The Office
Keith hated his office. The office was along the interior of the building's first floor, and was, generally speaking, a poor excuse for an office. It had formerly been the copier room. There were scars on the walls where once there had been cupboards for storing paper, and a lingering odor of toner. The carpeting was worn in the center of the office where people had stood waiting for copies.
The copier room was now across the hallway in a much larger office with a window because people had complained about it being so dreary without windows in the former copy room. Now the copier also had the company of network-attached laser and color laser printers, and two fax machines. The counter along the wall opposite the windows was neatly arranged with staplers, tape dispensers, a long-bladed paper cutter, and a computer with an attached scanner.
Keith hated the young man and the young woman with whom he shared the former copy room more than he hated the former copy room. He hated them because he had been there first, put the desk where he wanted it, talked on the phone without fear of being heard, and closed the door if he felt like it; then the other two were shoved in, pushing his desk against the wall with his back exposed to them and anyone else that even glanced while walking into the new copy room. If Keith leaned back in his hand-me-down chair it bumped up against Linda's desk. And Mark hogged the phone they shared, dragging it to his desk if it had been moved, speaking to girlfriends with brazen chauvinism.
Keith would frequently change his mind about which of the two he hated more. He despised Mark's candid conversations of his conquests, and thought them fundamentally rude for being presented to Linda. Keith would also catch himself suffering pangs of jealousy over Mark's monopolization of Linda's attention. They arrived together in the morning, shared e-mail with each other for an hour or so, and then went for coffee at ten. Then Mark would invite her to lunch. Lunch always seemed to take longer than an hour, though they were supposed to take just half an hour, and Mark made it a point of greeting Keith upon their return. There was more coffee for them in the afternoon, and, inevitably, some work, which they shared and discussed at length. Mark was loud and confident, even when wrong, and used every subject presented to him as a springboard to describe one of his achievements at the University of Michigan.
Of course, it wasn't like Keith was really attracted to Linda, and therefore he had nothing to be jealous about. He hated Linda because of the revulsion she showed towards him. He saw it on those rare moments Linda looked at him, and obviously was revolted by what she saw.
In addition, Keith hated her laugh, which was patronizing, her discourse, which was condescending, and the tone of her voice, which was affected.
The three were brought together to work on a software development project at an insurance company. The insurance company hired a consulting firm. Linda and Mark worked for the consulting firm, whereas Keith worked for another company, ACMA, a body-shop, and was subcontracted to the consulting firm. This was a large difference between them; at least Keith assumed that Linda and Mark viewed him as inferior, less talented, for not working for a consulting firm. The point was underscored whenever they referred to themselves as consultants, and to Keith as a contractual.
One day, after a late coffee break caused by a particularly large amount of e-mail to read in the morning, Mark asked Keith to lunch, something he hadn't done since their first day together, when Keith made a fuss about the prices.
"I don't know," Keith said. "Where are you going?"
"That depends," Mark said. He pulled his chair alongside Linda's and, leaning back against her desk so that he could face her, asked: "What do you want to do for lunch?"
"I like Mexican," Linda said.
"You always like Mexican. But which Mexican."
"Pancho Villa."
"I thought you were going to say Pancho Villa," Keith said.
"So what if I do," Linda said. "We have to eat somewhere. Besides, you don't like anything downtown. What do you care?"
"Let's just go," Mark said. "I'm hungry."
"Have a good lunch," Keith said.
"Aren't you coming?" Mark said.
Keith knew that this was extraordinary. This was a reprieve from damnation, a branch extended to pull him from the pit of rejection. For whatever reason, they had given him a second chance to become like them. But he knew he would make a fuss at the end over the prices again. At some point he would not want to go to lunch with them anymore because he couldn't afford eight dollars for lunch at a restaurant everyday. He could just barely afford the three dollars and forty-eight cents he spent everyday at the Coney Island Dogs for a chili dog and a Coke. He was helping his mother with the mortgage, and had a son in Cleveland. ACMA didn't pay him very well, and probably for good reason, because he had never gotten an interview in spite of sending out hundreds of resumes during the past three years he'd been with ACMA. Of course, if he somehow managed to suppress his outrage at paying eight dollars for a club sandwich or a wet burrito, and could find the courage and the change to leave a dollar twenty on the table so that he didn't appear to Mark and Linda as a cheapskate, and if he could find a way to converse with them, then they might like him, just a little, or maybe take pity on him, and help him find a better paying job, perhaps even with their own consulting firm.
