On The 7th Day

by Zack Murphy

  “Well I should think so, he wouldn’t be a United States Senator if it wasn’t for me now would he?” Statements and facts were crucial in the world of news and politics, and Mr. Bidwell knew how to manipulate both.

  “I don’t think, I- um- I-”

  “Don’t think boy. Know.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Oh well, I owe him too I guess, I wouldn’t have my second jet if it wasn’t for him,” Mr. Bidwell slapped him on the back and turned to Juliet who had a huge grin stretched across her face, “I’m going in now.”

  “Yes sir.”

  As Mr. Bidwell exited the room and into Dana Plough’s office Henry let out his best primal huff and stamped his foot on the floor. He slunk down into a chair and covered his face with his suit jacket and pouted. Juliet walked over to hi, put her arm around him and gently caressed his hair. “You see,” she said, “You may have money, but you don’t have a clue how to use it.”

  “But-” said Henry looking up at her with puppy dog eyes.

  “And that’s why you’re my assistant.” She stood up and slapped him in the back of head with the full force of her palm, “And now I have to get back to work.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” he said, ceding his position in the food chain.

  “Yeah, here’s seven bucks. Go get me a cup of coffee.”

  *****

  Barnaby sat on a park bench beside a little old woman clutching her purse. He had told her that he wasn’t going to rob her but that only seemed to make her clutch it tighter. He scanned the newspaper to find anything that would help him find out who the mother of Satan’s child was, but he was coming up empty.

  There were a lot of events that would send conspiracy theorists rushing to their blogs to tell the world that the world was finally coming to an end, but to the trained eye, the countless untold deaths were all in a day’s work. Finding a needle in a haystack was easier than sorting through the pages L.A. Times looking for the antichrist. He looked up to the sky, the sun was directly overhead. Barnaby was sweating, something he had never done.

  “How do you people stay cool?”

  “I swear I’ll cut you!” glared the little old woman.

  “I was only-”

  “I swear I’ll do it!”

  “Okay.”

  “I have a knife.”

  “I said okay.”

  “You’re a sweet young man.”

  “And you’re obviously bipolar.”

  The two went back to sitting in silence with Barnaby now keeping a careful watch on his tormentor. He threw the paper down on the seat next to him and wiped the sweat from his brow. He felt his mouth getting dry and it was getting increasingly harder to swallow.

  He thought about asking the old woman for advice on how to remedy his problem, but feared the cold hard steel of a switchblade piercing his innards. She didn’t look fast but anyone with a grip like the one she had on her purse was bound to have hidden strengths.

  A tall man walked by wearing a sandwich board and ringing a bell. “The world is coming to an end! The world is coming to an end!” he shouted as he ferociously rang his bell in honor of the upcoming horror.

  “He says that every day you know,” said the old woman sweetly leaning over to Barnaby.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Oh yes. I’ve been coming to this park for the past fifteen years and he’s always here, rain or shine. Ringing his little bell and yelling about the Apocalypse. I think that if the world was truly going to end, it would have happened by now, don’t you?”

  “I think he may be on to something this time.”

  “I think I should have cut you when I had the chance.” The old woman jolted from her seat and stared a hole in Barnaby the size of a small planet. She started to leave when she spun back on her heels and spit in Barnaby’s face. After she’d felt that her message was well received she spun back around and walked off down the park.

  Barnaby took out a handkerchief from his breast pocket and gingerly wiped the saliva from his forehead. When he was sure the woman was out of sight or at least a safe enough distance that he could get a running head start he yelled a few choice words in her general direction.

  The woman, who was a mere dot on the horizon, stopped and turned around. Barnaby grabbed the newspaper and ran off down the park in the opposite direction keeping a look over his shoulder in case he was being hunted by the knife-wielding granny.

  As he walked through the park he heard a ringing coming from the only working public telephone in the state of California. He stopped, puzzled, and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh hello Barnaby,” said The Death from the other end of the phone.

