two weeks.” He pointed to a page in the book. “A nice posh affair. You want to be at that party? Want an engraved invitation? Just hand over this—” He scribbled a dollar amount on a scrap of paper and pushed it across the desk. “—and you’re in.”

  Pride looked at the paper. He understood perfectly that he was offered a chance to buy his way into the party. As he stood amazed at the sordid clarity of it, he remembered that he always carried a spare check in his wallet. Influence’s pig-like eyes were on him impatiently. With his back to them, Mr. Pretense continued to gaze out the window.

  Pride wrote the check and handed it to Influence.

  “You want a receipt, ace?”

  “No, I have to go now.”

  “Me too. Expect that invite in a couple of days.”

  Pride backed out the door and fled through the waiting rooms and onto the street. There he leaned against the building and gratefully drew in the clean air.