5PM

by Chris Heinicke

  Phelps asks Roger about his upcoming clients—a middle-aged couple selling a family home in the western suburbs in order to downsize. He has the potential to not only sell a house for the couple, but a chance to line them up with a viable selection of our own properties for sale. The boss is impressed with him, which is hardly surprising, but I don’t begrudge my friend for that.

  The meeting finally comes to an end, and I refill my empty mugs with more coffee. Roger taps me on the shoulder, and this I know means he wants to have this chat. I need to do this.

  I follow him and he pulls the door shut behind us. He takes his own seat, and I sit opposite the desk from him. “I did it again, Roger—three times, in fact.”

  “You fucked Emily another three times? When did this happen?”

  “Not Emily, another three women. There was Lauren Pellmont on Friday, a lady cop on Saturday and the babysitter yesterday. Multiple times too, each of them.”

  Roger’s jaw drops. He tries multiple times to say something, and finally, just shakes his head.

  “Yes, I know, Roger. I’m going to hell for this, especially the babysitter—she’s just seventeen-years-old. I could go to jail for that, Rog.” I stand up, waving my arms to emphasize what I’m saying.

  “Calm down, Terry. You can get through this.” Then he frowns. “Did you say Lauren Pellmont?”

  “Yeah, she seduced me in her bedroom. I passed out, and several hours later, I had to rush out of there because Talissa had rung the office to try to find me and gotten hold of Phelps, who told her where I was supposed to be.”

  “Terry, excuse me, but did you say you had sex with Lauren Pellmont?”

  “Yes, that’s what I said. Please try and keep up.”

  “Geez, you are desperate to sell that place—she’s like seventy years old.”

  What the hell is he talking about? “She was only twenty-six years old, and one hell of a hottie, Rog. I’m sure you would do her in a heartbeat.”

  “There must be some mistake. The widow Lauren Pellmont is seventy years old, or close to it. There was a whole news article dedicated to her late husband, given his philanthropy and heroics back in his firefighting days. Go look it up.”

  My head spins quicker than before. If the woman I had sex with isn’t the widow Pellmont, then what the hell have I done. Before I can get off my chair, Phelps bursts into the office. “Terry, my office, NOW!”

  He turns around and heads back out before I can offer any kind of response. Roger looks at me. “Good luck buddy.”

  “Thanks.” My legs take my unwilling body down the corridor to Phelps’s office, and I think I know what could be on the agenda for our discussion.

  “Close the fucking door behind you,” Phelps says without looking up from a piece of paper, “and don’t bother sitting down.”

  “What is it, Phelps?”

  He looks up from his desk and stares with his little grey eyes right through me. “We have a serious problem. I just got off the phone with Mrs Pellmont, who has been away from her place for the last two weeks, only getting back home yesterday. So can you imagine her surprise when she finds brochures and a business card on her kitchen counter from our branch?”

  “Sorry, boss. There’s been a big misunderstanding. I went there on Friday and this young woman said she was some sort of trophy wife for the old bugger. I took her around the house and…”

  He cuts me off. “Do you not ever read the fucking news? Mr Pellmont was often seen with his dear old wife at charity events.”

  “So how the hell did this blonde woman get in the house? This must be your fault as much as mine if not more. Who arranged the meeting with you?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Mrs Pellmont said her bedroom was all messed up and smelt bad like people had been having sex. She’s gone so far as to threaten to get her bed sheets DNA tested.”

  “I’ll make it up to her.”

  “No, you won’t. She doesn’t want you anywhere near the house ever again. The only reason my branch still has the selling rights to it is because her late husband and I attended several events together, and also because I’ve assured her I’m giving George the property.”

  “I don’t know what to say. I made the appointment to see her through her personal assistant.” I feel deflated.

  “This is your last warning, Terry. Now get out and go do something useful for me.”

  I breathe deeply and win the battle against my rising anger, making sure not to slam the door on the way out. There has to be a way to get to the bottom of this.

