by Paul Bagnell
*****
Tom stepped from the hot shower and steadied dripping wet in front of the vanity mirror. A film of steam clouded his view. He cleared the moisture with the palm of his hand with his refined torso reflected back at him. Immediately, he noticed the difference in his muscular classification. Only days ago, he estimated that he was losing a chest and gaining a gut. Now, he looked lean and inhumanly vascular with an overly developed physique that defied a logical explanation. His muscles bulged from beneath his taut skin in mounds and dips that crossed his pecs, abs and thighs. He pulled his dirty-brown hair away from his blue-stressed eyes and slanted closer to his detached duplicate, as if to study his transformed symmetry. “I need to get my vision tested and my hair trimmed,” he promised, and scuffed from the bath.
Luckily, his many suits still hung in the closet. Each appeared worn and tattered, but he, particularly, liked the dark-blue one--the one he’d purchased at a local discount clothing store and the one he’d always worn on Mondays. Today was no exception to his predictable obsession.
He hurried to get ready and left the house. He jumped into his pre-millennium import economy model, parked in the driveway. The vehicle was rusted. Oil leaks and spot-filler indicated that it should be put to rest at the nearest junkyard, but he prayed that tomorrow would bring prosperity into his life and medicate his revolving anxiety. He slapped his vinyl briefcase on the backseat, fumbled the car keys between his swollen fingers, and then clumsily started the vehicle. The smell of burnt oil and trail of blue smoke polluted the morning air. He had never gotten a fine, even though the government strictly enforced the automotive pollution control laws.
The drive to his office job usually lasted a good thirty-five minutes. “I should arrive at my monkey-cage door with a clean 60 seconds to boot,” he moaned and glanced (a force of habit) at his damaged fifty-cent watch.
The inner city was a beehive of business activities. Skyscrapers stilted high into the Seattle skyline; and with each new construction, the structures got more obnoxious and intimidating. It was a magnificent sight but a constant reminder of the unforgiving jungle where he earned his modest living. There, built high into the clouds, the Belk Tower stood structurally invincible and ruled over the ongoing construction like a king wearing reflective gold.
Tom rolled up to the tower’s underground entrance. Today, Joey, the gate attendant, spied into his vehicle for some unknown reason before he lifted the entry barrier, then waved him past. Tom claimed his paid monthly billet and hurried from his vehicle with briefcase in hand in pursuit of the elevator before the doors sealed.
An English gentleman, who worked on floor fifty-four, saw Tom approaching and held open the doors.
“Thanks,” Tom said apologetically.
“You’re welcome, young Bronze,” the older executive said and pushed the button for floor fifty-one, Tom’s floor.
Tom could only guess what numerically scrambled reports Selly required reworked this week while he stared up at the floor‑level indicator lights to avoid small talk conversation with other office acquaintances.
The elevator doors unsealed at L51 and exposed the hallway. Its oak grain walls lined the entire length of the corridor, which led to his current place of employment.
He made his way toward the etched glass doors that read: LANKENBURY, MACKENZIE & MCBRIDLE--ACCOUNTING, AUDITING & TAXATION which spanned the entire width of the office frontage with an abundance of posh and prestige.
Stella, the office receptionist, a well-spoken African American woman with over three decades of business administration expertise, was seated at the frontline workstation, organizing paperwork and weekend voice messages. She noticed Tom and smiled as he entered the office.
The clock that hung on the wall behind her indicated it was exactly eight o’clock.
He was cutting it really close today, he thought, while he greeted her with a cheerful “good morning;” but he had to force a natural smile.
She returned his good-will cheer and continued sorting the messages.
He strode to the right of her control post and headed toward the centre offices; a drone of voices and computer equipment originated from beyond the temporary partitions. His fellow employees, a new breed of young accounting grads, who were attempting to make their mark in the corporate world, anxiously rushed to finish a year-end consolidation deadline for a high-profile multinational organization.
Tom squeezed into his tiny area, a six-by-six cubicle of compressed workspace. His station was adjacent to the computer lab; and from his standard plot, the digital buzz always seemed sharper than anywhere else in the office. He stretched back and gazed up at the ceiling tiles. He counted the number of squares hundreds of times, bringing back a lost memory or an idea, but not today.