In spite of the possibility, the money would be an issue because this one lunch would wipe him out for the rest of the week, and force him to choose between cigarettes and food, a choice he didn't like to make. If Mark offered to pay, however, he might consider.
"I don't think so," Keith said. "I'm a little short of cash."
"Okay," Mark said. "Whatever."
Duke came into Keith's office, the office that used to be a copy room and which Keith shared with two people he didn't like (hated, actually), at half past eleven.
"Where's Linda?" Duke asked. He was the project manager and the three of them, Keith, Linda, and Mark, worked on the project.
"Lunch."
"Where'd they go?"
"Where do you think?"
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"It was supposed to be a joke. They went to lunch. I think they went to Pancho Villa."
"Oh, okay."
Duke seemed about to leave but instead said, "I thought you were going with them? That's why I thought they hadn't left yet. I told them to take you along."
"You did?"
"The bastards could have at least asked you."
"They did," Keith said. "I mean they asked. I'm short on cash this week so I didn't want to go there."
"Damn it," Duke said. "It's supposed to be a team building exercise. We need to be closer as a team, you know?"
"Oh, sure."
"Start going to lunch with them, if you can."
Duke took a breath, thinking about what he was going to say, and, glancing over his shoulder, saw that the hallway was empty. "Do you realize what a mess you are?" Duke asked. "Of course you don't. Who would consciously come to work like this, dressed like a bum, like you slept under a bridge? Can you do something about that, please? I'm not trying to make you feel bad about yourself, but I've heard the customer making comments, and once that starts you're in trouble."
"No one ever said anything to me," Keith said.
"I'm sure they didn't."
"I thought I was fine."
"But they don't say anything to you. They talk among themselves. Snide remarks. You become the butt of their jokes. Then the first time you fuck-up, once they've started talking about you, they call me into an office and ask that you be replaced. You won't even know what happened. You're gone, and ACMA has to find another job for you, if they can."
"Jesus," Keith said.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Duke said. "Do you think ACMA will find you another job?" Duke asked. "Not in this economy, they won't. They'll be like, 'Whoa, dude, sorry, but there's the door.'"
"You're probably right."
"There's no probably."
"But some of the people that work here dress like this. Some dress worse."
"You are missing the point, here," Keith said. "Most people think you're one of the consultants, not realizing you're actually just a contractual. So their perception is that they're paying $120 dollars an hour for you to be here, not realizing that of that $120 an hour, fifty of it goes to ACMA."
"ACMA gets $50 an hour for me?"
"Sure they do, but you don't see that much, am I right?"
"Not even close."
"That's right. Not even close. None of us see a big chunk of our hourly rate, but the customers always think it goes right into your pocket and then helps pay the mortgage for your big house. They pay $150 an hour for me. That would mean I'd be making $300,000 if that money went in my pocket. Do you think I'd work here if I made $300,000 a year? Hell no. There's a much higher class of customers out there for people who actually earn $300,000. I'd work in a place with Turkish rugs on marble floors. I'd work in a place with mahogany paneled conference rooms and secretaries that dress like fashion models. And I'd have lunch with other wealthy people at The Brown Derby instead of waiting for a table at Pancho Villa, although I must admit I enjoy the wet burrito at Pancho Villa. It's my goal to work for a customer like that before I'm thirty. Until then, we have to work as a team, and deal with this customer."
"You're not thirty yet?" Keith asked. "I'm thirty-one."
"Then you should know better by now," Duke said. "Look at yourself."