  Emily’s office isn’t far, so I tap on her window. She tells me to come in, and I see her behind her desk, which is mostly empty.

  “What the hell do you actually do here?” I ask my attention directed towards her barely used desk.

  “I don’t need to make a mess in order to look active. My work is up here and in there.” She points to her head and then her computer. Is that why you’re here?”

  “No, I need another one of those pills, remember? I got shit for sleep last night, and I don’t think I’ll make it through the day unless I receive some sort of miracle.”

  “So you like to know me when you need me to be your whore and pharmacist? You think you can just come here, in my office, for all the sex and drugs you need?”

  “Please, Emily. I’ll pay you for a damn pill if I have to. I’m not interested in the sex, though. I’m already in enough trouble because of your panties left in my car.”

  She gets up from her swivel chair and walks my way. “You need me… That’s really cute, Terry. Okay, I’ll give you the pill. Think of it as an ‘I’m sorry gift’.” Picking up her handbag from the floor, she smiles as she lowers herself in such a way where her skirt rides up her thighs as she opens her legs slightly to show me she’s still wearing no panties.

  “Can you please stop doing that?” I ask her.

  “Oh, come on, Terry. Most men want to see it and here you are complaining.” She stands and walks over to me, little white pill in hand. She grabs one of my hands and places the pill inside.

  I pick it out with the forefinger and thumb of my other hand. My hand moves slowly as if it’s carrying precious cargo in a way a crane moves goods to a ship. I stare at the little pill, the key to staying alert today, and it’s just a couple of inches from my mouth.

  Emily’s smile attracts my attention, and I look back to the pill and realise what I need to do. “Please, you’re making me nervous,” I say to her.

  She turns away for a second, and as I go to place the pill on my tongue, I make a gulping sound as I pretend to swallow it, instead dropping it up my sleeve. I quickly put my hand in my pocket and let the pill drop. “Wow, that’s better already. What the hell is in these pills?” I ask.

  “It’s probably better you don’t know.” She walks past me and closes the blinds, and goes back to her chair. “Please sit, Terry. I have a proposition for you, one that could benefit the two of us.”

  Reluctantly, I take my seat and look back at her. “I’m curious, but if it means you and me having…”

  “Get over yourself, Terry. I could go out there and get sex whenever I want. I don’t have to rely on your nearly forty-year-old body to get it. I’m actually talking about a business deal—you and me going out on our own.” She undoes the top button of her blouse. “You know, with my looks and your brain for business, we could do really well. You must have a list of contacts as long as your arm and could you see male clients not wanting to work with me?” She lets her hair down to hang free, and any straight man with a heartbeat would probably sign her up within seconds.

  “It’s a big thing to leave the security of working for someone else, Em. I guess a free spirit like you doesn’t have as much to risk as I do. Do you have a plan on paper or is this just a light bulb shining in your head?”

  “Do you have to be so blunt? I’m picking you over any guy I know to take this chance. My gut tells me you’re the guy with the balls for this type of thing. Will you
at least think about it?”

  “I can do that, Em, but I can’t promise much more. I lost the Pellmont property to George, in case you haven’t already heard.”

  “I hadn’t heard that. What happened?”

  I can’t explain all that to her. The humiliation has already smacked me around worse than a heavyweight boxer. “It’s complicated.”

  “I could make you feel better, Terry.” She gets to her feet and starts unbuttoning her blouse from the bottom.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Celebrating the potential start of a great partnership. I know I said I could go out and get sex with whoever I wanted whenever I wanted, but why do that when we can do it in our office?”

  “Sometimes, I think you must have some sort of split personality. I’m trying to fix my marriage, and having sex with you is not a good start.” I get up from my chair and head for the door.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” she says and gets in my path.