Minutes passed as Tom scrutinized the seconds. He hadn’t yet seen Selly this morning. He usually arrived at 8:01 carrying an armload of auditing reports and business outlines for revisions. Maybe he got tied up in the morning traffic or something, Tom thought.
He rested his sober eyes, and complained, “I never slept a wink last night.” The words seemed to roll off his cankered tongue. “Last night had to be the worst sleep I experienced in months,” he mumbled, desperate for sympathy. His self-bitterness was elevated by an indescribable itch that he felt from head to toe.
Selly arrived a few minutes late.
“How’s it going?” Tom asked in a tone to appease his departmental supervisor.
“I’ll need these by the end of the day. If there’s a problem, call me,” Selly said bluntly, as he unloaded the bundle of work on Tom’s desk.
“Sure. I’ll get cracking on them right away,” he replied, and daydreamed in the direction of the papers.
As quickly as Selly had appeared, he vanished - no thank you, no goodbye.
Every day it was the same thankless objective--crank out pounds of client reports, which meant squat. He smelled displeasure all around him--a big, rich firm with little appreciation for his number-crunching talents. He controlled his growing temper by inhaling and exhaling. This technique usually worked; but, today, it was ineffective. A rage was burning within. With clenched jaw, he seethed boyishly. “I destroyed my wonderful marriage for this bland daily grind. Maybe if I slave harder, I’ll be someone important within these walls of hierarchy,” he said, as he chewed the words in his mouth. It was always the same. He was chasing that golden carrot but was always just a hair short of a success.
Again, he stretched back, his head tilted, his eyes locked on the ceiling tiles. This strange ailment, he suspected, was brought on by the dream. What does it mean? The answer was there. He was sure of it. To find it was another matter, but there was something mysterious about this mental imagery--that amplified voice. Who did that voice belong to, and what does it or he or whatever want?
A flood of emotions created a memory flashback from last night’s dream and revealed some sketchy mental details. He remembered the contained fire. The tall trees that meshed together to architect a barricade against the damp wind, the cool soil; and, of course, that blurry figure. It all seemed so strange and out of place with bits of pieces that didn’t fit into any equation. He could feel it. It was calling him, seeking his help. He was mentally baffled.
The untidy stack of financial reports on his desk brought him back to a dismal reality. He hopelessly eyed the two inches of rough textured paper bound in coloured file folders. He retrieved the first on the schedule and stared uncomfortably at it. The force of last night’s alien wave still mentally distressed him.
The telephone rang. He snapped up the receiver. “Bronze speaking.”
“Tom, how are you? It’s Jack Mackenzie,” said the voice with an Americanized Scottish accent.
“Sir, I’m sorry, but I haven’t completed your client’s file,” Tom said, as he searched through the mountain of work in progress.
“That’s perfectly all right,” he said politely. “This morning call concerns another matter.”
“Then, what can I do for you, sir?” Tom replied verbally crippled and defenseless.
“Tom, can you please come to my office? There’s an important matter that I would like to discuss with you,” Mackenzie instructed.
“Yes, sir,” Tom replied slowly. In all the years he’d been there, he was never exclusively called to the founding partner’s office. “I'll be right there, sir.” He broke his uninterested daze from an unaudited statement and hung up the phone. Then, he forced himself from the chair, afraid of the grim news to follow.
He heard Stella laughing as he rounded the corner of her comfortable perch. She appeared to know how to enjoy her stressful environment. Even when things heated up around her, she remained cool and calm.
Mackenzie was the second-most powerful man in the firm. He was one of the three names etched on the glass doors; and he could make or break any employee with just one word, yet he seldom used his gold pen to slay the common dragon. Tom forged onward, barely able to stomach the early-morning stress and annoying butterflies in the pit of his stomach, en route to Mackenzie’s quarters.
The partners’ offices were lavishly installed along the west-side and restricted the spectacular view of the city’s architecture and the hierarchy who dwelled there.
Maybe one day he could have his name assigned to one of those privileged office domains, but Tom wasn’t convinced. He stalled in front of Mackenzie’s place, gulped a mouthful of air, and tapped.
