by Harley Fox
She begins flipping through the pictures and as she does others crowd around me, also looking at the display screen.
“Hey, is that—”
“Holy shit, that’s the guy.”
“Emily,” I say, not yet believing what I’m seeing. But it’s right there, in front of me. There’s no mistaking what that is.
“We can take this to Merryn,” Emily tells me. “She can help back up our story.”
My stomach drops at the thought of seeing Merryn, but I nod. Emily’s right. It’s the only way.
“Okay,” I call out, looking back around at my Chains. “Who’s up for a little visit to PharmaChem?”
Merryn
My mind is blank as I stare at the road that flows underneath me, my hands on the wheel of the car, the neighborhoods outside slowly getting richer. On the seat next to me sits my purse on top of the signed paper. Even though I’m looking ahead I can still feel it, like an evil omen pulsing beside me. My upper lip curls in a grimace and I keep on driving.
I’m driving back to PharmaChem. There’s nowhere else for me to go. Jake has given up; that much is obvious. He doesn’t want me around and he’s letting go of his shop. Not even attempting to fix it up or anything. Just giving it up.
But then I furrow my brow. Who am I to judge something like that, huh? What exactly am I doing right now? I’m going back to PharmaChem with my tail between my legs. I’m going to give this paper to Will and then I’m going to sit down at my desk and then I’m going to be there for the next forty years of my life.
But even so, what’s the point in worrying about something you just can’t change? A few days ago I would have felt a gigantic weight on my shoulders. Now I just feel nothing. It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore. Up ahead I see the PharmaChem building slowly coming toward me.
When I reach the underground parking lot I turn in. I drive to spot C32 and park the car, and then get out, taking my purse and the paper with me. Dropping the keys off at the booth and not even acknowledging the man in there, I take the elevator back up to my office floor. The metal doors ding open and I step out.
Lindsay’s look of confusion is what hurts my stomach first as I walk past her desk. But I don’t stop to talk to her as I head straight for Will’s office. Knocking twice on the door and walking in, I find Will at his computer typing something up. He looks up as I enter and his eyes drop down to the paper in my hand. He smiles.
“You got it,” he says as I hand the paper over to him. He unfolds it and his eyes skim over it, then he folds it back up. “Very good, Merryn. Very well done. You can hold onto your job for now.”
“Thank you sir,” I say, ignoring the second pain in my stomach. The defeat is obvious in my voice but Will doesn’t seem to mind. He may even be enjoying it.
“We have a meeting in ten minutes,” he tells me. “The Binkman merger. I need all their reports printed out and stapled, ten copies of each.”
“Yes sir.”
“And I think you and Craig should have dinner tonight to celebrate your newly rekindled relationship, don’t you?” He smiles and I suppress the bile in my throat. Then he drops his eyes back to his screen, “Have somewhere picked out for seven o’clock tonight.”
My stomach hurts again but I don’t care. It means nothing to me anymore.
“Yes sir,” I say again and I turn to leave his office, neither of us saying goodbye.
I walk back to my desk and sit down, stowing my purse away. Logging into my computer I navigate to the Binkman files and begin opening the ones they’ll need for the meeting.
But as I complete this task — scroll, double-click … scroll, double-click — I begin to think about the future. My future. Is this really what I want to be doing? All of this, for this company? Comply with the evil things this place has done in order to get ahead? Just lie back and take it all, and not say anything about it to anyone?
I have a degree from college in Social Work. With it I wanted to help people. I wanted to guide them onto their own path and make sure they got there okay.
But who’s guiding me? Who’s helping me figure out my own future? Because if sitting behind this desk, doing things I don’t want to do, turning a blind eye to forged documents and fake claims reports is where my path is taking me … then maybe I need to check in on myself again.
I’m surprised to see that all the documents are open already. I quickly go through and set them all to print. Getting up from my desk I walk over to the printers and my upper lip curls again as I pass by the fake indoor plants, the cubicles with people working mindlessly, helping create drugs that can poison innocent people and destroy their lives in the blink of an eye.