  “This isn’t working out.”

  “Oh I think it’s going swimmingly. Did you see that woman hock a loogie at you? Brilliant.”

  “Yes, and I’m not sure if that’s what I’m supposed to be doing here. Am I supposed to be getting spit on by geriatric grandmas? Besides I think there was oatmeal in that spit.” Barnaby started to gag a little at the thought.

  “It’s all part of being human.”

  “I don’t think it is.” Barnaby knew what he was talking about; he had been human for almost a full half day. “But anyway, I thought I was sent here for a purpose. Can’t you give me a hint of who this woman is?”

  “I can’t, I’m sorry; I don’t even know who she is.”

  “But you must have some idea.” Barnaby was nearly ready to sobbing into the phone.

  “There are rumors she is in the entertainment field.”

  “This is L.A. Everyone is in the entertainment field.”

  “Everyone?” [Well not everyone, Mr. Macon Leitner of 1312 Upper Kaifionn Boulevard is a milkman. He has had no other aspirations in his life other than being a milkman. He is looked down upon by the rest of L.A.].

  The Death took almost everything literally and was flabbergasted by exaggeration, as he took everything to mean exactly what was being said. This tendency had been devastating to the people of the ancient Incan city of Ingapirca, where a young teenager in 1422 declared to his friends while sitting around with nothing to do; that “This village is so dead!”

  “Well, not everybody,” said Barnaby.

  “Listen Barnaby, I picked you for this assignment because you’re the best we’ve got.”

  “And I thank you for the confidence.” At least somebody noticed.

  “No. I’m just pulling your chain,” The Death said chuckling, “I can’t believe you fell for that. I mean, they talk about me being gullible, but oh man! Wow!”

  The Death continued to laugh and Barnaby hung up the phone.

  “Rotten Son of a--!” Barnaby kicked the booth and slammed the receiver down over and over again. He had finally pulled himself together when the phone rang again.

  “Hello?” said Barnaby.

  “I can still hear you when you’re not on the phone you know.”

  “Oh yeah. Sorry about that.”

  The Death hung up and Barnaby whimpered to himself. He surveyed the land to decide which way to go and spotted a sign saying 2 Miles to Hospital. It was as good a lead as any, he figured to himself that pregnant ladies, especially ones who are only a few days from their due date, probably go in for regular check-ups.

  It was as good a lead as any, so Barnaby took off his jacket, showing off the sweat-stained $300 shirt he had purchased two hours before and started off towards the hospital.

  *****

  Mr. Bidwell was standing staring at a picture of Dana Plough and himself at the company’s Christmas party she had hung on the wall.

  “I don’t remember taking this picture at all,” he said shaking his head, “but of course I had to take so many pictures with so many people at that party.”

  Mr. Bidwell had a charming way of demeaning anyone. He was English. Dana Plough wished for once he’d recognize her and all of her efforts to make the world, and more importantly his company, a bette
r place.

  “Well, you’re an extremely busy man.” agreed Dana Plough echoing his sentiments.

  “That much is true.” He ran his finger along the top of the picture frame and studied the dust that had accumulated over the past few months.

  “I really have to talk to the janitors, sir.”

  He gave a slight little chuckle and rubbed his fingers together to discard the dirt.

  “Yes. Now Dana, I didn’t come in here to give you a white glove inspection.”

  “That’s good.”

  “No, I’m here to talk to you about your future.” It’s never a good thing when the words ‘Your Future’ are spoken by someone higher up than you in the corporate food chain.

  “My future?”

  “More specifically, your future with my company.” He said tapping his finger on the wall, seemingly to find out if it was sturdy.

  “I didn’t know there was any unhappiness in my work.”

  “Oh dear, don’t be silly. We all here at GNAN are very happy with your work.”

  “Well, that’s a load off my mind.”

  “We are though a bit unhappy with your current, oh what should we call it- situation.” The word situation was well-drawn out to a lingering 15 syllables.

