It's Called Disturbing

by Buddy Roy Baldry

  “I am trying to protect your family!” Tom shouted into the shards of glass and the terrified children. He was heaving as he shakily made his way to his car. In his peripheral he could see/sense Joe leaving the living room and bounding across the entrance to the front door like a giant homing missile, intent on its target. Tom quickened his step and did not bother with his seatbelt. In his rearview mirror, it could have been Joe, a dark shape throwing shadows as it came under one, two, and a third streetlight. Tom stepped on the gas.

  Tom thought all the way back to the office: “Failure Failure Failure.” He did not control the conversation. He was unable to impart any passion into the spiel. Not only had he blown what should have been an easy sale - everyone at his office agreed that once you were inside the door, it was as good as sealed. Not only this, but throwing a ceramic gnome through someone’s front window was probably not legal. Further, it must be against the ethics code he signed, some clause in that booklet. So, who would want to help him at the office try to secure a follow-up rescue appointment from Joe? Tom drove to the office thinking of quitting, of tearing the place apart, of shitting thin entrails of shit on those bastard’s desks. Or of just sitting in his parking space and staring at the lit-up broken concrete wall until the auto lights went out. Call it karma, call it the plain old typical luck, but Tom could see before he got near the office that another car was parked in his stall. Or rather the place he preferred to park. He would drive home to Eddy instead. Come back to the office in the morning when everyone had time to digest the evening’s events. This way everyone could be in the same room, and the morning reports they were obliged to give would be an opportunity for Tom to tell his side of things. At the morning meeting there was a chart on a whiteboard where Tom would fill in the week’s activity like this:

  Date:

  # of Calls made:

  # of Callbacks:

  # of Appts Bkd:

  # of Appts Sld:

  When asked to explain briefly why the appts. Bkd. was not equal to appts. Sld. (rather, why didn’t they sell every appointment?) most people could write or say the reason: Client had no money, or; very poor health issues, or; will call back. Etc. Tom would have to write: threw ceramic gnome through window. While that may cause more questions, it did put succinctly why the sale did not go through.

  So instead of going to the office Tom took the next ramp all the way around and headed home. Which is where the other police were waiting. The police waiting at his office had parked in his stall at random. Because the RCMP are not stupid men and women it is ironic that some of their success relies on the stupidity of others. They parked a car at his house and another at Joe’s residence, and at his office. Later Tom was to think how spooky it was that the police could track him down that quickly.

  Unfortunately, the officers at Tom’s underestimated his speed at arriving home. They parked their car strategically and one hopped across the boulevard to the Tim Horton’s. Tom was able to get inside his house before the officer in the car realized the vehicle they were waiting for was already parked in the drive. For weeks the officer would be tormented at the RCMP Floor Hockey. He would blanch at the catcalls across the gymnasium, which were not far from the truth, like all caricature: “Ya, Louie, tell ‘em I think I got the suspect’s car.” Others would shout back, almost like a call-and-answer rhyme: “You woulda’ had the suspect if you kept your eyes off your hair.” The officer in question was known for his vanity. He was rather good looking, yet needed always to reassure himself.

  Even now as his partner crawled into the car with the mocha-whatever and a black coffee for him, the officer looked now and then in the side window. He began to see his reflection better. This was how he knew it was getting dark.

  “It’s getting dark,” he said to his partner, “Let’s see if anyone’s home.” They both got out of the car and walked toward Tom and Eddy’s basement entrance. The mannequins swayed indifferently on ropes tied to the ceiling of the floor above.

  Eddy answered the door.

  “Is your father home young man?” the good-looking officer said.

  “What?” Eddy glowered, and the policemen took an involuntary step back.

  “I’m sorry,” The good-looking officer said, regaining composure, “We are looking for Tom Ryder, my name is Const. Coxcomb with the RCMP, and this is Const. Thorpe.”

  “Yeah, I deduced it from your uniforms,” Eddy sneered. She thought she heard Thorpe whisper: “Well, good for you, Nancy Drew.”