When I reach the printers all three of them are going and I pick up the stapler, getting ready to put the packages together. But then Printer #2 sings me its favorite song and informs me that there’s a toner error again. I breathe out through my nose and open up the front, grasping the toner cartridge carefully and pulling it out before pushing it back in, perhaps a little harder than I should. I close the front cover and press for it to continue.
The error is still there.
What is this company doing to me? I open up the printer again and pull the cartridge out, being sure not to get of that fucking toner on my fingers. I check for jammed paper but of course there’s nothing. Shoving the toner back I close the front cover and press for it to continue but still it gives me the error.
This piece of shit.
Instead of opening the cover, this time I rear my fist back and punch the front of the printer, hearing a crack of cheap plastic as my knuckles collide with it. Still the error persists so I punch it again. And again. And again. Over and over I beat and break this printer. My hand starts to hurt and my knuckles are red and bruised, but I can’t stop. I take out all my anger on this stupid, terrible, manufactured piece of garbage.
By the time almost all the plastic on the front is cracked and the LCD only displays a spiderweb of black goo. The other two printers finish their jobs so I stand there, breathing hard, the knuckles on my hand throbbing. Then, calmly, I pick up the stapler and begin putting together the packages, minus the papers from Printer #2.
Some people look around the corner as I staple the pages together, but nobody says anything to me. They all go back to their work. No words are exchanged. When I finish the last package I square them all together and head over to the meeting room. Through the large windows I can see that the lights are off but people sitting are illuminated by the glow of a projector. I open the door and walk in.
“And in … ah, finally,” Will says as everybody turns to look at me. Up on the projector screen are bar graphs showing annual sales. Craig, controlling the laptop, grins at me but I don’t smile as I begin handing out paper packages. “This is our temp, Merryn,” Will informs the crowd. “She’s just coming to the end of her six-month probation.”
Some people murmur but I just keep walking around, plopping papers down in front of the clients. Noises outside make my ears perk up, but I ignore them.
“Actually Merryn,” Will goes on, “Andrea here mentioned she was feeling kind of thirsty. I think a bottle of water would do, wouldn’t it, Andrea?”
The noises are getting louder and start to sound like voices.
“Yes, water would be wonderful, thank you,” Andrea says, but I’m not paying attention anymore. Muffled yells are getting louder each second I stop handing out packages to look out the window.
Shocked doesn’t describe how I feel when I see Jake, Emily, and half dozen members of the Chains walk into sight, looking completely out of place in this office.
“What in the hell?” Will says as the people swivel in their chairs to see what’s up.
“Oh, fuck,” I hear Craig say. Jake’s looking around, calling my name. Happiness and surprise fill my heart and I can’t stop myself.
“Jake!” I yell, and Jake turns his head to see me. He motions to the gang and they head this way, Emily movin
g quickly on her crutches, her camera draped around her neck.
“Craig—” Will begins.
“Dad, I didn’t—”
But Jake reaches the door and opens it, stepping into the room while the others pile in behind him.
“You can’t be here!” Will yells, but Jake hits the switch on the wall and temporarily blinds everyone as the room floods with harsh light. Jake sweeps his eyes around the room and he freezes when they fall on Craig.
“You!” he says.
“Dad!” Craig shouts.
“Somebody call security!” Will bellows, but Jake reaches behind him and pulls out a gun, pointing it directly at Will’s head. People scream as the rest of the Chains take out their guns too.
“Nobody move!” Jake calls out, and the screams die down as people freeze. Outside I see fellow employees peer out from their cubicles, watching what’s going on. Lindsay’s there and our eyes meet for a moment before Jake speaks again.
“Well well,” he says, staring at Will, keeping the gun trained on him. “If it isn’t The Silver Bullet.”
I blink, looking between Will and Jake. Will doesn’t have his hands up, unlike almost everybody else in the room, but even so he’s not moving.
