by Dorsey, Tim
The door slammed.
Jim hopped up, grabbed his briefcase, and walked swiftly to where a security guard was holding open a side door to the parking lot. “We moved your car closer. Hurry . . .”
Jim half walked, half trotted to his car. He stuck a key in the door.
From behind: “There you are!”
Jim spun around . . .
Spreading misery day in, day out wasn’t Jim’s cup of tea, money or not. He would have quit long ago, except he received a second set of duties. Because all the firings were simply window dressing to impress Wall Street, many of the companies became severely understaffed and unable to meet quarterly projections. Wall Street wasn’t impressed.
His consulting company needed headhunters. They called Jim in. He knew just where to look for new employees: the totally qualified old ones he had just fired.
His bosses were bowled over. “Where are you finding all these great prospects? Our clients are thrilled!”
They gave him a promotion and a company car.
It was the same car that Jim now stood next to in the parking lot of a Lakeland distribution warehouse as a husky man charged toward him. Jim hurried with the keys, but his hands were shaking too badly. The man reached Jim and seized him with both arms in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground.
“Oh, thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I haven’t been able to find a job in months, and now I get one just before Christmas! My children will have presents! It’s all because of you!”
With all the firing and hiring, there wasn’t much middle emotional ground in Jim’s line. All mountain peaks and mine shafts. On average, his work mood was indifferent. He was very happy.
But that was Jim. Counting his blessings. And overthinking the worst-case scenario.
As the man had asked, how did he sleep at night? Two eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Then the digital alarm clock with green numbers: 2:04, 2:44, 3:19. Perspiration. Aware of every heartbeat. Running checklists of family precautions through his mind. To look at Jim was, well, to look at anyone else on the street. Non-muscular, a little on the thin side. The kind of person people can’t identify to police. “He was just average.” “Anything else?” “Seemed the quiet type, like he could be pushed around.”
Martha Davenport took up the slack. Attractive in a mature way. Which meant unpretentious clothing that hid the fact she was even more attractive. And full-bodied, fiery red hair that didn’t lie about her temperament. She slept the sleep of small children.
In one way, Jim was like Spock from Star Trek, calmly computing any conflict through to all permutations of final outcome, deciding that most were pointless and perilous enough to be strenuously avoided. Martha started at DEFCON 5 and went from there. She had opposed Melvin playing Little League, because of how she heard the other parents behaved. Then, clinging the chain-link fence behind home plate: “Ump! Are you blind?”
In their case, however, the extremes of the marriage created a whole that was greater than the sum of the parts. All in all, a good collaboration, like Lennon-McCartney.
A company car finished the drive back from Lakeland and pulled up a driveway on Triggerfish Lane. Jim came through the front door with his briefcase. “Honey, I’m home . . .”
“How was your day?” asked Martha.
“Great!” said Jim, loosening his tie. “It was so-so.”
“I had a great day, too,” said Martha. “I went to the mall.”
“Find something on sale?”
“No, I went to see the assistant manager about that mall cop.”
“I thought you handled that on the phone.”
Martha shook her head. “They called back. Said they couldn’t prove anything about the fight in the bathroom, and they reviewed the security tapes. Concluded it was elves after all. So they wanted to interview me.”
Jim folded his jacket over the back of a chair. “What for?”
“Said they wanted to fire him anyway, and needed more details about my complaint.”
“Honey, I really wish you hadn’t done that.”
“Why?” said Martha. “I’m tired of the jerks getting away with stuff. It seems people like us who obey the rules are the only ones who ever get punished.”
She grabbed a pair of binoculars from a drawer.
“What are you doing?”
Martha walked to the window. “We’re getting new neighbors. That rental house across the street. I saw the landlord take down the sign and change the locks today.”
“I’m not sure you should be looking out our front window with binoculars.”
“Relax, everyone on the street does it.” She adjusted the focus. “I wonder what we’ll get this time. Hope they’re like those nice Flanagans whose kids used to babysit Nicole when she was younger. Hope it’s not like the Raifords, whose dogs kept getting loose . . .”
“And who received a copy of your anonymous dog complaint.”
“They were the ones breaking the rules. And then they blamed us, making crank calls at all hours.”
“I remember that,” said Jim. “Using pay phones so the calls couldn’t be traced when you reported it to the police.”
Martha scanned the windows, trying to see if any furniture had arrived. “Remember the dental hygienist who left the blinds open and had men coming and going, and that old man who kept digging holes in his yard in the middle of the night? . . .”
“The police never found anything after you called.”
“ . . . The newlyweds who never left the house for weeks until all his clothes were on fire in the driveway, and those college kids who left the door open and played Pink Floyd all the time, and . . . Oh no.” Martha slowly lowered the binoculars.
“What is it?” asked Jim. “Jesus, those veins in your head are throbbing again.”
Across the street, a ’72 Chevelle pulled up. The driver’s door opened. “Coleman, imagine our luck being able to rent a house so close to the Davenports. I can’t wait to see the look on their faces!”
Chapter Six
THE NEXT MORNING
Birds chirped.