  “He just got home and he’s in the shower.” Eddy relaxed her hand on the doorframe and the police took this as a non-verbal signal to enter. She took their entering as a non-verbal signal that she should let them enter.

  “We need to speak with him, would you please get him?”

  Eddy backed all the way to the hall. “Sure.” She frowned. “He’s in the shower. Do you want to sit down?”

  “No, thank you. We will wait.”

  Eddy stumbled down the hall to the bathroom. There was the sound of water running. She rapped three times and hissed: “Tommy!” She twisted the knob and found it open. She hurried inside and closed the door behind her. Tom was in the shower and she sat on the toilet seat, gagging a little. “Tom!”

  “Holy shit! What!” He peaked from behind the shower curtain, his hair wet and dangling; he looked like a floating head. Lost from the mannequins upstairs, maybe. “You scared the shit out of me!”

  “The police are here.” She whispered above the sound of the running water.

  He did not look as surprised as she thought he would. “Really?” he said, breathing a little heavier, “OK. No problem. I’m coming right out.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Eddy said.

  “I’ll be right out.” Tom ushered her out the door and locked it behind her. He quickly dried himself and wrapped the towel around his waist. He stepped into the hall.

  The good-looking officer was peering down toward him from the living room. “Mr. Ryder?” the officer said.

  “Yes.” Tom pointed over his shoulder to the master bedroom, “I was just going to get dressed, give me a minute.”

  “We need to speak with you Mr. Ryder.”

  “I can... let me be right back.” Tom looked in the officer’s eyes, trying to find some reason there, some fair play. He was in a towel, for the love of... He dripped down the hall to the kitchen where the officers stood, the bulk of their dark uniforms blocking most of the light from the table lamp in the living room. Tom turned on the overhead light. Eddy stood just behind Tom, glancing over his shoulder. The good-looking cop seemed to be the one in charge.

  “I know what this is about,” Tom said. “I will come with you if you let me get dressed.”

  “Know what what is all about, Tommy?” Eddy asked.

  “We have had a complaint regarding you, sir,” the good-looking officer said. He was twisting his head around, trying to look at everything in their small apartment at once. “No mirrors,” he commented.

  “I know there was a complaint about me. One of my clients called it in, I’m sure. Listen, can we just do what we have to do. Do I come with you, or...”

  “What is this all about?” Eddy stepped out from around Tom and stood akimbo in front of the two men. “I do not like mirrors, if you have to know,” she said.

  “It’s no problem, it’s just funny, that’s all,” the good-looking officer said.

  “I see my flaws,” Eddy mumbled quickly.

  “I know what you mean.” The good-looking officer knitted his eyebrows together. Eyebrows that, every morning, grew new offshoots to be trimmed. A luscious lawn that grew thick and needed mowing every day, to maintain the overall effect of the garden. Always something in the mirror to make the cop feel unattractive, almost pudgy, shorter than other men. Even though he was pretty good looking.

  There was a long pause between the officer and Eddy. Vanity meets vanity. A thousand compliments shattered by one imagined slight. It was a pause long enou
gh for their emptiness to briefly inhabit one another’s lonely soul, and then retreat, somehow more lost now from having known the kinship. The complete crippling fear of how others see you. Oh, the things to cover the flaws, the cracks in the dykes. Oh, the hair gels. The ex-lax.

  “Excuse me?” Tom said. His hands were held out as though he were already handcuffed. “Should we go?”

  The good-looking officer seemed visibly to shake himself free of a spell while his partner snorted and shook his head. “We just wanted to ask you a few questions and verify a few things, that’s all, Mr. Ryder. No one is under arrest at this present time.”

  But could be soon, Tom thought. He could read straight through RCMP double-speak. “Can we sit down?” the good-looking officer asked.

