by Les Zig
I walk through the labyrinth of cubicles. Ronnie’s absent—possibly on a morning break—but Sam’s still there, researching holiday destinations as he smiles and points at me with a cocked finger. My chair is empty, but the computer is on, and the headset sits perched on the headrest of the chair, so possibly they’ve already filled my position.
The door opens before I get to Boyd’s office, so Boyd must’ve been waiting for me. He shows me in to where a lean man who has to be about seventy waits in a chair, hand on the head of his cane, like he’s a king holding a sceptre and presiding over his court. The man’s eyes are heavy lidded, his face craggy, and what remains of his white hair, as well as his sideburns, are outrageously dishevelled. His head turns slowly towards me, and he smirks—this little smirk—like he’s deigning how insignificant I am.
‘Thank you for joining us, August,’ Boyd says, as he closes the door, then leans on his desk between the two of us. ‘Mr Weekes was kind enough to come in a little earlier.’
Which means, obviously, Boyd won’t be able to coach me through the apology, as intended.
‘Kind enough.’ Weekes’s voice isn’t as gruff as it is on the phone. He lifts his cane and pokes it towards me, although whether he’s using it to point at me or he intended to prod me with it but fell short, I don’t know. ‘What’ve you got for me?’ he says.
‘Mr Weekes, I wanted to apologise for my behaviour,’ I say. ‘I was going through a number of personal issues, and you unfortunately happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m sorry. It was unpardonable. And, consequently, I was rightfully dismissed—’
Weekes uncoils from his chair, one hand tightening around the head of his cane, and takes a step towards me. I remain unmoved, too surprised to do anything, but Boyd must see something threatening in it, because he springs up to stand adjacent to us, like a referee overseeing two boxers before a fight.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again.
Weekes is now inches from me, and I expect old man smells—maybe stale nicotine, or one of those heat gels they use for sore muscles and arthritis. But all I smell is coffee, and I notice now how red and pitted and bulbous his nose is—a nose that’s probably seen lots of heavy drinking.
‘It’s okay,’ he says. He lifts his free hand, clamps it on my shoulder. ‘It’s okay.’ He turns to Boyd. ‘I withdraw my complaint. I don’t even want him to lose his job over it. It’s okay.’ He snorts, like we’re sharing a joke. ‘Life can be shit sometimes.’
I nod.
Weekes smiles and now he’s not as formidable or antagonistic or anything and I see him for what he is, imagine his whole life—he’s just some old guy who lives alone, his wife has died, his kids have little to do with him, and he’s become lonely and embittered, so he lashes out. Maybe every time the phone rings, he expects it’ll be his kids. Of course, I could be wrong, but the profile seems so fitting.
I see myself in him—a possible future if I’m not careful, and it assures me I’ve made the right choice. Bobby can accept me as his father. Lisa and I can have more kids. We can build a future. I was a great salesman at Carpet Duke. Maybe what I was meant to learn from all this was not to take things for granted, to accept the good in my life and build on it. That feels right. I don’t know if it is. But, standing here, I know I don’t want to end up like Weekes—old, alone, and bitter.
The craggy lines in his face smooth out and the stiffness seeps from his posture. ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ he says. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
He’s amazingly spry given his age and the cane, and turns on his heel, opens the door and strides out, leaving me to gape at Boyd.
‘We’re actually about to cut back,’ Boyd says. ‘So the job thing—’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got something else,’ I say.
Now Boyd claps me on the shoulder—everybody’s doing this like I need shoring up. ‘No going backwards, huh?’ he says. ‘That’s the way!’
He shakes my hand, sees me out, and I plod back across the floor. Somebody is in my chair, a pimply kid possibly straight out of school. Sam’s checking out another holiday destination on his computer—it’s not something beach related now, but I see festivals and people and, above that, the heading ‘New Orleans’. He nods at me, then holds up a hand.
‘Wait up!’ he says, bouncing out of his chair. ‘There’s a travel agent down the road, isn’t there?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I think there is,’ Sam says, as we make our way to the elevator.
‘My sister’s partner is a travel agent if you want me to give you her number.’
