Connor

by Daryl Banner

  “You’re the one with the eye among us, aren’t you? You find errors. You see things. So look.” He gestures at his tablet. “Is this shot of Ivan Dupree guilty enough, or should I make Dave dig more?”

  Dave blinks, startled.

  I overcome my initial moment of shock at Jay actually consulting with me and give my unblinking eyes a moment’s glance at the photo. “Could find a guiltier shot,” I quickly note, speaking too fast.

  “Something the matter with you, Connor?” His short-lived respectful tone is quickly replaced with his usual one. “You look like you swallowed bees.”

  He takes the cup and lifts it to his lips.

  The next instant, I snatch that cup straight out of his hands.

  Jay is on his feet, aghast. “What has gotten in to you?? You spilled it on the cuff of my shirt,” he snaps, lifting his wrist demonstratively to show me, like evidence in a courtroom. “Now give me my coffee back.”

  It quakes in my hand. “No,” I state.

  “I said give it to me.”

  He reaches for it.

  I press it to my mouth, tilt it back at once, and down every last drop of it right in front of him.

  Jay watches me, somehow finding this act to be the most offending of all.

  I slap the cup down onto the table, now empty. At once, I feel better, deep relief settling inside my chest, now that the threat is gone.

  And inside me, instead.

  “I asked a question,” clips Jay, raising his voice. “Why’d you steal my coffee? Oh, I see. You waited until everyone else took a sip from theirs first, didn’t you? You just wanted to … to deprive me. Petty,” he decides, glaring at me. “Fucking petty.”

  He’ll never know what I just saved him from.

  And he doesn’t have to.

  “I’m sorry,” I reply sincerely. “It … It didn’t … They messed up your order,” I finally decide to say, settling on yet another lie, “and I didn’t have the heart to tell you. I’ll get you another.”

  But not even the tiny white lie could save me from Jay’s next move. “Spare yourself the trouble, you pathetic, Gayville, strip-club shot-boy.”

  All eyes in the room are on me.

  I stare at him, all of that peace I just put inside myself, obliterated by his words.

  “Say what?” mutters Dave, not following.

  “Oh, you heard me.” Jay crosses his arms, ever so satisfied with himself. “This lowlife lives in the slums with a bunch of lowlife whores, and his actual job is serving shots at a scummy strip-club.”

  “My friends are not lowlifes!” I shout back, my temperament snapped at once like a ruler.

  “What is going on in here??”

  The question comes from Brenda, who is also accompanied by two department heads in suits. All three of them observe the scene from the opened door with shock and dismay.

  Jay faces them. “He stole my coffee, drank it, and is now attempting to defend the fact that he is employed at a questionable location notorious for drugs, prostitution, and other illegal activities I do not feel comfortable disclosing here.”

  Brenda’s eyes go wide. Then she turns them on me without saying a word.

  I guess I knew the second Jay sunk his claws in me that this moment was inevitable. “It’s true,” I say in a voice so quiet, yet it fills the room. “I work as a shot boy at a strip-club. It’s how I make my rent. I took his coffee because there was something bad in it.” I close my eyes, then let out a sigh. “I understand if a person with my background isn’t the kind of person you want employed here, even as a measly intern. I will get my things and leave.”

  “You’re quitting?” asks Brenda, her tone like a hammer clanging against a stubborn nail.

  I don’t answer her. The sharp, uncertain stares of all my fellow interns around me is enough to force my hand. I start to pack away my laptop and notes into my messenger bag.

  “Mr. Wales will be quite disappointed,” Brenda tells me, and her voice is not altogether unkind. “I do believe my opinion on the matter of you and your character counts as well, Mr. Connor Hill.”

  “And I believe with the nine other perfectly, financially qualified interns here, Mr. Wales won’t miss some country boy from Kansas with a little meaningless pipedream.” I sling my messenger bag over a shoulder. “Thank you for the experience of working here, even if it’s been brief.”

  Then I face Jay.

  Whatever caustic contempt he held in his eyes has been exchanged for a watery, faraway sort of puzzlement. It’s as if he expected me to stay and fight, or insult him in front of the room, or out him for being a patron himself of said seedy strip-bar not very long ago.