  The four of them stepped into the living room. Thorpe hovered by the television, thumbs looped through his holster belt. Eddy sat near Tom and the good-looking officer asked for phone numbers and other particulars, writing everything down in a small notebook. When he was through he looked up at Tom and sighed quietly, as though he was ready for Tom’s story but had heard three or four that evening, so please don’t dick around tonight. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  “We had a misunderstanding,” Tom said.

  “Who had a misunderstanding?” Eddy asked, but was looking at the officer for the answer.

  “Start from the beginning, Mr. Ryder.”

  Tom explained about the Life Insurance appointment and the sales method of disturbing the client. The misunderstanding regarding the spare tire analogy, the brief tussle. The gnome through the window.

  “You threw a gnome through the front window?” Eddy shrieked, “what’s a gnome?”

  “One of those ceramic lawn ornaments,” Tom said, shaping his hands into what he hoped was a facsimile of the gnome.

  “Mr. Williams,” the officer glanced down at his notepad, “claims you made very strong implications regarding the death of his children?”

  “What?” Tom opened his eyes in surprise. “No. Oh my God. Of course not. Why would I... oh... wait, Ok, but here’s how it went.” Tom explained the benefits of insurance policies on children, the younger the better. He was speaking plainly, and the officer was nodding his head. Could it be he was merely acknowledging what Tom was saying, or was Tom convincing him of this topic? Why couldn’t he have sounded like this in front of Joe Williams? Uninterrupted and relaxed he realized he knew a lot more about life insurance than he thought he did. After the plausibility of this was settled, Tom moved to more personal information. He does not know what came over him. He has no record with the RCMP for anything. He will pay for the window and the ceramic gnome and make an apology. He will give full-disclosure at work.

  The good-looking officer wrote a little more in his book and then exhaled. “Well, Mr. Ryder, I don’t believe you are a threat to these people. I am officially telling you now to cease all contact with Joe Williams, that includes e-mails or even messages through other people.”

  “Of course not.” Tom bowed his head. Eddy was staring at him and he realized he would have to go through the whole story again for her, even though she was seated right next to him the whole time.

  “Call us when that window is fixed; just leave a message,” the good-looking officer said and handed Tom a business card. He then turned to Eddy and looked at her a beat too long. “And you take care of yourself, ok?” There was a real and gentle concern in his voice.

  “Give me a break,” Thorpe said, already out the door. The good-looking officer left. If he had tipped his hat at the lady it would have been a perfect exit.

  Chapter 8

  Tom could not leave his fingers alone as he sat in the manager’s office at Consumer Life. He picked at the hangnails that his Uncle had warned him he would get one day if he did not care for his hands properly. His Uncle had taught him to push back and trim the cuticles, told him the exact length to cut the nails (1.6mm from the skin, in a neat arc with no discernable edges), showed him what the white clouds underneath the nail meant and how to rectify it, explained the importance of hand cream and the correct brands to buy. His Uncle’s hands, indeed his entire person, was as meticulous as his grocery store. Tom, of course, did not keep up with the upkeep, neglecting its importance. Picking at the skin from his fingers in nervousness now, he regretted his remiss.

  His leg began to bounce involuntarily and to stave off this nervous tick he crossed his legs. He noticed immediately one of his socks was inside out. Quickly he changed his posture, swinging his other leg up and over. This sock was all right but there was something white poking out from beneath the cuff of his pants. Tom surreptitiously smoothed his pant legs down with his left hand while plucking the mysterious object out with his right. It was a dryer sheet, somehow lost and lodged inside the pants after he washed his clothes. It survived three days in the closet, clinging despite the box’s anti-cling claims to the inside of the pants, holding on until the precise moment when Tom could have done without it. It couldn’t have fallen out on his way to work? No, no. Or in his own office while he was dabbing at his brow practicing what he would say to management when called on the carpet for misconduct? Right here, right now was the time it chose to appear and be dealt with. He felt the blood rise to his already reddened face. To cover, he brought the dryer sheet quickly to his nose, hoping the two men seated before him (or rather he before them) would mistake it for a tissue. He blew his nose into the sickly smell of pine trees. This caused him to sneeze three times in rapid succession into the fabric sheet. The fabric sheet now made good on its promise of no-cling, and Tom held the wet rectangle to his side so no one would notice.