‘I need to book this now—I’ve confused myself with so many destinations, I’m going to pick a place and go.’
The elevator doors open to Ronnie leaning against the back wall of the elevator. He straightens when he sees me, and throws his arms out.
‘There you are!’ he says.
‘Here I am.’
‘The guy you were meant to apologise to came early,’ Ronnie says. ‘Boyd sent me to intercept you, to warn you, so you weren’t caught unaware. I guess you were coming up as I was going down.’
The doors begin to close. Sam thrusts his hand out to stop them.
‘Ronnie?’ Sam says. ‘You getting out?’
‘Let them go—I’ll ride it down,’ Ronnie says. ‘So how’d the apology go?’
‘It was good.’
‘Shame,’ Ronnie says. ‘That was an inspirational moment. Everybody talked about it for days—I think a few of the others were tempted to go for it.’
‘It’s probably not the way to go.’
‘No, probably not.’
The doors jangle closed and the elevator screeches as it starts its descent.
‘What about you?’ Ronnie asks Sam. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘Travel agent.’
‘Finally taking that trip?’
‘Finally. It’ll be just you on your own now—unless you summon the nerve to ask Suzi out.’
‘Suzi? Nah. She’s interested in you.’
‘She’s not.’
‘She is.’
‘She’s not.’
‘She is.’
‘She’s not—’
‘She is—’
The elevator reaches the ground floor. The doors clank open as Ronnie and Sam go back and forth several more times, quickening in pace and urgency. I lean against the jamb of the doorway, so the elevator doors can’t attempt to close.
‘She’s not,’ Sam says.
‘She was all over you at my birthday,’ Ronnie says.
‘She’s not interested in me.’
‘She is—’
‘Ronnie, I’m gay.’
It’s very calm—a matter-of-fact statement. Ronnie gapes at him, and silence fills the elevator. Then Ronnie throws back his head and laughs.
‘Okay, great, good one! I was wondering how far you were going to push—’
Grabbing Ronnie’s face between both his hands, Sam kisses him—it’s not a peck either, or a case of inanimately pressing lips together. I see the tip of Sam’s tongue run across the seam of Ronnie’s mouth. For a moment, Ronnie kisses him back, but then clamps his lips shut. Sam pulls his head back and laughs. Still in Sam’s grip, Ronnie shakes his head.
‘Nope, does nothing for me,’ he says.
‘Maybe you’ll come around.’
Ronnie gives one more slow shake of his head as Sam releases him. ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’
Sam takes one step out of the elevator. ‘Is it your business?’ he asks.
‘Good point.’
‘You should try it, given how terrible you are with the ladies.’
‘I’m not that terrible.’
‘Sleazing around, watching porn, objectifying women.’
‘Me?’
‘You.’
‘I’m not that bad, am I?’
‘You’re a little bit bad.’
Ronnie hmphs, like it’s something he’s never realis
ed.
‘Come over to our side, be terrible with the men—equal opportunity and all.’
‘No …’
‘Then you know what you need to do.’ Sam backs out of the elevator. ‘I’m going to book this trip—finally!’
‘What about work?’ Ronnie says.
‘They don’t need me,’ Sam says. ‘They’re cutting back. Ask Suzi out or I’m coming after you.’
‘I’ll—’
‘The only response I’ll accept is “I will”.’ Sam walks towards the doors to the building. He throws a hand up and calls back over his shoulder, ‘See ya later!’
‘I didn’t expect that,’ Ronnie says.
‘No,’ I say.
‘You think I should?’
‘Become gay?’
‘No! Ask Suzi out,’ Ronnie says.
‘Why not? What’s the worst that can happen?’
‘You’re right.’ Ronnie rubs his hands together. ‘First thing I’m gonna do when I get back up there. Where are you off to now? You find another job?’
‘Yep.’
‘That was quick. Where?’
‘Carpet Duke.’
‘No shit?’
‘No shit.’
‘You must like selling carpet,’ Ronnie says.
‘I’m good at it.’
‘I’m good at watching porn.’
‘That’s not a career choice.’