  To him, I give a short nod and say, “I’m sorry about the coffee stain. As it turns out, I have an embarrassing history of spilling things on people who don’t deserve it.”

  He stares back at me, mystified.

  With that, I quietly make my way out of the workroom, head down the hall, and slip into the elevator. I don’t cry, kick something, or even put a scowl on my face. I keep it all pressed down, tell myself I did the right thing by leaving, and pray that Lex’s evil pill doesn’t kick in before I’m home. I doubt a proud erection in my slacks is the proper way to make my final departure through the doors of Wales Weekly.

  [ THE TRUTH ]

  Connor’s ride home on the subway is long and lonely.

  Even people he passes as he strolls the eleven blocks down from the station to Piazza Place under the noon sun don’t seem to look his way. It is as if his inner shame is draped over him like a soiled cloak, broadcasting his failure to the world in its filthy tattered threads.

  18

  I push my key into the door and shove my way into the apartment with a tired grunt.

  The guests from Brett’s weekend-long party are gone, of course. But they might as well still be here, from the crushed cans of beer on the floor, to the bottles that line the coffee table and windowsills, to the pizza boxes covering the kitchen counter.

  “Someone is going to clean this mess,” I decide right then and there.

  And after changing into a pair of gym shorts and a loose tank, that’s precisely what I do.

  But I do more than just remove the filth from the party in three giant trash bags. My pent-up ire from the scene that just transpired on the top floor of Wales Weekly has me washing the surfaces of every countertop with vigor. I scrub those fuckers until I see a shine. The TV gets an alcoholic wipe-down, removing it of scum I’m quite sure has built up on it since the day it was purchased. I wipe the windows, wipe the barstools, and even wipe stains and spattering of beer off the very walls.

  I’m in the middle of wiping down shelves and chucking expired crap from the fridge when Brett comes home from work in the late afternoon and slumps into the living room in his Bailey’s barista apron and hat, wiping his tired eyes. “Where the fuck am I?” he breathes, astonished, as he takes in the sight of his squeaky-clean apartment. He whips off his hat and turns his wide eyes on me. “Did you do all this?”

  I lift half a tub of cottage cheese. “This has sat in the fridge for a week and a half. Are you going to finish this before the end of time?”

  Brett’s eyes fall on the tub of cottage cheese.

  Then his eyes fall lower. “Uh … bro …”

  “Ignore it,” I say, flushing.

  “You’re sporting, like, the biggest boner I have ever—”

  “Yes, and it aches, and every time I move, I’m reminded of it. Now are you gonna eat the rest of this or not?” I ask, waving the half-empty tub.

  “Uh …” He’s still staring at my hard-on. “Uh, nah, that’s fine. You can, uh …” He pulls his eyes up. “Actually, I did have a pretty tedious day at the bookstore, so …” He takes it from my hand, grabs a clean spoon out of the drawer, marvels for a second at the fact that he has a clean spoon to grab, then starts chowing down while pretending not to still be staring at the tent in my gym shorts.

  I forego explaining,
allowing his imagination to run as it wishes, and continue cleaning out the fridge. “You can join in at any time you like,” I tell him. “I do still have two and a half cabinets full of who-knows-what to get through. Not to mention the bathroom full of your hair mousse.”

  “Y’know, if it persists longer than four hours …”

  “You have Mr. First-Floor Lex to thank for my uncomfortable erectile situation. It’s a complicated, backfired revenge tale. Also, I quit my internship.”

  He blinks. “Dude. Y-You quit? Why?”

  “Don’t worry. I wasn’t getting paid anyway. That’s why I picked up the job at Aubergines.”

  “Oh.” I watch as the story slowly pieces itself together on his adorably dumbfounded face. “So, uh, you weren’t just doing it for fun extra cash?”

  “Believe it or not, I did not make the decision to work there just to put on shorts so short and tight, they make my ass look like two fat grapes.” I shoot him a look. “You’re still staring.”