  Dana Plough knew deep down this day was coming. She worked for a family business and being an unwed mother didn’t necessarily fit into the company’s family-friendly image.

  “I’m not talking about that,” he said pointing to her belly.

  “Oh.”

  “I didn’t mean that. It is a living human being inside you and we all here at GNAN are very pleased that you are about to give the planet another GNAN viewer. There are weaker women out there who wouldn’t have done what you did. Then come to work and show it off for the whole world to see. I admire you Dana and I want you have everything you deserve.”

  “What do I deserve?” Was a question she knew didn’t want answered.

  “I’m assuming you’re going to take a little time off after the baby is born?”

  “I think it’s safe to say that.”

  “Well, when you decide to come back I believe there may be a prime-time slot for you and your show. What do you think about that?”

  “You’re serious.”

  “I’m always serious when it comes to my company.”

  “I don’t what to say.”

  “Say yes.” A statement made more in demand than a request.

  “Yes, of course, yes.”

  The excitement of finally getting her coveted prime-time spot blinded Dana Plough to the fact that once the baby was born there wouldn’t be a prime time to come to work for.

  But this wasn’t the time to look to the actual future, it was time to look to the future that would have been. And that future was coming up roses.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” said Dana Plough reaching into her desk and pulling out a bottle of Poka Vsyo. “Can I offer you drink to seal the deal?”

  “Well it’s ten o’clock in the morning. Yes.”

  “Fantastic!”

  She poured two glasses of vodka and handed one to her boss. They clinked glasses and downed the sweet confection. For once Dana Plough had found someone who didn’t frown upon a pregnant woman drinking.

  “Another?”

  “No thank you. I’m afraid one is my limit.” As he watched Dana Plough pour herself another while downing the unfiltered spirit in one fell swoop, he earned a greater admiration for his employee. It wasn’t many people who could drink that much straight alcohol, especially this early in the morning. And to do it while pregnant, well that was something else. “Well, I have to be getting on my way now. Thank you again for the drink. It was an insightful conversation and I can’t wait until we’re seeing you where you belong. You earned it. You’re a great asset to this company, you keep up all the hard work you’ve been putting in and you’re going to go a long way at this station.”

  “Thank you again Mr. Bidwell, I believe in this company and I always do my best.”

  “I know you do,” he said on his way out the door, “and remember we’re all only as good as we are at this moment.”

  Juliet gently crept into the office after the company’s CEO had exited half expecting to see the face of an inconsolably sobbing woman packing up her belongings, or an extremely drunk woman passed out on the floor in the midst of clearing out her desk.

  She did find a drunken woman, but she wasn’t packing or upset, rather she was smiling ear to ear, twirling in her chair and patting her stomach.

  “I take it the meeting with Mr. Bidwell went well?”

  “I think it did. You are looking at the next 8-10pm star on GNAN!”

  “Oh my god!” yelled Juliet jumping up and down.

  “God had absolutely nothing to with it.”

  “Excuse me ma’am”

  “Juliet come inside and shut the door. Can I trust you to keep a secret?”

  Juliet made her way guardedly into the office and closed the door behind her. “Of course you can ma’am. You know I would never betray our trust.” Dana Plough poured a glass of vodka and handed it Juliet. “I don’t think I should--”

  “Juliet trust me, after what I’m about to tell you, you’re going to need a lot more of these.”

  *****

  Henry was standing in line at a local coffee shop, picking up refreshments for that afternoon’s meeting. He resented being a gofer, but after being whittled down to a toothpick by Mr. Bidwell and Juliet collectively, he sucked up his unearned pride and did his job. He stood impatiently grinding his teeth and wringing the list of assorted coffee that were wildly pretentious in their unapologetic attempt at being really pretentious.