More accurately squawked. Green parrots. Flying over the light poles in the parking lot of the new Tampa Bay Mall.
The stores hadn’t opened yet. Just janitors and power walkers with hand weights. Security bars began cranking up in front of the Cutlery Castle. Someone else turned on a stove at the Magic Wok.
A mall cop strolled along the second level, past one of the power walkers who got a little ambitious.
“No running!” said the security guard. A corridor approached. The guard walked past the restrooms and knocked on the last door. He stuck his head inside. “You wanted to see me?”
“Come in and have a seat,” said the assistant mall manager. Serious mouth. Holding a report in his hands.
Five minutes later. “Son of a bitch!”
“We can’t have personnel yelling at children, and especially not mothers. They’re our best customers.”
“What’s her name?” The guard lunged from his chair with an outstretched arm. “Let me see that fucking complaint!”
The assistant manager yanked the complaint out of reach high over his head. “It’s anonymous.”
The ex-mall cop stood. “I’m going to find out who reported me if it’s the last thing I do!”
He flung the office door open. Someone was waiting in the hall; that person jumped out of the way as the fired guard stormed past.
The assistant mall manager slipped the complaint in the top drawer of his desk, then smiled and waved for the person waiting in the hall to enter the office. “Come in, come in, Mr. Beach. Corporate told me you’d be here.”
“Please call me Jensen,” said Jim Davenport.
“Okay, Jensen, pull up a chair.” The assistant manager took a seat behind his desk and leaned forward on elbows. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“I’m sure you know that retail is in a slump.”
The manager leaned back in his chair with fi
ngers interlaced behind his head. “Yeah, everyone’s a little off. Sausage World pulled out last month. But it all goes in cycles; everyone bounces back.”
“I’m happy to hear you see it that way.” Jim opened his briefcase on his lap. “That’ll make this go a lot easier.”
“What do you mean by that? . . .”
Five minutes later:
“Motherfucker! You’re firing me? Do you know anything at all about mall administration?”
“Not remotely.”
“So you have no real basis to fire me instead of one of the other assistant managers.”
“Not that I can think of.”
“What about Johnson? He hasn’t been here half as long as me. It isn’t fair!”
“You’re right,” said Jim. “It’s not.”
“Get out of my office.”
“Actually they said you had to leave . . .”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“ . . . And if you said you weren’t going anywhere, I was instructed to call mall security.”
“We’ve got one guy working today,” said the assistant manager. “And he isn’t working here anymore—”
A cell phone rang. Jim held up a finger to wait a second. He recognized the numerical display as the number of his supervisor at Sunshine Solutions. “Hello? . . . Yes, actually I’m here right now . . . Another hiring job? . . . They’re short-staffed? . . . But why do they need to fill the position so fast? . . . An urgent human resources problem has come up? . . . I’ll get right on it.”
Jim closed the phone.
The manager was standing. “Now, are you going to leave by yourself, or will I have to kick your ass?”
“No, I’m going,” said Jim. He picked up his briefcase and left the office, looking to hire a security guard to remove the assistant manager from the building.
TRIGGERFISH LANE
The front curtains parted a slit.
Binoculars poked through. “Jim, come here,” said Martha.
Jim drilled a wall anchor to hang the newest Davenport family portrait taken at Just Portraits. “What is it?”
“They’re back.”
Jim walked across the living room. “Martha, are you going to spend your whole life at the window?”
“They’ve got a bunch of stuff in the trunk.”
“That’s a mystery. People moving in, having stuff.”
“Don’t trivialize me.” She opened the curtains wider. “Those men are dangerous. I wonder what’s in all those bags? . . .”
Across the street, Coleman hoisted a sack out of the trunk. “What’s in all these bags?”
“Christmas!” said Serge, grabbing his own bag. “This is going to be the best ever!”
They headed for the front door.
Coleman set his bag down and leaned against the house. “I’m tired.”
Serge got out his keys. “You only walked from the driveway to the porch.”
“Maybe it’s the marijuana.”
“Gee, you think?” They went inside and Serge dumped the bags’ contents on the floor. Then five more trips to the car until the pile in the living room was a mountain.
“Why so much shit?” asked Coleman.
“Because I love Christmas! But usually I’m too busy with all my business travel and outstanding warrants. Not this year! My new motto: ‘I’m taking Christmas big!’ ” Serge dropped to his knees and pawed through the mound on the floor. “Here’s the plan: We do everything, all the traditions, and we do it grander than anyone ever dreamed! Here are the houselights, which will require extra generators so we don’t smash the power grid, the holiday music CDs that will need weatherproof outdoor concert speakers, the train set with extra boxes of tracks to connect all the rooms of the house, the bicycle whose assembly on Christmas Eve will make us use profanity like Kid Rock, the toys where we forget the batteries, several gingerbread house kits we’ll combine to form a mansion, DVDs of all the classic Christmas specials to run nonstop, mistletoe for all the doorways, the manger scene with a little Jesus that glows in the dark to emphasize the Holy Spirit third of the Trinity because he’s the shy one who gets the least press, all the presents we’ll wrap together and give each other as Secret Santas . . .”