Keith looked himself over. His shirt and slacks wrinkled (he washed but didn't iron); his tie seemed dated (two dollars didn't go very far with ties); and his shoes were caked with mud (his mother's house, where he lived, had a muddy, gravel driveway, and Keith had no garage privilege). What's more, he knew his hair was a mess because he cut it himself.
Duke said, "Remember that we have to work as a team here. And have a good lunch."
# # # #
Keith backed into a career with computers. He took a few computer courses at Cuyahoga Community College, but hadn't finished a degree because he had to get a factory job and support his family when his then girlfriend got pregnant. He moved into his girlfriend's parent's house. Not an ideal situation, but the two of them had the finished basement all to themselves. He hoped to get married and have of place of their own, but Vickie, the girlfriend, wanted a very nice place or nothing at all, and so they remained in the basement even after the baby was born.
The factory made paper products, party favors and stickers and stuff printed on cardboard. Keith's job was to load a machine with stiff paper all day. The machine lopped off portions of the paper and then Keith took the result of that and dumped it in a bin. When the bin was full, Keith pushed the bin to the next machine, where another guy loaded his machine with the paper from the bin.
Keith made six dollars an hour, which would have been plenty for him at the time, 1990, if it were just for him and he was still living with his mother. But after the union dues and taxes and what not, there wasn't much left for Vickie and Christopher, the baby.
Vickie asked him to move out before they were married, and instead married a bartender at the Red Dog Saloon, where she had been a waitress.
Keith, who moved back in with his mother, then went with her to Findley, Ohio, where his mother would take care of her mother. Keith found a job as an assistant in the Psychology Department at the college there, and began to help out with some of the computer work.
He then got a job with the company that sold the computer system the Psychology Department used. At first he was in testing (Quality Assurance) but then was moved into development, and learned to program. He was programming the shell scripts that handled the system installation and printer setup, but still it was programming.
Then he joined ACMA, and was contracted out to a succession of different programming assignments, learning C, SQL, and Visual Basic along the way.
His salary had risen dramatically from his days at the factory, but it seemed as if he had even less in his pocket. A larger portion went to Vickie for her care of Christopher, and he was helping his mother with the upkeep of the house, which always required some cash. His grandmother died in 1995, and his mother, apparently needing to care for someone, had set herself up as a foster parent, and took in children.
Now it was all Keith could do to keep his own car, a 1993 Chevy Celebrity, running, so that he could drive the forty minutes to Toledo each morning. If he didn't have a girlfriend there in Ohio he would find a job somewhere else, like maybe Florida or Texas, some place warm. If he didn't have a son to support he'd probably quit ACMA for a while and maybe try to find something he really wanted to do, like shoot pool for a living. He really thought he could do it, just shoot pool, but it would take a while to learn all the hustler's tricks, and win some tournaments, and figure out the rest. He didn't know anyone that shot pool for a living, but had heard it could be done. But those were a lot of ifs, and no one was offering him the chance to do anything different than what he did every day.
# # # #
Keith, emboldened by a hotdog and three cigarettes during lunch, walked through the cubicles offices inhabited by the customer's employees on his way back to his own office. He drew no looks. He wasn't sure what he would do if anyone did look. He'd like to think he'd smile at Carol, the dark haired woman who wore skirts above the knee. At Henry, a balding manager who seemed to do nothing but drink coffee, and the person Keith suspected of complaining, he'd smirk or maybe even laugh. Keith was not one to confront, but it seemed wrong for people to complain and talk behind one's back.
Back in his office, Linda was reading a web page, and Mark was on the phone. Kevin found a document he had written and submitted to Duke the day before on his chair, now marked up in red ink.
"Can you believe this?" Kevin said. "He doesn't like anything I've written. There's something wrong with every paragraph. He must think I'm an idiot."
"Oh," Linda said. "I edited that. Your grammar is pretty bad, and your sentence structure is pretty bad too."
