Truth Hurts

by David Boyle

  He turned the radio dial hoping to find a better station, a momentary diversion. Anything would be better than listening to the always irritating, always ingratiating Claire Daniels, who hadn’t correctly predicted a storm since she acquired the late-night time slot two months ago. Yet the townspeople loved her and her mindless, vacuous chitchat. That she got the job because she was philandering with the son of WRKL’s president only irked Ross more; oh, how he loathed opportunists; how peeved he was that of all times to forecast a storm correctly tonight she miraculously nailed it.

  Minutes passed. Still no service. No sign of a worker. Irritated, Ross tapped his horn—once, twice, thrice. “You gotta be kidding me,” he grumbled, drumming on the steering wheel with his ring-covered fingers. After a short time, the office door opened and out came a man of average height, form-fitting coveralls accentuating a medium build, a wool hat too small to fully cover his wavy chestnut hair, which extended beyond the rim—a rather good-looking young man. The attendant approached the car window and stood in silence, as if unaffected by the pebbly snow battering his body like it was being shot at him.

  Ross stared back, pausing deliberately, waiting for a casual greeting or request for service; but, much to his dissatisfaction and irascibility, the attendant remained silent, his dark brown eyes expressionless. Having waited long enough for the merest utterance, Ross took the initiative. “Fill. Super. Cash.” Then, under his breath, an inaudible utterance.

  The attendant came to life. He grabbed one of the pistols, removed the gas cap, and inserted the nozzle. In the sideview mirror Ross had been watching his every move. He wasn’t about to tolerate anyone possibly damaging his precious car. Though it was a company car, he treated it as though it was his own—typical of Ross. Soon the company he worked for, Baxter & Leffertz, would be his to run, his to take ownership of, his to rename once the partners graciously stepped down. He had been laying the ground-work for more than fifteen years. He had made sacrifices. He had pulled all-nighters, worked weekends, done charity events, left old friends behind, supplanting them with new friends and influential connections. He had made positive impressions on his colleagues and in turn reaped the rewards. Of all the privileges given him, the Lexus was his most cherished. He just wished that this guy pumping his gas wasn’t leaning on it or looking it over the way he was—like it was his property. The attendant secured the nozzle and started back toward the office.

  As the attendant walked away, Ross said in a very low voice, “No wonder you work here,” which prompted the man to pause, pivot, turn his head toward Ross, and clench his jaw. Ross picked up the mints from his console and put one in his mouth. The attendant, having come back to the car, was now standing at the driver’s-side window, his arms folded in front of him, his complexion ruddy, weather-beaten, his lips chapped and cracked.

  “Can I help you?” Ross said sarcastically. “See, that’s how you talk to customers. Not so hard... is it?”

  The attendant ignored Ross’s patronizing comment. “Did you say something to me before? Empty lot. Snow-storm. Voices carry, man.”

  Ross Albert was not about to conceal his disgust, not in a million years. “As a matter of fact I did. I’ll give it to you verbatim—you do know what that means… don’t you?”

  The attendant nodded; he seemed unfazed by Ross’s caustic remark.

  “Good,” said Ross, drawing a breath. “What I said before was ‘No wonder you work here.’”

  The attendant smirked, contemplating a comeback. The sound of a plow-truck scraping the roads cleaved the dense, uncomfortable silence. He rubbed his raw hands together and watched the truck pass through the nearby intersection, where traffic lights blinked a bright crimson, where stranded cars awaited their owners, who wouldn’t be returning anytime soon—not for at least twenty-four hours.

  Ross’s face became stone-cold. “Now please remove that nozzle and I’ll be on my way. Some of us have business to take care of.” Snow was angling in through his open window, pelting him and the interior of his car, compounding his agitation, fanning the competitive fire inside him—an inextinguishable fire. The attendant took his time replacing the nozzle and taking the money.

  Ross shook his head bewilderedly. “Let’s go. My change.”

  As the man made change, he said, “You want to know why I work here, huh?”

  “Not really. Got more important matters.”

  The attendant handed Ross what he owed him. “You know what, jerkoff?”

