The Borrowed Souls: A Novel

by Paul B. Kohler

  “I know I should, but I just didn’t feel like getting fired today. Besides, he’s the department head, and he has his nose buried so far up the VP’s ass, he probably knows Snyder’s eating habits personally.”

  “You know he’s going to keep doing it until you break.”

  “Yeah, I think that’s what he wants. He’s been looking for a reason to get rid of me since day one. You know as well as I do that Pearlman does what Pearlman wants. Isn’t that obvious by the string of hot secretaries he’s had in the short time he’s been here?”

  “You really think so?” he asked.

  “How many other execs take their secretaries—I mean personal assistants—out to lunch four days a week and then are conveniently busy the rest of the afternoon?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

  “But he’s married. I met his wife at the holiday party. They seemed happy together, and she wasn’t terrible to look at herself,” Alan stated.

  “No need to tell me, I was there too,” I agreed. “But because you left early, you missed all the action.”

  “Dammit! How am I just learning about this?” Alan asked.

  “I meant to tell you afterward, but it must have slipped my mind.”

  “Well? What happened?”

  “After you left, the two slowly drifted apart, consuming more champagne than should have been possible. Near the end of the night, his wife was flirting with the head of advertising, and Pearlman was trying to fit his head through the neck of his secretary’s blouse. It would have fit, too, if it weren’t for her still being in it.”

  Alan whistled quietly. “Seriously, how did none of this make it to the water cooler?”

  “Don’t you remember that memo that went out after the party?”

  “‘The dos and don’ts of sex jokes in the workplace’?”

  “No, the other one. It came from Snyder himself.”

  “Ah yes. ‘What happens at company parties stays at company parties.’“

  “Yep. My guess is Pearlman persuaded Snyder to cover his ass with that one.”

  “Pathetic.”

  “I concur. I wholeheartedly concur.”

  “Tell me, Jack, why didn’t you try for the position when Nelson left? You’ve got a master’s degree, and if you ask me, you’re the sharpest person on the floor.”

  “When Nelson was run out of the company, I had no idea the position was open until Pearlman was announced as the new head. Trust me, buddy, I would have given it my best effort if I had been given the opportunity.” I shook my head, wondering just how long I would be Pearlman’s bitch. Hell, I was even Pearlman’s secretary’s bitch.

  “Listen, Alan, I’ve got to get back to work. I’m about to crack this code, and I would like to leave here today having accomplished something,” I said as I turned in to my office.

  “Sure thing. Grab a coffee tomorrow? My treat,” Alan offered generously. It was a pity offering, but it felt genuine just the same.

  “Always take a freebie. Thanks.”

  Alan returned to his office as I sat behind my desk.

  Flipping on the monitor, I began to review the spreadsheets displayed on the screen. I spent the next fifteen minutes trying to reimmerse myself into my project. However, all I could think about was Pearlman and his bastard ways. As I tried to focus on the equations, my mind reviewed, word by word, the conversation with Alan. What he said made sense. I was the brightest man on the floor. And now that I thought about it, I was the only one around here with a master’s degree. I didn’t even think Pearlman had one. I began to wonder if that was his motivation to drive me from the company. Feeling my blood begin to boil, I scoured the thoughts from my mind.

  I returned to the original document on my screen, reading the text and scanning the data for the hundredth time. Flipping from document to document, reading and scanning, I felt like my afternoon was going to be a lost cause. I tried my best to recreate my solution, but all I saw was scrambled gibberish. I sat reviewing the lines of data on the spreadsheet that I felt would produce the elusive solution, hands hovering over the keyboard, ready to input the key as soon as it blossomed in my mind.

  On my third pass, something deep in my cerebral cortex twitched. I blinked and read the last line again. Could it be? Could I have stumbled across it again? I quickly jotted down the quadrant address on a piece of scratch paper and returned my hands to the keyboard. I blinked fast and felt my heart quicken. I was almost there. I scanned the passage once more, and just as I was about to identify the solution without running any computations, the phone rang.