  He pries his eyes from my erection—again. “So why did you quit? I thought it was your dream job, working at Wales Weekly.”

  “I did, too.” I sigh as I tie up a trash bag, then thrust the fridge door shut with my hip. “I guess I realized climbing the corporate ladder isn’t for me.”

  “But you were already at the top of that ladder. You were working for the boss man himself.”

  “The boss man whom I never even met.” I roll my eyes as I sling the bag of trash next to the other one, ready to be taken out. I stare down at it with thought. “But maybe that’s part of my journey. To realize all that glitters isn’t gold.” I bite my lip, then wince at Brett. “I still need to tell Alan, though.”

  He takes off his apron, tosses it at the couch … then has a second thought, picks it back up, and neatly hangs it on the coatrack—where it totally doesn’t belong, but the effort makes me smile. He notices. “See? I can learn from your example here. I’m capable of … growing up a little.”

  “I never said you needed to,” I tell him sweetly.

  “You’d be the first! Everyone tells me I gotta grow up … take responsibility … stop partying like I’m still some nineteen-year-old club monster.” He takes one of the bags of trash and slings it over his big shoulder. “You just keep doing you. I’m gonna take …” He grunts as he takes the other bag over a shoulder, too. “… these babies to the dumpster.” His eyes drop once more to the stiff situation in my shorts. “Seriously, bro, if you need a minute to rub one out, I can stroll around the block …”

  The look I give him cuts him off.

  “Alright, alright!” He laughs, then whistles as he heads out with the trash, leaving the door open behind him. I hear him hop down the stairs.

  My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter with a text from Alan. I glance at it.

  We need to talk, it reads.

  I frown in thought, staring at that text for far too long. Those four words are never good news. I am quite certain that that precise sentence has started every conversation in boyfriends-breaking-up history, those four dreaded words.

  We need to talk? About what, Alan? Can’t you just be direct? Haven’t I had a bad enough day?

  Then my phone rings at once, startling me—but it isn’t Alan calling to talk.

  It’s a number from Wales Weekly.

  19

  I wash my hands with record speed, hurry into my room, shut the doors, then answer. “Hello?”

  “Hello. This is Irving Wales. Mr. Hill?”

  “That’s—” I choke on my own tongue, clear my throat, then try again. “That’s me, yes. Hello, Mr. Wales, sir. How’s your day?”

  I cringe.

  How’s your day? Really?

  “Well, it was going rather alright,” he politely replies, indulging me, “until I learned from Brenda that you had quit. I was very sorry to hear that, Connor. You’re the first intern in ten years to quit my program. I’m not sure if you knew that. May I ask why you left?”

  I stare at the window to the fire escape. Even though it’s the wrong time of day with the sunlight pouring in, I picture me and Lex standing at that rusty railing, concocting a ridiculous scheme to fix my problem. I know now that, had I actually gone through with the plan, it would have only made my problems worse. Far worse.

  Now, all I have to deal with is the eggplant in my shorts. And the loss of my internship.

  And this phone call. “I’m sorry that I had to leave,” I tell him rather truthfully. “I guess I just … felt like it wasn’t a right fit for me. The internship.”

  “I’ll tell you what. Can you come back to the office today?”

  My heart skips a beat. “Sir …”

  “Go directly to Brenda, and I’ll drop whatever I’m doing and speak with you in my office. Today, as soon as you can. Preferably by six, though. Liu hates when I work late.”

  “Sir, I …”

  “I will see you soon, Mr. Hill.” And with that, the man hangs up.

  I stare at my phone, stunned.

  Then I peer down at my boner. Well, Mr. Wales is going to have to wait another hour at the very least.

  In time, my drugged erection’s little pants-party reaches its end, and I can comfortably fit it back into my slacks. My arms slip into my shirt, and I knot my tie back around my neck, staring at my half-freaked-out eyes in the mirror of the messy bathroom I haven’t cleaned yet.

  It feels like my first day all over again.

  Why is he so insistent on speaking to me?

  Brett is still gone by the time I head out, so I leave a note on the counter telling him where I’ve headed off to, then make my way the eleven blocks to the station, hop on the next train, and off I go to the place I said I’d never again step foot in.