"Why are you editing my document? I gave it to Duke. I thought he was going to look at it."
"He gave it to me."
"Are you going to look at everything now? Are you some kind of editor?"
"Actually, I asked him if I could look at it. I thought we needed more consistency and better writing. So yes, I guess I'm kind of the editor now."
"But it's just a User Manual. It explains how that program works. I wrote the program."
"That doesn't mean you know anything about grammar," Linda said.
Keith tossed the marked-up document onto Linda's desk. "Well I'm not going to make those changes."
Linda picked up the document and put it in a desk drawer. "Fine. You're not being a team player. I'll make sure Duke knows that."
Mark hung up the phone and said, "Keith, your mother called. Wants you to call her back."
"You talked to her?"
"No. She left a voice-mail but I deleted it already. Anyway, she sounded pretty upset. Here, you can use this phone."
Keith dragged the phone back to his desk. He hunched over the phone in a failed attempt to create a sense of privacy in his head. He hated these phone calls, hated that he couldn't relax when speaking to his own mother. And he hated that he knew when his mother called it was because of some minor tragedy that had gotten the better of her.
Anthony, one of the foster children, answered. "Why aren't you in school?" Keith asked.
"We missed the bus." Anthony had a small, attitude-laced voice.
"Oh yeah? How is that possible? You were outside waiting for the bus when I left this morning. Did you and Junior hide around back when it came?"
"We didn't do nothing wrong."
"How's Mom?"
"Okay, I guess."
Keith laughed. "So when did Mom find you? She take out the trash and wake you up in the garage?"
"No. We came in to get some more breakfast. Junior was hungry."
"Junior is always hungry. Okay, you better let me talk to Mom."
His mother took up the phone. "The car is broken," she said. She sounded tired, just one small step from desperate.
"Did it just break, or it wouldn't start, or what happened?"
"Listen, can you come help me out? I don't know what to do now."
"But what happened, Mom?"
"What do mean 'what happened?' The car is broken so I need your help."
"Why didn't you call for a tow truck from the car?" Keith asked. He could feel his own desperation welling up in his gut. "What happened to your cell phone?"
"I couldn't find it," she said.
"Look in Junior's room. I bet it's there."
"You always think like that."
"But that's where we always find stuff. Or we find cash that can't be accounted for."
His mother said nothing. Keith was trying to think of how things might go. If she could figure out the car without him, he might be able to finish the day at work, and then find a way to talk to Duke and diffuse the thing about Linda editing his work, his work he thought he'd done his best on, but apparently the rules of grammar changed and nobody told him, and if he could spend an entire day at work then ACMA would have no reason to get mad at him, like they did last week when he turned in yet another timesheet that fell short of forty hours.
His mother said, "Can you just come home? I need you here." There it was, her voice dark and steeped in desperation.
"I'll be home as soon as I can," Keith said.
# # # #
His mother was chain-smoking Virginia Slims in the kitchen when Keith got home. She was fifty-three, thin, and colored her hair black to hide the gray. She wore jeans and sweatshirts as a rule, not because it achieved any particular look or style, but simply because it was the simplest thing for her to do in the morning. Grab a pair of jeans from the stack in her closet and a plain sweatshirt from the drawer. Today the sweatshirt was yellow, and was smeared with grease or dirt where she had wiped her hands.
"What took you so long?" she asked. "I called three hours ago."
"I couldn't just leave work, you know, because you called. I wanted to get a few in so I don't have to work fifteen hours on Friday."
"I don't even know why you bothered, now. Everything's fine. You should have stayed."
Keith tossed his keys on the counter and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator.
"I wish you wouldn't even tell me that, Mom," he said. "I left work early as it was, and I was supposed to meet Krissey. I had to break my date with her to come home."
"Has she lost any weight yet?"
Keith sat across from her at the table, opened his beer and helped himself to one of her Virginia Slims.
"So where are the boys now?" Keith asked.
"In their room, watching TV."
"And the car?"
"At Jack's Service station. They towed it about an hour ago."