  Ross Albert’s eyes widened, he bit his bottom lip. A car drove by the station but didn’t turn in. Ross was yielding to a fury he hadn’t experienced since his days at business school, at the hands of the many egotistical frat boys and pranksters who drew immeasurable pleasure from testing his sturdy nerves. Suddenly it seemed as though the cold and the storm had little or no effect on him. Perhaps, for reasons he couldn’t explain, the escalating friction between the two of them had diminished his tolerance.

  The attendant watched the passing car struggling to gain traction and fishtailing as it rounded the corner, disappearing down the desolate road. Focusing his attention elsewhere for the briefest moment gave him the time necessary to assemble the right words and sting his adversary. “You insult my work but don’t have the balls to listen to why I’m stuck like this?”

  Ross powered up his window a few inches. “Listen here, genius, don’t try to sharpshoot me. You’ll lose big time. Nobody’s stuck in life. Go cry on somebody else’s shoulder. Mine aches.”

  The attendant started for the office. When he made it past the grill of the man’s car he stopped and turned. “Hey, suspender man, if you’re man enough to stand face to face with me and get an answer to your question, come into the office. Otherwise, expect a phone call from the owner. I got your plate number. Consider yourself reported.”

  Not a car had come in for a fill up. Ross was the only customer. His advantage since he had one heck of a lambasting in store for this troublemaking kid, another misguided hooligan needing straightening out. How dare he test me. Coming from the aggressive business world and renowned for his poise in the most stressful situations, he rose to the challenge of all the pressure and tension, thrived on facing adversity with steely determination and an unwavering, indomitable spirit. A veteran, he had heard various complaints and grievances and aspersions from clients, not to mention the never-ending tedium of the daily rigmarole: We’ll take our business elsewhere. We’re considering other estimates. We’re not in a rush to make a decision. We’re looking for the best deal. When clients spewed such nonsense during negotiations Ross always stood his ground with professionalism and polish. As a result, he rarely faced defeat. Or lost an argument. Or a debate. Yet even though the attendant meant nothing to him, even though in his mind the kid was merely a speck of dirt in a world of filth and futility, he couldn’t accept his manhood—his prowess—being in question, nor did he care for some halfwit challenging his character, his well-built façade of pride. He pulled his car up to the office, left it running, and got out, huffing tendrils of cold breath.

  The sound of the door chime made the attendant look up from his book. “I see you’re not in a rush after all.”

  “Not the case. I have places to be, smartass. But I’m not about to sidestep a confrontation with a mongrel like you. You wanna get into this, make your move.”

  “Well?” the attendant said.

  “Well, what? Tell me this sob story of yours, Mr. Pumper. Make it fast. Select your words very carefully, or this situation might become something you can’t handle.”

  The attendant folded over the corner of a page and closed the book. Standing up, he leaned against the table where he had been reading. “First of all, my name is Drew. All right? Enough with the insults. The disrespect you show others less fortunate than you is astounding. You really think you’re better than everybody else, don’t you?”

  “Not everybody. Just you—no manners, no professionalism. Which is why you ended up here, no d
oubt. I mean, let’s recount the facts: took you long enough to come outside. Then you play mute. And use vulgarity.”

  Drew motioned to the restroom. “I was in there. I heard you on the horn but couldn’t just get up and run outside. It’s only me here. Nobody wants this shift. It’s cold and miserable tonight.”

  “Convenient answer. I don’t buy it.”

  “Like I give a damn.” Reaching over to a box on a nearby shelf, he pulled out a Milky Way and peeled back the wrapper. “Sorry to be so rude but it’s time for my midnight break. My only break of the night. Not gonna let you ruin that too. This little pick-me-up,” he said, discarding the wrapper, “is my only option. Can’t leave my post. Boss does spot checks.” He unexpectedly held the box out to Ross, who seemed unsure what to do, how to react, if at all. Seething, the last thing he wanted was to accept something from Drew, those hands grease-stained, those knuckles scarred from overexposure to the cold, from the rigors of his work.

  The attendant shook the container of chocolates. “Why so reluctant? What’s the problem? They’re not poisoned.”

