Termination Man

by Edward Trimnell

  This told Shawn that the previous managers had indeed been gullible. (What else could you expect from a management team that had ultimately failed to maintain the profitability of the company?) He told himself that while he might struggle with little details like the inventory report, he was quite capable of seeing through the facades of two ungrateful, duplicitous employees.

  Once again, he had proven his ability to grasp the big picture.

  Chapter 10

  Later that afternoon, the old man summoned Shawn to a private meeting. And what did he want to talk about? The inventory report, of course. And the monthly meeting.

  Staring into his father’s face, Shawn felt himself undergo a process of age regression. He was no longer a grown man well past the age of thirty. He was a boy of ten, who had come home from an expensive private boarding school with a report card that contained Cs, Ds, and a few Fs.

  He was a sixteen-year-old boy who had been arrested after driving an expensive sports car through the display window of a store. Luckily, the store had been closed at the time. But when the police had picked Shawn up, his blood alcohol level had been twice the legal limit.

  And finally, he was a young man who had lost his temper while away at college, and committed some horrible acts. Acts that had to be cleaned up by Bernie Chapman.

  Shawn forced himself to discard these old memories. He was a grown man now, after all, and this was only the fucking monthly meeting that they were talking about. It was no big deal.

  “The monthly meeting is a big deal,” Kurt corrected him. “Everyone will be watching you. I hope I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “Of course, Dad. I understand.”

  “I hope you do, son. Because otherwise you’ll make an ass out of yourself.”

  “I won’t—”

  “And me,” Kurt added.

  “I’m working on it, Dad. But the problem—or the problems, I should say—are Alan Ferguson and Lucy Browning. They seem determined to sabotage me every step of the way.”

  Kurt shook his head and let out a long breath of air. This was the old man’s standard gesture for conveying a combination of frustration and contempt.

  “It’s just an inventory report, son. The report is generated from a central database, using shared data from production, purchasing, and accounting. You’ve been to college. You should be able to figure this out.”

  “I will, Dad.”

  “Then get on it.” Kurt stood up, ending this little father-son conference. “I’ve got another meeting to attend. I expect you to come through for me, Shawn. Don’t let me down.”

  Don’t let me down.

  His father’s words echoed in his mind as he watched the sun set across the stark Ohio countryside beyond the grounds of the UP&S facility. The wall-to-wall windows of the front half of the building afforded a panoramic view. Not that there was much to see out there.

  It was a little past 6:00 p.m. He was still at his desk. On the other side of the room, Lucy Browning stood up and prepared to leave for the day. She studiously avoided looking in his direction.

  But he looked at her.

  For a moment he let his eyes linger on Lucy Browning’s body: Her full bosom, her meaty thighs. He imagined what it would be like to throw her across her desk, and take her roughly—in a way that would teach her for once and for all that he was the boss and she was the subordinate. But he abandoned the fantasy almost as soon as it fully took shape in his mind. Lucy Browning was too plump and too old to interest him in such a way.

  There was something delightfully masochistic about watching Lucy Browning from behind as she made her way out of the office area. There was, he supposed, a reason for the existence of such uninteresting, bovine women: they provided a contrast to the ones that actually interested him.

  That sudden association caused a wave of heat to move through his loins. Suddenly the inventory report and his troubles with annoying subordinates were bearable, because he had something to look forward to: Tonight, yes, she would be coming. She was the only reason that he had chosen to linger at his desk past six o’clock.

  As if on cue, the voice of his father disturbed his reverie:

  “Working late tonight, Shawn?”

  Shawn bolted upright, startled. It was as if his father had caught him in the act of some minor infraction. But he knew this was silly: His father would have no idea of what was actually on his mind.

  Shawn did his best to affect a casual tone. “I think I’ll hang out here for a little while longer,” he said. “I want to be ready for the monthly meeting at headquarters next week.”

  His father gave him an approving nod. Shawn could remember the days—not so long ago—when such a gesture from his father was practically unknown to him. Nowadays the old man mostly regarded him with cautious approval. Yes, there were still lots of questions; the old man still felt compelled to constantly double-check him. But the dark days were behind him now, behind them both.

  He watched his father disappear around a bend in the hallway, toward the main exit. After making one quick glance to be sure that he was still alone, he tapped a series of keys on his computer. He minimized the screen that contained a PDF copy of the inventory report, and launched Internet Explorer. He typed in the address of a website that specialized in the pictures of “barely legal” nude models.

  They were billed as “barely legal,” but Shawn suspected that some of them were well into their mid-twenties, and a few might even be over thirty. The women on the site appeared in various stages of undress—and always with the accoutrements of adolescence and the teen years: cheerleading outfits, pom-poms, and (of course) the plaid skirts of Catholic schoolgirls.

  The site was a sham, a fake, of course—another ploy to exploit his male desires for a few dollars. This site charged a subscription fee of twenty-five dollars per month. This amounted to pennies—less than pennies—given his salary. Nevertheless, there was something about the phony schoolgirls that seemed to mock him—as if the owners of the site believed that he—like all other men—was hopelessly gullible.