“Jake?” I ask, and Jake’s eyes flick over to mine for a moment, his gun staying perfectly still. “How do you know Will?”
“Is that his name?” Jake asks with a sneer. “I just know him by his gang name. It’s good to know the history of your rivals, you know.”
“So you must be Jake,” Will says, sounding cocky despite having a gun pointed at his head. “Hmph. I haven’t heard much about you. Sounded like there wasn’t much to tell.”
“And you,” Jake says, turning the gun on Craig. “I hoped you were dead.”
“Craig is Will’s son,” I pipe up, and Jake’s eyes flick back to me before returning. “That’s why he was there. He was following the orders that Will gave out.”
Jake nods, a smile forming on his lips.
“That makes sense.”
“Um, sorry,” Andrea says. “But what exactly is going on?”
“These hooligans are threatening our lives,” Will snarls at her, “and I want someone to CALL SECURITY!” None of my workers move.
“Actually, you might want to hold off on that just yet,” Jake says. “Not unless you want everybody knowing what you — and your son — are involved in.”
An ugly look comes over Craig’s face.
“What are you talking about?” he says. “I’ve never seen you, or these people, in my life.”
“Emily?” Jake says, and Emily comes forward on her crutches. “Can you hook that up to the projector?”
“Sure,” Emily says, and she takes the camera from around her neck and puts it on the table.
“Emily Hawksley,” Jake says to Will. “Recognize the name?”
A flit of recognition comes over Will’s face as he stares at Emily. His upper lip starts to curl and I feel sick.
On the projection screen the bar graph disappears as Emily switches from the laptop to her camera. A moment later a dark image shows up, but it’s difficult to make out.
“Kill the lights,” Jake says, and Mandy reaches over and hits the switch on the wall.
The image instantly becomes clearer, and I can see the front of Jake’s shop at night time. The garage door looks normal and not broken at all. This must be before the fire. At the edge of the picture is a darker arc, down close to the ground, and when Emily begins moving through the pictures the arc turns into a motorcycle tire as two of them slowly come on screen, like a stop-motion movie.
“Now, see if anyone here looks familiar,” Jake says. Everybody’s eyes are on the screen now.
Emily keeps moving forward and two riders appear, one wearing a black leather jacket, the other in a blue dress shirt and slacks. In their hands are two bottles, with a rag sticking out the top of each. They stop in front of the shop and turn their heads to look around. When Emily stops, Craig’s face is very clearly shown on screen.
“Emily had some motion detection set up to try to catch raccoons,” Jake tells the silent room. “But she caught something more than that. Your son, Craig, outside my shop and carrying a Molotov cocktail. Now, I wonder what he’s planning on doing with that?”
Emily flicks forward and Craig is shown taking out a lighter and setting the rag aflame. A bright orange glow fills the middle of the picture. He looks in the garage window, cocks his arm back, and then—
“Stop this!”
Everybody looks over at Will, whose face has become ruddy with anger. He glares down at Craig for a moment before looking up at Jake.
“This is no proof,” he spits. “Amateur photos taken by some gimp girl in the middle of the night? How do I know that person wasn’t wearing a rubber mask in order to frame my son?”
“Yeah!” Craig says, standing up and making the Chains level their guns. “That could be anyone up there! Just who do you think you are—”
Jake suddenly punches Craig in the shoulder and people gasp as Craig shouts with pain and drops back down in his seat. He covers the spot that Jake hit with his hand, but blood is already blossoming out against the cotton. Jake reaches down and tears open Craig’s shirt, revealing a taped patch of gauze, currently leaking blood.
“That,” Jake says as he stands back up, “is the result of a bullet wound. Emily?”
Emily scrolls through the pictures quickly, everybody watching as the first Molotov gets thrown through the garage window and erupts in flame inside. The second man lights his own Molotov and looks like he’s about to throw it, but suddenly their heads whip around.