  Ross Albert grinned, revealing only his impeccable front teeth. Yet he still seemed caught in a momentary state of indecision; his gaze darted around the room, a look of confusion wrinkling the skin under his deep, saggy sockets. It was as if he was hungry but refused to eat out of sheer spite.

  Drew pulled away the box and placed it on the table beside him. He took a bite of the candy bar and spoke with a mouthful. “Help yourself if the mood strikes.” Chewing, Drew moved the conversation along. “I’m here because I used petty cash to settle a score. There you have it. I got caught, fired, and came under public scrutiny. Got one hell of a bad rap. Doors shut in my face. My friend owns this place so he found it in his heart to take me on until something else comes along.”

  Ross Albert shook his head in stupefaction. “Look, it’s a shame. Sorry. But if you took my money I’d be beyond livid too. I’d crush you like I have so many other sleaze balls that deserved it. I work hard for my cash.”

  Drew tilted his head, suggesting surprise at the man’s apology—a man who most likely never apologized to anyone for anything. Irrespective of this sudden breach of personality, Drew shot back at him. “Everybody says that shit. ‘I work hard for my money.’ It’s so elitist. You’re not the only one who works hard. You wanna switch places? Think this job is easy? Shed that spiffy outfit for these coveralls. We’ll see what you think is hard then. The truth is, I was going to replace the petty cash eventually. Still have to. I just had to retaliate. Right then. Tired of holding in my frustrations, putting my tail between my legs and pretending life’s just dandy when it’s unfair as hell, rigged in favor of the rich, swindlers like you. ”

  “Watch yourself, son. Don’t let the suit and tie fool you. I can handle myself. I’ve got a low tolerance for big-mouths.”

  Drew showed no signs of cowardice. Ross glanced at his fancy watch; Drew noticed this slight vanity and rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you just go? Do us both a favor. You care about nothing and no one. You’re living large. Your pomposity’s nauseating.”

  He loosened his tie. “Who do you think you’re talking to? I tried to reach out to you but the chip on your shoulder’s a bit cumbersome.”

  “Listen, man,” Drew said, grunting, clearing his throat. “You call that ‘reaching out’? I call it being attacked. I want you to hear me out. I want you to really understand why I risked my ass and don’t give a shit anymore. Why I don’t care where I stand in the eyes of others—or in your eyes.”

  Exasperated, Ross exhaled a quick breath. He looked toward the side door of the office. Through the inch-thick panes of glass he saw his car still running, wipers swaying back and forth intermittently, plumes of exhaust smoke swirling in the air and dissipating as the wind swept through the lot in multiple directions. Ross wiped his face, regarded the ceiling. “Listen, Drew, I’m not a shrink. Maybe you should see one. God knows they wouldn’t turn away another lost cause.”

  “What a copout,” Drew said with conviction. “You should’ve seen the look on your face when you said that. So uninterested with problems other than your own. So absorbed in your own shit that lending someone else an ear—understanding their troubles and anxieties—is such a burden. Where’re you going anyway? It’s well past midnight. Your wife’s probably asleep. Used to your long hours at work, I bet, your endless striving, even though you should be—”

  “All right, Drew,” Ross said, the tone of his voice sharp, strong, and urgent. “You…you got my attention. I’ll give you ten minutes, not a second more. I just fail to see what good I can do for you.”

  Drew walked to the corner of the room and grabbed two Milky Ways, one of which he handed to Ross. Drew flashed a smile as Ross accepted the candy bar and sat on the edge of the desk. Drew sat opposite him on a stool. “We’re just two guys shootin’ the shit now. And I gotta ask, what made you take the Milky?”

  “Not sure. Just talk. Not in the mood for twenty questions.”

  “Surprise, surprise.”

  Each unwrapped his bar and began chewing. As Ross swallowed his first bite he appraised the wrapper. “Betsy’s favorite.”

  “Who’s Betsy?”

  “My wife.”

  “How long have you been married?”

  “Thirteen years.” A dramatic pause. “Hey, we’re talking about you here, not me.”