  His mood was brightened by a sole realization: That he had no intention of contenting himself with the nude photos of a few Russian and Ukrainian models (who were probably moonlighting prostitutes in real life).

  What he wanted was a far less worldly girl who could be defiled for the first time—one who would give her innocence to him, and him alone.

  He took another look at the panoply of fake schoolgirls presented to him on the computer screen, suddenly feeling a bit less resentful about the scale of the fraud that was being perpetrated against him on the website. True, these schoolgirls were fakes; but he was only a dupe if he failed to grasp their fundamental falsehood, if he contented himself with mere images. And Shawn Myers, he told himself, was nobody’s dupe, especially when it came to matters such as this.

  He leaned back in his chair, smiling contentedly at the fraudulent portraits of innocence.

  The genuine article would be delivered to him soon enough.

  Chapter 11

  Maybe he will not be working late tonight, 15-year-old Alyssa Chalmers thought. Maybe I won’t have to see him.

  Even more important, maybe he won’t see me.

  She knew that this was a futile hope. She knew that he would be there. He was almost always there, wasn’t he? After all, he worked there. He belonged there.

  The clock on Alyssa Chalmers’ nightstand read 6:04 p.m. She was seated on her bed, leaned back against the headboard with a pillow propped behind the small of her back. She held her algebra textbook open in her lap. While she reviewed the formula for creating quadratic equations, she listened to music through the ear buds of her iPod.

  She found it difficult to get thoughts of Shawn Myers out of her mind. Men—or boys, more accurately—had sometimes preoccupied her before. Usually these preoccupations were at least somewhat pleasant, even if they were mixed with feelings that were confusing.

  But Shawn Myers was occupying
her mind in a very unpleasant way. How old was he? Probably over thirty. Twice her age, at least.

  Alyssa Chalmers was a sophomore in high school. She was slight of build, with long, dark hair that she usually wore in a simple ponytail. Most of her classmates would have described her as shy. Alyssa didn’t like this word; she preferred to think of herself as introspective.

  Now there is a word that the average student at New Hastings High School wouldn’t even recognize, let alone use, she thought with more than a trace of self-satisfaction. Alyssa got A’s in English, and in most of her other courses, as well.

  Her best friend (well, really her only friend at New Hastings High School) sometimes chided her for being such a bookish egghead.

  “Guys don't like nerdy chicks,” Tiffany Campbell had told her on more than one occasion. “They like girls who are just smart enough.”

  This conversational thread usually included a segue into the social preferences of New Hastings’ popular girls—who were divided into two main sets: The first group consisted of the more polished girls who dominated cheerleading, student council, and volleyball. And then there were the edgier ones who experimented with black nail polish, tattoos, and multiple body piercings. Tiffany consistently pointed out that neither of these groups was particularly fond of girls who were conspicuously studious.

  “You’ve gotta talk more,” Tiffany would tell her. “Laugh a little. Instead of hanging by yourself and clamming up all the time. Quit being such an introvert.”

  Tiffany always uttered this last word as if it were a curse: introvert. Alyssa knew the word’s meaning: an introvert is a person who quickly becomes overwhelmed in noisy, fast-paced situations. Introverts don’t like small talk and superficial chitchat. They find such random, fleeting interactions to be draining rather than enlivening.

  Alyssa supposed that she was an introvert: She didn’t like the boisterous, inebriated crowd scenes that were the mainstay of high school parties. Her mind went blank when placed in the middle of a loud, rambling conversation, in which constantly shifting bands of people interjected abruptly on random topics. She preferred quiet conversations with one or two people—conversations that had some depth.

  She supposed that was why she got along so well with Tiffany. Tiffany desperately wanted to be one of the laughing, carefree, popular girls; but she was no more suited for the task than Alyssa was. And so the two of them would invariably end up gravitating toward each other, where they could talk about homework assignments or the latest young-adult novels. Alyssa and Tiffany were both voracious readers.

  How pretentious you are, Alyssa thought to herself. On the heels of that thought came the realization that “pretentious” was another word that would baffle the average New Hastings teenager.

  Perhaps her love of books and schoolwork was a defense mechanism of sorts: She felt out-of-step with the world of her peers, so she had invented a world of her own in which she would not feel intimidated.

  Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard her name spoken aloud.

  Alyssa’s mother, Donna, had poked her head into the bedroom. Donna Chalmers was dressed for a night of cleaning: jeans, a scarf over her head, and a sweatshirt.

  “How’s the homework coming?” Donna asked.

  “I’m done. I’m just reviewing now.”

  “Do you want to stay home tonight?”

  This was the second time in the past week that her mother had asked this question. Did she sense that something was not quite right at the company facility they cleaned every night—United Press & Stamping?

  Alyssa removed her headphones.

  “No, that’s okay. I’ve got my homework done. I’ll go.” She knew that the cleaning job at United Press & Stamping entailed a lot of work. Without her help, her mother would be there until the wee hours of the morning.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay. I’m going to get ready. We’ll leave in a few minutes.”

  Alyssa wondered if she should tell her mother why being at the automotive components plant made her feel uncomfortable.