  Snapped back to reality, the solution fluttered away. The phone rang again, and as I contemplated picking it up to tell the caller to go to hell, I calmly pressed the do-not-disturb button on the phone’s base and shut down my computer. Had I known how shitty the rest of my day would be, I would have stayed at my desk.

  With my office now silent, I grabbed my briefcase and headed for the door. I momentarily popped my head into Alan’s office.

  “Hey, Alan. I’m heading out—taking the afternoon off as PTO.”

  “Everything OK?” Alan inquired.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Just need to clear my mind. I’ll see you in the morning. If Pinhead comes looking for me, tell him you haven’t seen me.”

  “Will do,” Alan said, nodding in compliance.

  As I stood waiting for the elevator, I reached into the side pocket of my briefcase to fish out my car keys and found Cyndi’s prescription.

  “Damn,” I mumbled. I had completely forgotten that I promised to pick it up. I glanced at my watch, and as much as I wanted to just get home and forget about the day, it was only a hair past 1:00. I had plenty of time to swing by the pharmacy on the way home.

  Minutes later, I was down in the parking garage. I slid the keys into the ignition and turned it over. Nothing happened. I switched it back to off and tried again. Nothing. No dash lights illuminated, no dome light came on. The car was completely dead.

  “Shit!” I yelled. I felt like punching the dash. I tilted my head back and began to breathe slowly. It had been months since I last visited my therapist, but I recalled some of the tips he taught me to calm myself in moments of great anxiety. Seeing as my whole fucking day was the poster child for all things stress inducing, I practiced a few.

  First, I slowed my breathing to better control my heart rate. Next, I focused on something pleasant: Cyndi, my happy place. I closed my eyes, envisioning her beautiful face in my mind. Finally, I counted backward from twenty, skipping every other number.

  “Twenty, eighteen, sixteen, fourteen, twelve, ten, eight, six, four, two, zero,” I said aloud, breathing deeply in between each number. Surprisingly, I felt much calmer than the moment before. I no longer wanted to junk punch my car or light a match, toss it in the gas tank, and walk away.

  I popped open the glove box, found my roadside assistance number, and dialed it on my cell phone. I explained the situation to the man on the other end of the call, who seemed to think it just needed a jump. He dispatched a driver and said it would be no more than thirty minutes.

  Hanging up, I contemplated walking the dozen blocks to the pharmacy but decided against it. As my luck was going, I would get mugged halfway there and miss the tow-truck driver completely. I might even get run over on the way back, I mused. No, no. I waited, sitting on the hood of my car instead. Besides, it was still sweltering out, and walking nearly a mile on the concrete paths of the city didn’t remotely appeal to me.

  Nearly an hour later, my wait was rewarded by a balding tow-truck driver smelling of stale cigars and burnt motor oil.

  “Darn good to meetcha’,” he said, pumping my hand a little too aggressively. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Darn thing won’t start. I think the battery might be dead, but it just ran a few hours ago,” I explained to the overweight man as he popped the hood.

  “Well, let’s take a look-see,” he said as he leaned in near the engine, scrutinizing every part of the
grease-covered compartment. “Wanna jump in and give it a try?”

  I hopped behind the wheel and turned over the ignition. Nothing happened.

  “Go ahead, try and start it,” the driver said again.

  I turned the ignition back to off and then forward again. Nothing.

  “Are you turning the key all the way over?” he asked impatiently.

  “I am. I tried it several times just as you asked,” I replied, nearing the end of my patience.

  “OK, hold on a sec,” he said as he jiggled some hoses and wires along the side of the engine compartment. As he did so, I could see sparks fly from under the hood, and the dome light came to life.

  “Give it a go,” he hollered, still bent over under the hood.

  I turned the key to start, and the engine roared to life. “Hurray!” I called out in excitement.

  “Looks like you’ve got a frayed wire leading to the starter. I got ‘er fixed for now, but it’ll need replacin’ soon,” said the driver, wiping his hands on a dirty rag hanging out of his side pocket.