  The building greets me with its cold air, filling my lungs and licking my skin. I get on the elevator and stare at my icy reflection on the back of the shiny elevator door.

  Ding.

  I walk down the long, long hall of boardrooms, meeting rooms, and offices. On the way, I pass by Bree, whose nose is buried in a tablet. She glances up briefly, sees me, then stops in place, shocked. I give her a tiny shrug as I go, then proceed onward with her baffled eyes glued to my back.

  I stand in front of Brenda’s desk, just like that first day. She peers up from her computer, and in place of her usual irritable expression, there is only a wistful stare, like a frozen sigh without breath.

  “Hi,” I greet her. “Mr. Wales—”

  “I know. This way,” she directs me, rising from her seat and guiding me down a different hall that we interns never utilize. The walls seem to close in on me the farther down I go, and with every step of my anxious feet, I feel my heart thump louder, as if in competition.

  She opens a door and gestures. I step inside, and then she leaves, closing the door behind me.

  Mr. Wales glances up from his desk. Though I’ve seen his picture on the website and in several interviews, I always assumed they were old mugs. In person, I’m pleasantly surprised to find that he is, indeed, a very handsome man for his age, just like he appears in his photos. He has a full head of deep brown hair, a round face, and plump lips. His eyes are kind as they gaze at me, the way I might picture him looking at a friend who’s come to visit.

  “Mr. Wales,” I greet him.

  “You can call me Irving. After all, I’m not your boss right now, am I? We can talk candidly. Like a pair of men at lunch. Come, take a seat, Connor.”

  I take a seat in the soft, cushioned chair. His desk is cluttered with three laptops and a notebook, all of them opened, plus two stacks of folders.

  At once, Mr. Wales closes each laptop, then folds his hands on the desk and faces me with an unexpectedly warm smile. “You know, Connor, I go way back with Mike, your professor at Wortham Academy of Kansas. Do you still call it WAK, by the way, as in ‘whack’ for fun?”

  I let out a chuckle despite myself. “Yeah.” I clear my throat. “I mean, yes, sir, we do.”

  “
Seriously, no need for formalities. Irving. No ‘sir’ stuff.” He inclines his head toward me. “When Mike recommended you to my program, I have to tell you, I was thrilled. Do you know how long it’s been since he put in a recommendation for one of his most bright, promising students to intern here?”

  I shake my head no. “How long?”

  “Never.” He lifts his eyebrows in response to the surprise on my face, and smiles. “I imagine you know what I’m about to say next. Mike thinks very highly of your ability. From what I’ve heard from Brenda, and what I’ve seen myself, I do as well. Ah, you look surprised,” he says when he notes the look on my face. “Brenda comes off a certain way, and perhaps she seems to be hard on you, but it’s only because she knows you’ve got what it takes.”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  “Keep in mind that I set aside another qualified candidate to make room for you.”

  “I know, sir, but I—”

  “Let me make something else clear to you.” He points at a large, framed certificate on the wall with a bright golden emblem pasted on it—a proud set of wings with a feather pen striking down their center. “Do you see that, right there?”

  I look up. “The Phoebe Wordsmith Honor,” I say, identifying it.

  “Eleven years in a row … until last year.” He sets his hands back on his desk. “Last year was the first time we lost in eleven years. There is a reason, too, a reason I’ve been reluctant to face. We need new blood here at Wales Weekly. We need young perspectives. We need to stay ahead of the stories other publications are putting out there.” He takes a breath. “We need you, Connor.”

  It’s too overwhelming to look him in the eye. I find myself staring at his desk, and the pictures that are set in front of his ornate, chrome desk lamp.

  My eyes settle on one photograph in particular.

  My heart stops.

  He follows my gaze, then smiles. “My wife,” he says. “Twenty-five years, this fall. The time really flies by. Of course, they all say it will, and you doubt it all your life, and then there it goes. Her name’s Liu.” He takes the picture and gazes into it. “I met her on a business trip to Hong Kong.”