“Come in,” the voice said cheerfully.
“Sir, you wanted to see me?” Tom said in a mousy voice.
“Yes, Tom,” Mackenzie ordered as he moved around to the front of his desk. His motion was strong, like that of a man in his early thirties. In fact, Tom knew that Mackenzie was about fifty-eight years of age and healthy as a horse. The boss stood straight and commanding, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit. His face was smoothly shaved, and he measured more than six-feet-three from head to toe. He brushed his hand across his thick brown hair, an attempt to flatten the mane to one side. “Please, come in. Close the door. Tom, help yourself to a coffee,” he offered in a fatherly tone, and pointed to the credenza.
Tom poured a medium, and sat down. He secretly surveyed the handsome settings, especially Mackenzie’s imperialistic desk. It was genuine Asian mahogany, graced with a hand-carved sculpture, a figurehead mounted on the bow of a seventeen-century warship. The designer walls were dressed with contemporary paintings. Each canvas looked pricey and probably cost more than the average annual income of a typical blue-collar worker.
“Tom, do you like working for our firm?,” Mackenzie asked, in a tone demanding the truth.
“Yes, sir, I’m very happy here,” he replied cocksure, but swallowed his true feelings.
Mackenzie was seated like an emperor behind his desk. He bent forward (his eyes seemed to cut through Tom). “You’re presently working under Selly’s supervision, correct?”
Tom nodded a weak ‘yes’ response.
Mackenzie paused. He seemed to be waiting for a detailed explanation and then continued. “I respect your professional abilities and that’s why I’d appreciate your efforts if you’d accept an assignment working under Celia McBridle’s authority.” He donned his eyeglasses and, seemingly, paged through Tom’s employment history. “One of our largest clients has a major complication.” He removed his wire-rimmed glasses. “They need a keen forensic auditor, like you; but I’m sorry this placement would only be a temporary position.”
“That’s fine with me,” Tom replied convincingly.
“I was considering Steve or Doug, but I figured you and Ms. McBridle would make a better combination.”
“Yes sir.” Tom forced down the chief executive’s bull with a mouthful of hot coffee.
The telephone interrupted their developing conversation.
“Excuse me,” Mackenzie apologized, and fielded the call.
Tom relaxed his puffy eyes and viewed the impressive collection of fine artifacts shelved around the office, including a small but detailed-looking stone sculpture. The configuration consisted of what looked to be men and women huddled together and kneeling at the feet of their male leader. Each appeared to be entranced by the powers of hypnosis, fully under their master’s command. Tom reckoned skilled hands crafted the piece, as it appeared intricately flawless and a one-of-a-kind design.
“Our firm will be contacting you in the near future,” Mackenzie concluded, then hung up the phone. He noticed Tom’s curious interest in the artwork and commented. “I imported it from Central America.”
“Then, I guess it’s a long way from home.”
“Yes, very. Between us, it was illegally excavated from a burial ground near Orange Walk.”
“Belize, Maya civilization once populated those lands.”
“That’s right,” Mackenzie’s eyes brightened, “you know your history and geography.”
Tom sat straighter, an attempt to relax. “It’s a tortured-looking chunk of art.”
“Yes, it is, dark and mysterious. An old, retired fieldworker who sold it to me swore the art piece was dated eight-hundred-plus years, yet it doesn’t look a day over fifty.”
Tom shifted his tense weight in the hard leather chair and got mentally comfortable.
“The old fella babbled on about its cryptic origins and its tribal significance.”
“So, what did the old guy tell you?” Tom asked before putting the coffee mug to his lips and gulping a mouthful.
Mackenzie bent back with disbelieving eyes. “It was said: every thousand years an entity emerges from the outer ridges of existence and possesses a worldly soul. The people of the Svenungo tribe, who roamed Brazil’s rain forests, believed their great leader was the recipient of this special power. Although this man, whose name is undocumented, saved his people from the wrath of death and disease brought on by conflict, was said to be everlasting. Then he disappeared without a trace into the unknown once his work was fully accomplished. Mind you, it’s just an old man’s mental illusion of a cheap wine-induced fairy tale and cast iron sales pitch.”