  “I’ll get on that this weekend. What do I owe you?” I asked as I shut the hood.

  “Eh, the normal cost for a jump is ninety-five. I really only charge for jumps or tows, but I gotta call this in. Let those that make more than me decide,” he said as he climbed into his tow truck.

  After several more minutes discussing things on his CB, he popped out with his clipboard in hand.

  “Looks like they want me to charge you for the jump anyway. I tried to argue with ‘em that it really wasn’t a jump, but I lost that battle. You got cash or do you wanna put it on a card?”

  “I suppose it makes sense. Here, put it on this,” I said, handing him my personal credit card.

  “Give me a sec. I’ll call it in.” He once again disappeared into the cab of his truck only to reappear moments later. “There seems to be a problem with your card here. Got another to try?”

  I didn’t have the time or the patience for another problem today. “What kind of problem? The card should be paid up and have plenty of room on it.”

  “Don’t know. They jus’ said it was declined,” he replied, standing close enough that I could smell what could either be rotten eggs or incredibly offensive body odor.

  “OK, give this one a try. I know it’s good,” I said, handing him my corporate card. With the awful day I was having, it was the least Pearlman could do for me. Either that or I’d be fired for abusing company resources.

  Five minutes later, the driver returned with a slip for me to sign and a copy of the invoice. I thanked him again, but he wordlessly climbed back into his truck and sped away.

  I jumped into the car and blasted the AC before pulling out into the afternoon traffic. I turned up Eighth Avenue and headed toward the pharmacy. Thankfully, traffic was far less hectic than it was that morning or at lunch. I contemplated leaving early every day, just to avoid the traffic. I chuckled at the far-fetched notion, knowing good and well it would never happen.

  Ten minutes later I pulled into the parking lot of the pharmacy and found the last parking space available. I left the engine running as I went in to pick up Cyndi’s prescription, thinking I would need to call for a jump again otherwise.

  Once inside, I fully understood why the lot was full. There was a line at the pharmacist’s counter much longer than the line for Pearlman’s lunch. I moved to the back of the line and waited. The line moved at a snail’s pace, and if I hadn’t left work early, I would not have stayed. But as it was only 2:45, I had plenty of time.

  Thankfully, another pharmacist opened a second register and half the people in line moved to equalize the wait. The pregnant woman behind me nearly plowed me over to get into the other lane. I graciously stepped aside. Who am I kidding? I let her over there so she would stop bumping into me with her enormous belly. Seriously, don’t people know what personal bubbles are these days?

  With the line reduced by half, I progressed to the counter in no time at all. I handed the prescription over and he entered a few things into the computer. A moment later, he handed it back to me and looked at me quizzically.

  “Uh, I need to see your ID before I can fill this,” he stated.

  I slid my driver’s license across the counter. The clerk compared it to his screen.

  “Hmm. I don’t think I can give you this,” he said with a confused look.

  “Excuse me? You can’t give it to me why?” I asked, trying to hold in my rapidly-approaching anger.

  “Yeah, the prescription is for oxycodone with acetaminophen. That’s a narcotic, and I’m only supposed to give it to the person on the prescription. Your license says you are Jack Duffy, and the prescription’s for Cyndi Duffy.”

  “Ah, I see. Cyndi is my wife. I’m picking it up for her,” I replied as calmly as possible. I could feel my anger inching ever closer to the surface.

  “Like I said, you’re not Cyndi, so I can’t give this to you.”

  “But she’s my wife. See, look at my license. We even have the same address. I don’t see what the problem is here. I’ve picked up prescriptions for her in the past.”

  “The problem? How do I know these pills will even make it to her after I give them to you?” the clerk asked.

  “Listen, Clint,” I stated, reading his name tag, “I’ve had very bad day. If you don’t find a grown-up back there that can help you out with this, I am going to get pissed. In fact, I might even become irate. NOW FIX THIS!” I yelled, attracting the attention of everyone in line as well as the pharmacist at the other counter.