  She stares me down, and as I put my left foot out she rips off her shirt and jumps at me. Even with her small frame, there was enough weight thrown on top of me to knock me over onto my back. Nearly every bone in my body, especially my spine, felt the collision with the floor. Luckily, I prevent my head from smacking into the concrete, although I can’t imagine my headache being any worse.

  “Please, I just want to get out,” I plead as I try to sit up.

  “I want you in me, Terry. Stop fighting,” she slaps me on the side of the face.

  I need to get away from her without hurting her physically. My cheek feels like someone hit it with a book from the force of her attack. She straddles my waist and her hands go for my belt, and as I try to push them away, she slaps my other cheek.

  “Let me go, you crazy bitch,” I say.

  “You’re supposed to want me, Terry. Stop fighting it.” She undoes her skirt and throws it away from us, leaving her naked from the waist down. How can I get her off me without causing harm?

  “Please, let me take my clothes off myself,” I say hoping she’ll get off me.

  My phone is in my shirt pocket, and seeing how much quicker her reflexes are than mine, making a desperate grab for it will be in vain. Maybe I should just yell out.

  “No, I’m perfectly capable of doing it,” Emily says, her fingers making for my belt and zipper.

  If I push her hands away, she’ll just get angrier and hit me again, and while I would never hit a woman, there is something to be ashamed of being beaten up by one.

  “Why the fuck aren’t you hard?” she asks as she puts her hand down the front of my briefs.

  “Because you’re trying to force yourself on me, that’s why. Forget about us having sex because it’s not gonna happen.”

  Emily stands up and looks at me, not attempting to cover herself up at all. All she has on is her bra and unbuttoned shirt and shoes. Pointing down at me, I can almost see her vomiting up her anger. “So that’s how it’s going to be? Fine.” She turns away from me and dives at the window, pulling on the cord to open the blinds and making sure her head smacks into the glass. I stand up and pull up my pants and see Phelps and George looking straight at us.

  “Emily, are you okay?” Phelps yells.

  She bangs her fists on the window and cries out loud, and I head for the door, not wanting to see what she’s trying to do to herself. I grab the doorknob and see Roger standing in the doorway.

  “What’s going on?” Roger asks, looking over and seeing Emily’s bare arse as she continues to smash her fists on the glass.

  “That prick tried to fuck me on my desk.” Emily turns around, covering her privates with a hand.

  “Terry?” he asks, looking at me securing my belt.

  “The bitch is crazy, she…” Phelps and George come in and cut me off mid-sentence.

  “Are you okay, Emily?” George asks, picking up her skirt and passing it to her.

  Tears flow from her eyes. This bitch is a great actress. “I managed to fight him off me, but he ripped my shirt buttons and my panties.”

  “Lying slut! You weren’t wearing any panties and you ripped your own shirt.”

  “Calm down, Terry.” Roger puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “No, I will not calm down, she’s lying.”

  “Dirty creepy prick. You tried to rape me.” Emily points at me. Her skirt is securely back in place.

  “You have ten minutes to pack your stuff and get out of here,” Phelps says to me.

  “What? You’re just gonna fire me without any sort of investigation or anything? This is bullshit.”

  “I know what I saw, Terry, and I wouldn’t blame Emily for laying criminal charges. Now get the fuck out of here.” Phelps points to the door.

  All it takes is a split second for one to do something extreme. The rage fills me like an overblown balloon, and the way I release the tension shocks everyone in the room. I swing my left fist around and connect with Phelps’s nose. It feels so good hitting that prick in the face. My only regret is not following it up with another punch before walking out of Emily’s office and heading to my own. That bitch set me up good and now Phelps gets his wish.

  “Terry, what have you done?” Roger follows me, keeping a distance of a couple of metres between us.

  “Emily did this, the conniving skank. The morning briefing when she dropped her pen and I picked it up, she had no panties on and proudly showed me. Then, when I came to her office, she tried to have her way with me, and then make it look like I sexually assaulted her. She’s fucking crazy, Rog”

  “Terry, what’s in your back pocket?” Roger asks me as I open my office door.