Coleman popped a special holiday-edition Budweiser. “But if we wrap the presents together, I’ll already know what you bought me.”
Serge untangled a strand of lights. “You won’t remember.”
Coleman took a gulp from his beer. “I love surprises.”
Serge jumped up. “Let’s get the tree! . . .”
Across the street: “Look at the size of that tree tied to the roof of their Chevelle,” said Martha. “It’s almost as long as the car.”
“I don’t think they’ll be able to get it in the house,” said Jim.
Moments later: “Push!” yelled Serge.
“I’m pushing as hard as I can,” said Coleman. “The door’s not big enough.”
“Then we’ll figure something else out . . . Pull!”
“I’m pulling as hard as I can. I think it’s stuck.”
“Let me get out there and help.” Serge crouched on his hands and knees and crawled through the front door under the tree. He stood up next to Coleman. “Get a good grip and pull as hard as you can on three . . . Three!”
Grunting and more grunting.
“It’s stuck good,” said Coleman.
Serge let go. “Fuck it. Leave it there. Can’t let this slow down the yuletide juggernaut.”
They crawled under the tree and into the house. Coleman grabbed another cold one. “Why was it so important to rent a house near Jim’s place, anyway?”
“Because he’s my hero.” Serge began nailing stockings to the wall. “The courage of holding down a family. I want to be just like him, and what better way than to live as close as possible and observe his secrets? We’ll tap into their rhythms and mimic everything they do until it becomes natural.”
“What’s the point?”
“I’m taking it to the next level!” Serge grabbed a nail from his teeth and resumed hammering. “Don’t get me wrong. Fleeing all over the state from the cops, staying in crappy motels, and stealing shit has its place. But you need to raise a family to grow as a human. And what better time to start than Christmas?”
“But we’re not a family,” said Coleman.
“But we are!” said Serge. He went to the dining table. “Just need to get some chicks in the mix, and the whole family dynamic will take care of itself.”
“Who are you thinking of?”
Serge just smiled.
Coleman took a step back. “You don’t mean . . .”
“That’s right. City and Country!”
Coleman took an extra-long guzzle from a bottle of Jack to steady his nerves. “Those are some badass babes. But they’re still on the run for that murder.”
“Except they didn’t do it. They’re innocent.”
“Maybe they were innocent back then, but all the years on the lam. Who knows how many crimes?”
Serge began tapping on the laptop. “We’re judging?”
“No. I wouldn’t mind seeing them again. They’re smokin’ hot!” Coleman took a slug of whiskey and cracked open two beers. “But they’re in deep hiding. How are you going to find them?”
“How all fugitives keep in touch. Facebook.” Serge typed a few more minutes. “There, found them. Now I’ll just send our new address, then poke them and hit them with snowballs for good measure . . . They’ll be here in no time.”
Serge closed the laptop and walked to the front window.
Coleman followed, snorting off the back of his hand.
“Is that cocaine?” asked Serge.
Coleman’s eye sparkled. “White Christmas, dude!” He leaned in for another snort. “What do we do until the babes get here?”
“Study the Davenports’ lifestyle so we’ll know how to start a family. Of course we’ll have to invade their privacy, but it’s what everyone
does in the suburbs. I didn’t make the rules.” He raised a pair of binoculars and aimed them across the street, where he saw Martha staring back at him with her own binoculars.
Serge smiled and waved.
TAMPA BAY MALL
One of the assistant managers barricaded himself in his office, but nobody had noticed yet.
A mall cop arrived.
Not the new recruit Jim Davenport had just hired.
He pounded on the door. “Give me that anonymous complaint!”
“No!”
“I want it now!”
“Go away!”
“I’ll kick the door in!”
“I’ve got a gun!”
“You do not!” The fired security guard began crashing into the door with his shoulder until it finally gave and splintered off the hinges.
The guard ran to the front of the desk. “Give me that complaint!”
The assistant manager took up a defensive position on the other side. “I don’t have it!”
“It’s in that top drawer, isn’t it?”
“No.” The manager opened the drawer and grabbed it.
The guard faked left and right on the front of the desk. “Give it to me.”
The manager countered, right and left. “Stay away from me!”
“Then I’ll chase you!”
“You can’t catch me!”
“Right!” The guard took off around one end of the desk. The manager ran around the other. Circle after circle.
“Give it to me!”
“Can’t have it!”
The guard closed in, right on the manager’s heels. He reached and snatched. But missed the complaint.
“Hey! My toupee!”
“Give me the complaint!”
“Not a chance.”
“Fine.” The guard took out a cigarette lighter and set the hairpiece on fire. “See what you get?” He dropped the still-burning rug in the wastebasket.
The bald man used the opportunity to make a break for the door. He turned the knob and opened it a half foot before the guard caught him from behind and slammed it shut.
The manager crumpled the page into a ball.
“Give it to me!”
“Mmmm-mmmm!”
“You better not be sticking that in your mouth!”