"Well then," Keith said.
"Well."
Keith finished his beer and took another cigarette from his mother's pack.
"Maybe I'll call Krissey," Keith said. "It's my league night, anyway, so maybe she'll want to go."
"You'll take her to watch you shoot pool?"
"Yeah," Keith said. "She likes that."
"Does she like watching you get shit-faced?" She lit another cigarette and sat back in the chair, appearing relaxed for a change.
"I guess I'll go downstairs and shoot some pool," Keith said.
"Right," his mother said. "I'll call you when dinner is ready."
Keith practiced nine ball. It was his pool league night at Champs bar, which was on the south side of the city. Pool was the only aspect of his life that offered Keith a semblance of control. Pool, Keith thought, was a game in which the actions and reactions were perfectly obvious. The tables were flat, the balls round, and the laws of physics were in full effect. Occasionally there was a bad bumper, but for the most part a good shot resulted in good results. A great shot resulted in a good second shot and, more importantly, a chance to run the table. It just depended on what the shooter did with the cue stick, and whether or not he read the table correctly. If he missed a shot and his opponent then ran the table, he had no excuse and no one else to blame.
The table was his, not his mother's. It was not a fancy table, merely decent, bought second hand when the Geauga Tavern changed owners, removing six tables to expose a dance floor in the hopes of attracting a crowd more likely to buy bottled beers and Fuzzy Navels instead of economy sized drafts. The table, prized because of its history and battle-scars (stains on the felt, cigarette burns on the edge, a phone number written with a permanent marker) was one of Keith's few possessions, along with his car, his cell phone, and two suitcases worth of clothes. If Keith ever left his mother's house, perhaps to live with Krissey but perhaps just to be on his own, what he dreamed of was having a pool table in that home, his home. In that way this basement was more his than his room upstairs.
Junior and Anthony came down and sat on the stairs, watching Keith shoot.
"Nice cue stick," Junior said.
"Yeah," Keith said. "You know I got it from Discount Cash."
"Is that so?"
"What's that?" Anthony asked.
"A pawn shop," Keith said. "I bought it because it looked like one I used to have. It looked exactly like one I used to have, including my initials on the case. It looked exactly like one I used to have and that disappeared a week after you moved in here, Junior. Do you know that?"
"Some things just can't be explained."
"What about the car, Junior. Can that be explained?"
"A car is a complex thing."
"I don't like this," Anthony said. "Junior, is he mad at you?"
Junior smiled at Anthony. Junior, with that smile, appeared to Keith as an old man. He had a thick neck and flabby chin. His belly stuck out, and his arms were thick. Junior, although just fourteen, was six feet tall and two-hundred twenty pounds. Keith was a mere five-eight and one-hundred sixty pounds. In spite of being more than twice Junior's age, Keith felt as if their life roles were reversed, and that it was Junior teaching Keith what made the world go around.
"Are you mad at him?" Anthony asked Keith.
"No, I'm not mad," Keith said. It was true. He felt no anger. He was frustrated, but that was Keith's problem with his own life. What passed for a life.
The phone rang upstairs and Keith returned his attentions to the table, running eight shots in a row but then scratching on the ninth.
His mother opened the door to the basement and said, "Keith honey? Can you run me up to Jack's? The car is ready."
"Did he say what was wrong?"
"There was a bunch of grass and straw packed around the air filter. He figures a mouse or a red squirrel was building a nest. The little bastards."
"How about that," Junior said.
"Yeah," Anthony said. "The little bastards."
"The little bastards indeed," Keith said.
# # # #
Keith and Krissey were at Champs an hour before his match was scheduled to begin.
"We should have gone to dinner," Krissey said. "I could stand to eat a little more."
"Eating's overrated," Keith said. "Besides, beer has plenty of calories."
"How come you never put on weight?"
"You want to order snacks? I think they have appetizers."
"Cheese sticks," Krissey said. "I want fried cheese sticks."