  She decided that she should say nothing, at least not for now. If she told her mother, there was a good chance that Donna would overreact, provoking an argument with UP&S’s management, or owners—whoever decided which cleaning company would be paid for cleaning the factory’s front offices.

  That could result in the loss of the cleaning contract, which would only make things more difficult for her mother.

  At fifteen, Alyssa left the details of the household finances to Donna; but she knew that the little family of two was not exactly prosperous. Alyssa’s father had left his wife with considerable financial liabilities—and not much in the way of assets.

  And besides, the man named Shawn Myers had not actually done anything, had he?

  No—but he has said a few things; and then there is that way he always looks at you.

  Yes, he looked at her a lot. And this was enough to make her nervous. Shawn’s gaze followed her whenever she walked across the space of the factory office, dragging a garbage can or a vacuum cleaner. Just last week Shawn Myers had looked up from his desk and said—

  “We’ve got to get going soon,” her mother called from the opposite side of the house. “If you’re coming, that is.”

  “I’m coming!” Alyssa called back. “Be there in a minute!”

  Alyssa sighed, closed her algebra book, and began to change out of her school clothes, and into the clothes that she wore when helping her mother.

  Today had been a difficult day at school. New Hastings had a reputation for being a rough school district. If you hadn’t grown up in town, you were an outsider. And Alyssa and her mother had moved to New Hastings only last year.

  As was so often the case when things were difficult, Alyssa looked at the framed photograph on her dresser. The old Florida vacation picture contained three people: her mother, her father, and a ten-year-old version of herself. There was a sun-baked beach behind them, and the choppy waters of the Atlantic.

  The three of them were laughing. Her father had his arm around her mother. Her father, tall and confident and protecting, beamed expansively at the camera, his longish hair blowing in the semi-tropical wind.

  She still missed her father, whom she saw only rarely nowadays. Her father had remarried recently, and his new wife had given birth to a baby last year.

  “Alyssa!”

  “Coming, Mom!”

  Dressed now much like her mother, Alyssa Chalmers wiped her eyes dry with the sleeve of her sweatshirt, then stepped out of her bedroom and into the hall.

  Chapter 12

  It was nearly full dark by the time Donna Chalmers started the Ford Econoline van that had the words “Chalmers Cleaning Service” painted on its side in curlicue letters. The inside of the van smelled of cleaning supplies: ammonia, bleach, and other caustic substances. As always, Donna cracked the window on the driver’s side: The smells could become overpowering without proper ventilation.

  As she cranked the Ford’s engine to life, she remembered Todd’s words the night he had pitched to her his grand idea: The two of them would quit their salaried jobs and start a cleaning company. “Then we won’t have to work for anyone,” Todd had said. “We won’t have to take orders from idiots anymore.”

  Donna had agreed—despite the fact that her job as a junior bookkeeper had not required her to work for idiots. She had rather enjoyed her old job, in fact. But she had wanted to please her husband. And then there was Todd’s charisma: We he got an idea in his head, he had a way of convincing others to go along with him.

  And so Donna had started the cleaning company with her husband, Todd, who was now no longer her husband. She rarely heard from Todd these days, and he was frequently behind on his child support payments.

  The plan for the cleaning company had been based on the premise that they would operate it as a couple; and its viability had been severely undermined—crippled, really—by
Todd’s departure. Todd had done the heavy work at their cleaning sites. Now there was no money to hire a male assistant; and Alyssa was even more diminutive than she was. Donna’s back often ached at the end of an evening of cleaning.

  “How’s school going?” Donna asked her daughter, who was seated in the van’s passenger seat.

  “Fine,” Alyssa said.

  Donna had noticed recently that Alyssa had entered that teenage phase in which she responded to most questions with monosyllabic responses. Well, that came with the territory of being fifteen, didn’t it? Donna vaguely remembered going through a similar phase herself at approximately the same age.

  Alyssa probably had a crush on a boy. And as always, she was taking her father’s absence hard.

  For the thousandth time she began to walk down the bitter road of resentment. In the weeks and months after Todd’s departure (and especially during the weeks and months following the completion of the divorce) that road had proved to be more than she could resist.

  So she cheered herself with her usual formulaic but positive thoughts: They had the cleaning company. And hey, things were actually looking up: We’ve got this contract with UP&S, and it pays better than most.

  But still there was the issue of her daughter. There must be some way to pull Alyssa out of her glumness.

  “I’m really proud of you,” Donna said. “Making the honor roll and all. You’ve got to be one of the top students at New Hastings High School, huh?”

  Alyssa shrugged.

  “I guess so. I don’t know. Maybe.”

  This idea seemed to darken Alyssa’s spirits even more. Teenagers. There was no way to figure them out.

  It was a short drive. Soon the white monolith of the UP&S plant came into view, its walls lit up by exterior floodlights. Donna guided the van into the factory’s parking lot. She parked in her usual space near the service entrance. The cars of the second-shift employees were darkened hulks beneath the halogen lamps that were mounted on poles overhead. At this late hour, most of the first-shift office staff had departed.