  What does he mean? I feel both the rear pockets, and my hands locate something soft in texture and grab it. “You’ve got to be shitting me,” I say as I see the white cotton garment I extract from behind me. A pair of ripped women’s underwear. I drop them to the ground.

  “I’m outta here, Terry. I can’t get involved.” Roger turns his back and charges down the corridor, and I’m left alone to pack up my personal items. I turn on the computer because I’ll be damned if I’m not taking my client network with me. I open the drawers to find a USB or blank disc to back everything up.

  My pens, pencils, and the dragon paperweight are first in the cardboard box. Everyone in this branch has an empty cardboard box stored on top of their filing cabinet in preparation for the day they are given the ‘you have ten minutes to grab your personal items’ spiel. I never thought I would hear those words, even though Phelps has always made it known he doesn’t like me. There’s a coffee mug with a laser printed photo of my kids on it from when Matilda was a newborn, a few books on salesmanship and lastly, there’s the wedding photo of Talissa and me.

  The edges of the frame dig into the clamp-like grip of my hands as I stare into the eyes of a younger version of myself and my new bride. When I get home tonight, if I can capture just a fraction of the love sparkling in this snapshot of our magic day, I’ll feel like my life can be rebuilt from the mess it is today. Tears stream down my cheeks because deep down I know I’ve done damage to my marriage that would take a miracle to be forgiven, but never truly erased from our memories.

  Phelps storms in. “You have two minutes, arsehole.” His eyes turn to the computer monitor on my desk. “I don’t think so, Terry.” He then pulls the power plug from the back of the desktop unit.

  “I built this branch into the powerhouse it is today, you outdated, miniature penis possessor. You just watch me because one day, you’ll be hearing my name out there, and you will rue this day.”

  “Rue this day? You people crack me up when you say that.”

  I pick up my box and walk out of the office I had spent the last fifteen years working in—and didn’t look back. How will I get home and what do I tell my wife? I can feel everyone’s eyes on me as I walk through the corridor and then to the front door, taking a left towards the train station.

  * * * * *

  Sitting on the train, goin
g who knows where, I see so many faces filled with a shared feeling of torture bearing the mundane existence of travel via public transport. Maybe all of us who drive our cars each day to and from work share the same look. Are any of us truly happy with our lives, going to and from jobs and paying money to live in houses we’ll spend our whole working life to pay off? And what about those who work hard in jobs that pay shit who’ll never own anything? How many of us love what we do and do what we love?

  I need to shut my brain off for a while. The more tired I am, the more my mind spins around these ideas that do nothing to repair my damaged thinking. But the reality is my life is pretty fucked up right now and the blame lies fully with me.

  I look at the window next to my head. In the reflection is a woman with long flowing blonde hair with an evil grin on her lips. I spin my head around and spy the seats to my left, but there is no sign of her. My head’s playing tricks on me, and I’m ill-equipped right at this moment to battle it.

  I close my eyes allowing the random images I can’t filter out to dance in my mud-clouded mind. My body aches, my cheeks are sore from Emily’s slaps, and my sore knuckles let me know I haven’t had a fistfight since my teens, and with good reason. The cheap vinyl seat aids in my bum’s numbness and a loose spring digs into my back, but none of these factors can prevent me from blanking out.

  * * * * *

  It’s only early in the afternoon when the train reaches the end of the line, and a random stranger wakes me. I know I’ve been asleep, but I don’t remember any dreams, and I check my watch and see that two hours have passed since I first boarded this train. I could be anywhere. I know nothing about how far along they travel nor how long they take to get there.

  The box is still tucked under my right arm on the seat and nothing has fallen out or been stolen. I take to my feet and head for the nearest door and on doing so I glimpse familiar buildings only a half hour walk to my home. I see a police car drive by and think of Hannah, and I wonder if I should call her and tell her about the chat woman stalking me on my phone last night.