‘I think there’s a lesson in that.’
The doors to the building open and a couple of people enter and hurry for the elevator.
‘I gotta go,’ I say.
Ronnie offers his hand for a handshake, and when I begin to reciprocate, he throws his arms around me and hugs me. ‘We’ll do something,’ he says, when we break apart. ‘Marathon or something.’
‘Sure,’ I say, sidestepping the people who enter the elevator as I step out.
‘Wish me luck,’ Ronnie says as the doors close.
‘With …?’ I say, then—once the doors have closed—connect that sentiment to asking Suzi out. ‘Good luck,’ I say, then leave the building.
The train arrives just as I get to the station, and the ride home is peaceful. When the train pulls into my stop, I get off, but instead of turning for home, I turn the other way so I can begin the trek to Carpet Duke. My book grows heavier and heavier in my right hand, until I almost contemplate ditching it in a bin I pass. Instead, I walk faster.
The Carpet Duke is big, like a warehouse, and dark, since it has only a few windows, and is otherwise illuminated by dangling bulbs that sway when the door’s opened. The moment I enter, the stench of carpet hits me, so thick it’s like walking through a spider’s web. Dust mites float through the air. Carpet samples are arrayed on shelves and across the floor, the way you scatter jigsaw pieces before you try to solve the puzzle. People are silhouettes, some browsing, although one leaves a small cluster and rushes towards me—by her size and her belligerent strut, she’s recognisable immediately as Lisa, smartly dressed in slacks and a blazer.
She purses her lips and when I don’t respond, kisses me on the cheek. ‘What’s that?’ Her eyes fix on my book, which I hold pressed to my left hip. She grabs it from me, and flips it so she can read the cover. ‘Why’d you bring this?’
‘I told you I had a meeting about it,’ I say. ‘I didn’t have anywhere to put it.’
She thrusts it back into my hands, then strokes my hair. ‘We’re going to have to do something about this,’ she says, as she urges me to follow her. ‘For today, at least, tie it up.’ She pulls a black scrunchie from her pocket. ‘This will have to do—for now.’
Lisa holds my wrist just before we reach the cluster of people she’d broken away from. Her dad, Titus, is talking to a young couple: married—you can always tell by the wife’s rapt concentration, interested in anything and everything being said, while the husband looks on blankly, his shoulders slumped, resigned to a day of shopping when he’d probably prefer to do anything but.
They nod mutely as Titus extols the virtues of nylon, polyester, polypropylene, and wool carpets, his hands clasped behind his back, his smile doing nothing to alleviate the hardness in his face, or bring any warmth to his flinty eyes.
‘Excuse me a moment,’ he says to the young couple, and heads towards Lisa and me.
I shove my book between my knees and tie my hair back with Lisa’s scrunchie, locks of hair falling across my face.
Titus reaches us and throws out a hand. ‘August.’
I simultaneously retrieve my book with my left hand while I reach towards Titus with my right. Although his hand is thin and bony, his handshake is—as it always has been—crushing, and he rotates his hand so that it’s in the upper position.
‘I wasn’t aware you worked in this store,’ I say.
‘I move from store to store,’ he says. ‘But I had to come in today to welcome you back into the fold.’ His focus locks onto my book. ‘What’s that?’
‘Don’t worry about that, Dad,’ Lisa says. ‘It’s nothing.’
Titus pushes one of the errant locks that has fallen over my eyes clear with two fingers. ‘We’re going to have to do something about this. Why’d you grow it?’
‘He was working in a call centre, Dad,’ Lisa says. ‘Presentation wasn’t important.’
‘Presentation is always important,’ Titus says. ‘Can we get that trimmed maybe?’
‘Now?’ I ask.
‘Excuse me!’ This comes from the wife. ‘We have a question about the wool carpet.’
Titus waves dismissively at my long hair. ‘Do something about that, okay?’ He strides back over to the couple.
‘I just walked in the door,’ I say.
‘You know Dad,’ Lisa says.
‘It’s just hair.’
Lisa tugs at my ponytail and grimaces, like she got a bad taste of something in her mouth. ‘You’re not a teenager anymore.’