  12 double halfcaf soy Café Lattes

  10 double espresso non-fat skinny Café Macchiato

  7 Breve Espresso Con Panna with a shot of Amaretto

  4 Café Americano with two creams and three sugars

  He swore under his breath about the knocked up woman he’d been saddled to like a severed horse’s head tied to the ankle of a marked man in the mob. He knew he was better than this job [although no one else knew that] and he would be damned if he was going to let a bunch of people much more powerful than himself hold him down.

  GNAN was going to pay for placing him with Dana Plough, a woman of supposed moral values who allowed herself get in ‘the family way’ by getting smashed and doing some strapping, well-endowed Indiana farm boy in the coatroom. A man who had supposedly wandered in to the party looking for directions to West Hollywood where he was going to make a fresh start acting in gay porn movies [This was a rumor spread amongst the secretaries at the steno pool].

  A man behind him tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me sir.”

  Henry turned around to see a man in a disheveled state of mental anguish staring at him.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation,” said the man.

  “What conversation?”

  “The one you were having with yourself.” said the man.

  “I didn’t say any of that out loud.”

  “No, of course you didn’t. But anyway, about that conversation?” Getting the train back on track is much more difficult than derailing it.

  “What?”

  “I was just wondering if there was any chance you were talking or rather thinking about the host of Plowing Through with Dana Plough?”

  “It’s Plowing Ahead.”

  “Oh yes, right, sorry. Was it by any chance?”

  “Yes. I’m her assistant or at least one of them.”

  “Very nice for you, getting to work with a big American television star.” He chirped. “It must be fascinating work?”

  “Yeah, it’s a blast.” Henry said rolling his eyes. “Listen I have a lot of work to do and-- Well I don’t really want to talk with you. You understand?”

  “Of course.”

  Henry turned back to his demeaning assignment and placed his order to the young g
irl behind the counter who was flustered by the volume of the order. It would turn out, once he had taken the order back and meted them out to their respected drinkers, she would have completely screwed up the order. This would result in all blame being placed on Henry for giving the order to a totally inept sixteen year old who was trying her best to save up for a used car and college tuition.

  “One more question if I may?” asked the man behind him, gently tapping him on the shoulder.

  Henry turned his attention back to the man standing behind him, “What is it?”

  “I was just wondering if one of those is for Ms. Plough?”

  “Why? Are you from the tabloids trying to dig up dirt on what a poor, innocent and caring true American patriot, who is just trying to make the world a better place? A woman who fights for everything we as a country hold dear. Does she spike her coffee with pure grain alcohol? I’m not saying. So why don’t you stop with the inquisition and leave her alone. Are these the types of questions you paparazzi jerks are digging for?” Henry’s wobbly finger was getting uncomfortably close to the inquisitors face, but it was better than where was Henry’s shoe was going to be if he kept this line of, what he thought was innocent questioning up.

  “I didn’t actually follow any of that, but I’m going to say to no. I’m just curious, neither as a pinko nor a fascist, to know whether or not she’s in the office today?”

  “No she’s not in the office she’s at the ob/gyn.” He said with disdain that the inane dialogue was continuing.

  “Ah, and that’s Dr--?”

  “Arneau. He has an office in the Medical center off of Wilshire.” Henry’s face became a web of tangled confusion. “Why did I just tell you that?”

  “People tell me things. I’m a people person.” The man smiled.

  “No, you’re really not.”

  The man thought about this for a moment. “That’s true.”

  He turned to leave the coffee shop but stopped and turned back to Henry and whispered in his ear. “You should spit in their coffee for all the torment and belittlement they put you through. And on your first day at the new job to boot. Besides your daddy is a very powerful person and you really shouldn’t be held in contempt by people who are lower than you on the social scale. Television people! Really!?!”

  Henry took the order and looked at the steaming cups of Java meant for the low-life pseudo-celebrities who pushed him around just like all the other people he had encountered throughout his life. Petty, jealous, envious people who deserved to get their precious coffees full of spit, and if he was feeling exceedingly motivated, maybe something even more disgusting.