The hand of the man holding the cocktail seems to explode in blood and everybody gasps. He drops the flaming thing as Craig reaches down and pulls a gun out of his belt. He fires a few times, bright blasts of light showing up on the screen, and the shot man yells and one of the garage door windows shatters apart.
Craig lifts his gun and fires again, but in the next image his shoulder is shoved back by some invisible force as blood sprays out behind him. Emily stops there.
“That would be from me,” Jake says. “My bullet, protecting my shop. The place still burned, but not completely.” He focuses hard on Will. “After this came a fight, at the Bullets’ warehouse. Many of my gang are dead now because of that, and because of what you did.” He turns to Craig. “What both of you did.”
Will looks so angry I think for a moment he’s going to suffer an aneurysm. But finally he opens his mouth and every word he says sounds measured and exact.
“What do you want?” he asks, staring pure hatred up at Jake.
Jake looks down at him, his gun still trained at his head. I see his finger hover over the trigger and I know that if I were in his place, I would get my revenge. And I would do it again and again and again.
But instead Jake says, “A truce,” as he uncocks his gun and lowers it. “No more bloodshed between our gangs. Peace is the only thing that any of us wants, so that’s what I want. Peace.”
Will sneers up at him but doesn’t say anything.
“Or,” Jake goes on, cocking the gun again and pointing it at Will’s head. People gasp. “I could kill you here and now. Take these pictures to the police. Get Craig thrown in jail. Your company would be ruined, as would this empire you’ve built. Each and every member of the Bullets would get taken away.”
Will stares now, his jaw working furiously. But finally he says, “Fine,” and Jake uncocks the gun, lowering it again.
“What about your shop?” Emily asks, looking at her big brother.
“Good point,” Jake says. “I’ll need that paper I signed back, and I also want remuneration for the damages done to my shop.”
Will’s spits out his answer: “Fine.”
And just then, an idea pops into my head:
“And my severance pay!” I shout out, and every head turns to look at me, Jake’s included. “One year’s salary with benefits.” I look ove
r and my eyes lock with Jake’s. “I’m going to need money to start up a new life.”
Jake smiles at me and I smile right back.
“Fine,” comes Will’s voice. “Just leave this place, all of you.”
“Done,” Jake says, and he nods to Mandy. She turns the lights back on as Emily disconnects her camera from the projector. The door opens and the gang begins filing out, back into the office. I see my former co-workers back away and, still standing there, I see Lindsay. Our eyes lock again and I smile at her. She smiles back, and then she turns and disappears.
I look over and Jake is tucking the gun back into his jeans. I walk over to him and he looks at me. When I reach him he’s smiling. That real, unforgettable smile.
“Now that I’m unemployed I’m going to need some way to occupy my time,” I say to him. “Got any suggestions?”
Jake’s smile widens.
“I can think of a few things.”
He grabs my back and pulls me into him. Then he drops down and plants his lips onto mine and we kiss, and as I wrap my own arms around his neck I feel that emptiness inside of me fill up, and I thank my lucky stars that I’ve finally found this man.
Epilogue
This place is starting to look pretty good.
The last few months cleaning up the garage have been tough, scrubbing the smoke out of the ceiling and walls, replacing the work bench, installing the new platform that Jake got using Will’s money. Of course the gang comes by from time to time to help, and Emily’s been doing great finishing work when she visits from her dorm. Even Lindsay has visited a couple of times.
But now it’s finally coming together. Jake and I are alone right now. I sweep up some debris while he fixes a bike, tightening some nuts using his ratchet wrench. I’m wearing some old clothes I don’t mind getting dirty — shorts and a t-shirt. Jake is in his usual white t-shirt with jeans, and every time I look at him I get butterflies in my stomach.
We’ve helped each other a lot these past few months. Jake with his shop, me starting my Social Assistance practice. It wasn’t easy at first, but we made it work. Time and patience, and plenty of teamwork. But I have a mission. I’m going to make this city better; heaven knows it needs it. These people deserve more than a life of crime and violence, or what PharmaChem can give them. They deserve to have the freedom to do what they want.