  “See. Even when someone attempts to get a dialogue going, you have an attitude.”

  “Give me a break, will ya? Just get on with it…or I’m off.”

  Drew took another bite. “Five years with a company. A spotless record. Landed them a lot of business.”

  “What exactly do you do?”

  “Building executive. I go out and sell properties to landowners. Develop new construction sites. I’m a developer, in a sense, but mainly the middle-man who does the grunt work.”

  “Got it.”

  “I helped the firm pull in millions a year, for the last three years. My first two years were about average—these things take time.”

  Ross sighed. “Don’t have to tell me how business works,” he said cockily. “I know the deal. Keep going.”

  “Anyway, I asked for a raise. Mind you I hadn’t gotten one in all that time. Owner told me my commissions were more than adequate for my job duties. Above the general average for my years of experience. In the meantime the firm’s growing to unheard-of heights, nailing down jobs left and right, making everybody richer—everybody but me. The clients loved me. I took their calls day and night. Dropped everything at a moment’s notice to keep them satisfied, to keep the money rolling in.”

  Drew stopped talking and stared into the distance, as if pondering a peculiar spot on the wall. Ross looked at him, waiting for him to continue. “That it?”

  Drew shook his head but didn’t resume his story. Unsure of what to do next, Ross tapped the desk with his fingers. “Come on. I charge by the minute.”

  Drew laughed at Ross’s jesting. “Wow. Never thought I’d see that side of you. Didn’t know it existed. Never knew such warmth and humor could be hidden underneath a block of ice.”

  “Knock it off, Drew. Don’t get cross. Let’s wrap it up.”

  Having finished his candy bar, Drew crumpled the wrapper and tossed it playfully into the distant garbage pail, then wiped his hands on his dingy overalls. “So I asked the CEO for a raise or a bump in commission. Anything he could give me. He told me I was getting greedy. Can you believe it?”

  “That’s the way the business world works. That’s the way the world works. It’s not always right...but it’s the reality. The American way. We’re given the choice—acquiesce or be a bulldozer. I’ve always chosen the latter.” He glanced at his car. “And just look at where I am.”

  “And that’s what gets me, man,” Drew said in a raspy voice, shaking his fist. “I’m not a posturing slime. I asked kindly. I never made demands. I eventually got a letter of denial. My girlfriend was p
ulling down OT to help me pay for our apartment. She was trying to get into nursing school. Classes aren’t cheap these days.”

  “Understood.”

  “So this is where I committed career suicide, how I ended up in shambles: I had been given a key to the office. Like I said, I was trusted by everybody. Despite what you’re about to hear, whether you believe it or not, I’m a decent guy. An educated one.”

  “I never judged you, Drew.”

  “Bullshit. But that’s neither here nor there.”

  “You were saying?”

  “Yeah, so I came into the office early one day and snuck some petty cash. A nice wad. I couldn’t help myself. The big man had enough in there to buy a small island, for Christ’s sake; it’s unreal what rich men think of as ‘petty.’ Anyway, I took what I had been owed all along. I gave my girlfriend, Lily, the dough she needed to get into school. Told her I had finally gotten a bonus. Sure, it was a lie, but a well-deserved, well-timed lie. Then I bought a few things for the apartment and put a deposit on an engagement ring for my girl.”

  Ross put his feet up on the desk chair. “But you got caught?”

  “Yes. Some nosy part-timer leaked the info. She was always a bit shady, had taken things from the supply cabinet here and there. Like so many of these desk jockeys who are given too much clout, access to rooms and cabinets and such. A chronic complainer. Always an axe to grind. Snot-nose helped the company seal my fate, and saved her own ass. Even though I had always stuck up for her when her back was against the wall. Then they tossed me—the ‘malcontent,’ they called me.”

  “You’re a thief, Drew. Essentially. That’s what this big speech of yours boils down to. I don’t feel bad for you in the least. I’m unmoved, unswayed in my disregard for you.”

  “Not surprised. People of your stature rarely side with the little guy. You only know how to shit on him, how to make him scratch and claw. Promise him the world but give him a pittance in return.”