by Brian Bakos
***
Beamon never actually saw the Personnel Enhancement team in action; they did bring results, though, just as promised. Two days after the phone call, a new secretary was seated at the workstation outside Beamon’s office when he arrived for work.
It was past 10:00 a.m. already. Beamon had been told during the phone call that it would be “advisable” if he showed up a bit late the rest of the week.
The new man looked up from his computer monitor. His fingers ceased their rapid pounding on the keyboard.
“Good morning, sir,” he said.
He got to his feet. The guy was very much in the Vince mold – tall, thin, impassive. He had blond hair, though, which made him look rather boyish.
“Where’s Vince?” Beamon asked.
“He’s been assigned other duties,” the secretary replied. “My name is Max, sir. I hope you’ll find my performance to be satisfactory.”
Beamon pondered the unexpected turn of events. Vince hadn’t said anything about leaving his post, and Beamon felt oddly violated. He should have received at least a day’s notice. Then Max worsened the situation.
“You have a visitor in your office,” he said.
“What?” Beamon cried. “Nobody’s allowed in there without my permission.”
“I am aware of that, sir,” Max replied, “but it seemed ... advisable to make an exception.”
“Advisable?”
“Please forgive me if I have made an error,” Max said. “He has only been there a few moments, though. He came just before your arrival.”
Beamon looked apprehensively toward the closed door. Who the hell could be inside his office – some big shot from the 40th floor bearing a hatchet? Was this the day Beamon would finally get his walking papers? All the anger drained out of him, replaced by cold dread.
“Very well, Max,” he mumbled, “carry on.”
“Yes sir.”
Max resumed his seat and began typing rapidly again. The staccato noise accompanied Beamon as he approached his office. How many thousands of times had he walked through this heavy wooden door? Always his office had seemed a refuge, a private space where he could gather his wits. Now it beckoned to him like a torture chamber.
He turned the knob and stepped inside. Jerry McConville looked from the desk.
“Jerry!” Beamon cried, “what the ... ”
The expression on McConville’s face silenced him – it was a combination of hate, loathing, and terror. McConville had been writing something. He threw his pen down and rose from the chair like a grotesque genii ascending from its lamp.
Beamon stepped back as McConville rushed toward him, fearful of getting knocked over. But the younger man only brushed his shoulder on his headlong retreat from the office.
Max appeared and politely closed the door, leaving Beamon alone with his astonishment. Beamon crossed the room to his desk. Upon it lay a hand-written note:
I quit.
Jerry McConville
Beamon sank into his big leather chair, too stunned to comprehend what was happening. Then a bright ray of sunshine made its way through the grimy window and illuminated his world.
He remained in this pose for nearly two hours, turning over in his mind the glorious prospect of life without Jerry McConville. No more disrespect, no more wondering when the next blow would fall. No more knot in the stomach when he encountered the guy
Those Personnel Enhancement folks certainly know their stuff! he gloated.
Exactly what had prompted that mixture of extreme emotions on McConville’s face was another matter – one that Beamon did not wish to contemplate over much. He’d paid good money, and he was getting good service; that’s all that counted.
By noon, he felt the urge for a beer. Ordinarily, he didn’t drink and seldom went out for lunch, preferring to wolf down food at his desk. But today called for celebrating.
He exited his office to find Max still working intently at his computer.
“Not taking a lunch break?” Beamon asked.
Max swiveled his direction.
“I’m just straightening out a few issues, sir,” he said. “Perhaps I can take a break later this afternoon?”
“Certainly,” Beamon said.
He headed toward the elevator bank and pressed the Down button. An elevator began rising from the lobby while, simultaneously, another one started wending its way down from the 40th floor – the ‘Brass Hat’ floor where the CEO and the other mucky mucks had their suites.
They must be headed for the club, he thought rancorously, big ass three martini lunch!
He shied away from the descending elevator door, unwilling to take the chance of meeting somebody from the upper echelon. But there was little possibility of that. Those guys had special keys that allowed them express trips to the lobby, avoiding the underling floors.
So, it was with considerable surprise that Beamon observed the descending elevator stop, and even greater surprise when he saw Vince emerge from it alone.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Beamon,” Vince said. “I trust things are going well for you?”
“Uh ... yeah, quite well,” Beamon said.
A second elevator door popped open, and Beamon retreated inside.