‘I never had long hair as a teenager.’
‘I mean you have responsibilities now. You’re an adult.’
‘Lisa?’ Titus calls. He and the couple are perusing several carpets. ‘We need a woman’s opinion.’
Lisa leaves without another word, and in no time she’s advising the couple on her preferences. The wife nods, although the husband is stoic. Lisa says something—must be a joke; the wife laughs. The husband smiles, but I can see he’s not buying Lisa’s spiel. His shoulders come up. He’s taken offence at something—it mightn’t even be anything Lisa’s said, but that she’s deigned to speak with authority about what would be best for them. The men always hate being told what they should buy. The wife nudges him, as if trying to elicit his interest. He rolls his eyes. The wife scowls at him. Lisa shifts uncomfortably.
Whatever the job, if you’re to be successful you need to read people, to gauge their attitude and their needs and come at them accordingly. As confused as I’ve become over the last year (and more), one overriding certainty hits me: I could walk over there and make this sale.
But the certainty burns into a new truth that fires me into a complete unknown, and I stand there in the Carpet Duke, with my mouth hanging wide open, massaging my chest and panicked that I’m going to pass out.
I project the present and future for this couple—they argue more than they should. The initial attraction that got them together has grown sedate, and now differences are cropping up. She forces him to go shopping. He’s resentful. They clash. Now I see Weekes again, embittered not because he’s alone, but because he’s a victim of a loveless marriage, one that might’ve begun hopefully but withered, and now he wakes every morning, progressively questioning what he’s doing, but trapped by choices he feels are unalterable.
None of this might be true—in fact, my certainty is that it isn’t. These extrapolations are never accurate. They’re manifestations of my imagination, and my imagination is often a filter for an interpretation of how I’m feeling and what I’ve gone through as I try to make sense of my feelings.
I’
m not seeing this couple, or Weekes.
I’m seeing me.
Picking up a small braided, oval throw rug, I place it over my head, so that its ends drape over my shoulders. It scratches my scalp, and the weight of it hurts my neck as I approach Lisa, her dad, and the couple.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Titus says.
‘August!’ Lisa says.
The couple look at me wide eyed.
‘You told me to do something about my hair,’ I say.
Lisa and Titus exchange frowns.
‘And now I know what you’re thinking,’ I say. ‘You’re thinking, Is he? Or isn’t he? You may not be able to tell, but I’m wearing a rug.’
The husband of the couple bellows with laughter, and even his wife hides a small smile behind her hand. Titus’s face grows red, and the veins in his neck bulge. Lisa grabs my wrist and yanks me away so hard that the rug falls from my head. She doesn’t stop yanking until we’re outside.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she asks.
‘I am fucking crazy,’ I say.
‘Yes, you are, you are very fucking crazy.’
‘It really just hit me,’ I say. ‘What am I doing here?’
‘What do you mean, what are you doing here?’
‘You cheated on me, you gave another man the son who should’ve been mine, you toss me out, and now I’m back here I’ve got to win you and your dad’s approval when it’s something I’m never gonna get because you two are incapable of giving it to anybody—other than yourselves.’
‘You ungrateful—’
‘Me? Ungrateful? Me? I think this might be it for us.’
‘You think this—’
But I’m already walking. Like Sam with his holiday. Or Ronnie asking Suzi out. And with Boyd’s words in my ears: No going backwards, huh?
‘How dare you!’ Lisa calls after me. ‘How dare you!’
I keep walking into an unknown future.
29
On the walk home, I ring Julie as Don’s words echo through my head: We treated her horribly, I’m afraid. He wasn’t referring to me specifically, but he may as well have. I handled her no differently than Don did, than everybody did, when she was the one person who accepted me unconditionally.
The phone doesn’t connect, so I try again. Same result. I should go around to her place, although I don’t know what I’ll say. What can I say? This might all be some romantic notion, fuelled by what happened with Lisa. Maybe I’ll see Julie, and it’ll be the same as it was last time I saw her. The truth could be that I have to find my own way alone and this is some misguided attachment, the way I attached to Lisa.