  “Tom, these complaints are not something we take lightly,” the manager said gravely. His bulk filled the chair, his arms in his suit looking more like the arms of a plush recliner. The recruitment manager sat near him, just as large, closer to the edge of the desk. Tom shivered in an oversized chair far enough away from the desk so that he felt exposed. “It’s not something we take lightly at all.”

  “That’s right,” the recruitment manager was smiling, “but at the same time, Tom it’s not a big deal. No skin off your nose.”

  “No, that’s not right,” the manager said, “it is a big deal.”

  “No, I know,” the recruitment manager countered, his smile faltering for the manager, but returning for Tom. “What I meant to say is, it’s not something you have to worry about at all, Tom, no skin off your nose at all.”

  “Well,” the manager cleared his throat, “It is something we as a company have to worry about.” He scowled at the recruitment manager and the recruitment manager smiled and nodded.

  Tom squirmed in his seat and held the snot-filled fabric sheet to his thigh. He nearly uncrossed and re-crossed his legs until he remembered the inside out sock that added to his humiliation.

  “I have spoken to Joe Williams directly, both on the phone and in person,” the manager said.

  “A very agreeable fellow,” the recruitment manager said and was ignored.

  “I have never met with a man so angry, and I have certainly never had to deal with such a person so moved as to come down in person,” the manager continued.

  “The man really cares about the well-being of his family,” the recruitment manager said, “and I think you did a bang-up job qualifying him. You get a guy that cares that much about his family and...”

  The manager held one thick palm up to the recruitment manager’s smiling face. “I am sure you have your side of things, Tom, and I would like to give you the opportunity to tell it to us now.”

  “The opportunity,” the recruitment manager mouthed and winked at Tom.

  Tom shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Things got a little out of hand.”

  “Of course.” The recruitment manager nodded sympathetically.

  “There was a misunderstanding,” Tom went on, “things got heated and...”

  “You were assaulted,” the recruitment manager offered
.

  “Sort of, yes,” Tom said.

  “What do you mean assaulted?” the manager pressed. “Did the man hit you?”

  “It was very...” Tom found himself unable to remember the exact sequence of events. His mental continuity escaped him now. He remembered being angry, not scared, the way a victim of assault should feel. Or how he imagined a person would feel.

  “So, you threw a rock through his window? His living room window?” The manager was squinting, his eyes lost in rolls of face fat.

  “It wasn’t a rock.” Tom said quietly, “It was a gnome.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, hell, a gnome? Phht...” The recruitment manager waved a hand in the air dismissively.

  “A garden gnome.” Tom held his hands up in what, to him now, was an exact replica of the ceramic garden gnome from Joe’s yard, complete with red gnome-like toque. “Ceramic,” he said.

  The recruitment manager smiled and nodded, as if impressed. “Clearly self-defence,” He said.

  “Joe has agreed not to press criminal charges as long as his window is paid for and a formal apology is made,” the manager said. “He wants us to fire you.”

  Tom dropped the snotty fabric softener.

  “Here’s the thing: Sam and I have spoken about this,” the manager said, motioning toward the recruitment manager who looked at Tom and winked. “No one is beating down our door trying to get into this sort of career right now.”

  “We’re lucky to have you.” The recruitment manager smiled but the manager’s face did not reflect this sentiment.

  “We don’t want you to see or even contact any new clients,” the manager went on, “you can continue with any existing business you have or have in the works.”

  “All right,” Tom said quietly. He was not fired? Tom thought he could count his existing business on one hand. Perhaps on one finger.

  “There will be an internal investigation of course,” the manager said, and the recruitment manager puckered his lips, closed his eyes and shook his head in a way that said: no skin off your nose.