  Clint jumped and took a step back as I barked my orders. He moved to the other pharmacist and the two whispered momentarily. He then disappeared in the stacks of medicines behind them. Moments later, he returned and slid a puffy white envelope across the counter to me along with my driver’s license.

  “Great. What do I owe you?” I asked, relieved not to be thrown out for making a scene.

  “Your insurance covers medication copays,” he replied, then he looked at the person behind me. “Next?”

  I know I shouldn’t have, but I gave Clint the finger as I turned and walked out. It’s the little things that help the day move along.

  When I stepped back outside, it was getting hotter. I looked at my watch and saw that is was now past three. With any luck, I would make it home by three-thirty, two hours before I normally got home. With that amount of time, I should be able to get in a nap and then maybe cook dinner for Cyndi before she got home.

  Chapter 6

  After a few minutes of silence, I looked over to the old man. In addition to the frown lines between his eyes, his eyebrows were now furrowed with concern.

  “Is there something you’re not telling me? You seem to know me, and the recounting of my day hasn’t really . . .”

  “Has not been a surprise to me,” Wilson said, finishing my sentence.

  “How are you doing that?” I asked, slightly annoyed that he seemed to be reading my thoughts.

  “I am reading your thoughts, Mr. Duffy. It sort of comes with the territory of what I do. I can’t read all your thoughts, and not everyone has thoughts that are understandable to me.” He quickly straightened his face and smiled. “It’s nothing to worry about just yet, Mr. Duffy. I think a bit more recitation and everything will become clear. Please continue.”

  Without having a better alternative, I flipped the coin.

  Chapter 6.5

  Fifteen minutes later I pulled into my parking garage. I was happy with myself for making great time despite the heavy traffic. I grabbed my briefcase and jacket and made for the elevator. The ride up was uneventful. I slipped my key into the lock and opened the door.

  When I walked in, the first thing I noticed was that the living room lights were on. Cyndi was usually meticulous about conserving energy and almost always walked around the apartment in the dark. Despite my frequent reminders of her own clumsiness, she still did it nightly.

  Thinking nothing more of it, I h
eaded to the kitchen for something to drink. That’s when I noted the second oddity. Cyndi had left her shoes lying in the middle of the floor, and I spotted a few used plates left on the kitchen counter. My lovely wife must have come home early. Her back pain must have been more severe than she had let on that morning.

  Not wanting to wake her, I tiptoed down the hall and slowly opened the bedroom door. Within seconds I heard the noises.

  Curious, I pushed the door fully ajar. The shades were drawn; the room dark. Despite the dimness, I could see Cyndi in bed, but she certainly wasn’t sleeping. In the shadowy glare from the hallway behind me, I could make out an additional body. I stepped to the side, allowing more of the light to spill across the bed. I could see the shape of not one but two people entwined, covered by the thin bed sheet. The actions I witnessed fully aligned with the sounds emanating from the bed. They were fucking.

  My knees began to weaken beneath me. Frozen and unable to move, all I could do was watch in horror. There I was, standing in the doorway of my bedroom, watching my wife having sex with another man. My chest began to tighten. My breathing quickened. I was horrified, but I couldn’t move.

  I finally forced my legs to move. I slowly backed out into the hallway, pulling the door to its original position. I retraced my steps through the apartment and back out into the corridor. I left the front door open, not caring whether Cyndi knew I had been home or not.

  Chapter 7

  I had no words to describe what I was feeling. The old man cleared his throat, but I paid him no attention. All I could think about was what I had just witnessed—for the second time. Sadness turned to anger. I could feel my soul moving inside me, and I had to do something or else I felt like I would explode. I stood and walked to the edge of the dirt path near the park. From where I stood, I could see the sky grow a shade lighter. Dawn was approaching, and here I was, standing in an unknown park, speaking to a strange man about the most fucked up day I’ve ever had. Cyndi and I used to love sunrises. How ironic, I thought.