“It’s a very interesting story, but still, disturbingly haunting for such a tribal hero to remain undiscovered for such a long time–-such a waste.”
“I kind of thought so. But I never purchased the rock based on what the old guy conjured up.”
“Then what influenced such, I can only assume, a risky purchase?”
Mackenzie explained calmly: “We were on our honeymoon cruise, and we came ashore; and I wanted to buy my third wife a nice gift to remember our magic moment together. I saw it, negotiated a cash price; and brought it back to America,” he admitted proudly, “and gave it a home, right there on the shelf,” and pointed to it with a cross finger.
“Your wife must have despised it,” Tom assumed bravely.
“It gave her the sleeping creeps. Now, getting back to the task - the reason I want you for this assignment.” Mackenzie ran his hand across his chin. “Truthfully, Tom, your performance evaluations indicate you perform extremely well under pressure.”
Tom sensed Mackenzie was beating the rug with the cat’s meow or leading to something very distasteful.
“How long have you been employed with our firm - three, four years?” Mackenzie assumed impatiently.
“Five years,” Tom replied unassertively.
Mackenzie rolled full steam ahead. “Well, Tom, do you think you can work with Celia McBridle?”
Tom sat nervously still; then he replied, “Yes sir, I believe that this working relationship can be very productive.”
Mackenzie smiled concerned. “Good, Tom, let’s cut to the chase. Carravecky and Sons Aviation and Space Technologies is our firm’s biggest and most lucrative client.” He was interrupted by another telephone call. “Excuse me, Tom. Hello.” He paused for a moment, just long enough to place his hand over the phone and direct his attention back to Tom. “We’ll talk Tuesday about getting our auditing investigation underway. In the meantime,
I’ll inform Selly that you’ll be working with Ms. McBridle until our objectives are accomplished.”
“Yes sir,” Tom replied, and motioned to shake Mackenzie’s hand; but there was no reciprocated response. He vacated the office and eased the door closed behind him. He breathed a sigh of relief and expelled, “My big break.” At that point it dawned on him as if a light flashed on in his brain that the one thing he was chasing that eluded him for so many years was a successful job, which was now at his fingertips; and he wasn’t about to let it go.
A short walk back and Tom settled behind his wood-grain laminated desk. He fumbled for a pen with one hand and flipped open a file folder with the other.
The fragmented images of last night’s dream raced uncontrollably through his mind. A force ripped at him internally screaming for his undivided attention while it nudged him from his state of depression and toward a state of relief. He wasn’t sure if the feeling was due to Mackenzie’s confidence in his work abilities or the dream. But he knew that he must discover the reason for himself.
The working day was nearing an end, and the reports Selly had requested were completed.
Selly was like a perfectly timed clock. He arrived at five o’clock and picked up the jobs.
“Tommy Bronzers,” Jant said with an exaggerated tone, and ducked into the cubicle.
Tom straightened up when he heard Jant’s voice; the guy’s tone was so annoying.
“The company’s bowling night changed to Wednesday. Are ‘ya’ going or what?” Jant demanded.
“I don’t know,” Tom replied, shrugging his shoulders and pausing in thought, “maybe, but don’t count me in.”
“Be there. Bronzers, you’re the best damn bowler in the office,” Jant praised, then reacted jumpy. “I ‘gotta’ go. I ‘gotta’ beauty queen waiting downstairs. I‘ll see ‘ya’ later, buddy.”
“Yeah sure,” Tom sat back and chilled out, a failed attempt to clear his mind.
The distorted dream imagery still confused him even after twelve hours, a soggy bag lunch, two rolls of antacid tablets, and six cups of black coffee. Something deep in his subconscious was calling him. He felt it. The voice that he had heard was like an extraordinary, thunderous rumble that carried a storm cloud that called: “We will meet again.” The voice was mentally refreshing, but it caused him sadness that emerged from the deepest shadows of his darkest thoughts. He was somehow blessed to be alive, knowing that there was something out there protecting him.
At 5:30 p.m., the dutiful associates leaving the office sounded like that of a drill-march exercise. The brisk flow of loyal foot soles confirmed another day had expired, and it was time to go. Tom straightened up his desk, handled his briefcase, and left for home.