Keith drank fishbowls of Budweiser, the evening's special, as fast as the waitress brought them. Krissey plowed through the cheese sticks methodically, dipping them in ranch sauce and tomato sauce, washing each one down with sips from a bottle of Coors Light.
Keith, not normally one to complain or gossip, felt a particular burden and vented a bit, describing the idiocy of the consultants at work.
"How can a guy expect me to shell out eight-fifty a day for lunch?" he asked rhetorically. "And then the guy gives me crap about what I wear. Says I'm a bum."
"You dress like a bum but you certainly aren't a bum."
"Actually," Keith said, "he only said that I dress like a bum."
"Have I met this guy?"
"No. You met Mark and Linda. This was Duke, the Project Manager."
Krissey was on her last cheese stick, and used it to wipe the ranch dip bowl clean.
Keith described the call from his mother that day, the looks he received when leaving two hours early, his rush home, and the total waste of time it all had been.
"I think Junior is messing with the car," Keith said. "That one's a little manipulator."
"Have I met Junior?"
"He's the big one, the one that's always eating."
"Oh yeah."
They ordered two more beers. Keith was now very drunk but aware of it, so he was careful to not just say anything lest something stupid, cruel, or a combination of the two came out of his mouth.
"How is Christopher doing?" Krissey asked.
"Who?"
"Your son?"
"Oh," Keith said. "Chris. I don't think of him as a 'Christopher.' I guess he's good. I talked to him last weekend. I guess he's doing pretty good in school, you know, for fifth grade and everything."
"You want me to go with you next time you pick him up? I've always wanted to see Cleveland. I've always wondered if it's really that much better than Toledo."
"Trust me, it is."
"So you want me to go with?"
"No."
"No?"
"I mean sometimes I don't know if I'm actually going to pick him up or just spend the day with him. Like last time, what was that, three weeks ago, he had a basketball game on Saturday that he didn't want to miss, so I just took him to breakfast, and then to the game, and then took him out again after the game. Stuff like that, you know?"
"How old is he?"
"Nine." But was it nine, Keith wondered? His birthday was in April, and this was May. But had he just turned nine, or was he ten? Through the fog, Keith realized he had missed his son's birthday. "Oh my God," Keith said. "I missed it. He turned ten and I didn't even call him."
"Wow," Krissey said. "That's really bad."
"I have to call him right now," Keith said as he fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone.
"You can't call him now. Not from here. Not when you're drunk."
"He won't know I'm drunk."
"His mother will. Besides, I think you're a spectacle. People are staring at you from the bar."
"Who?"
Keith looked and there was in fact a man staring at him from the bar. "Maybe he's gay and just interested in me."
Krissey said, "See, you've gotten stupid. No wonder Duke is mad at you. Does he realize you're always late in the morning and dressed like a bum because you're at a bar past midnight every night?"
"The guy's coming over here," Keith said. "I'll see if he wants to buy me a drink."
The man was balding, in his late thirties, and sporting a paunch. He had a pleasantly surprised expression on his face, like an old friend one meets at a grocery store.
"You're Keith, aren't you?" the man said. "I'm Larry Bowen. I work at Kramer Agency."
"You do?"
"I noticed you walking past my office today. How do you like the project you're on?"
"I guess it's okay. I don't like Duke, the Project Manager. I probably shouldn't say that."
"No you shouldn't," Krissey said.
Larry sat down and introduced himself to Krissey, explaining that he worked at the company where Keith was a consultant.
"I'm just a contractual," Keith said.
"Are you shooting pool?" Larry asked.
"I'm in the league."
"So am I."
"Small world," Krissey said.
Keith and Larry played each other. Keith won the break, sank a ball off the break, and then ran the table in two straight games of nine-ball, winning the match. Keith played someone else next and lost. He decided to watch Larry, who had to wait for his second match, on the other table. Larry won decisively, his opponent only sinking three balls in two games, Larry not giving him a chance to breathe.
Keith bought him a beer. "I guess it was good I didn't let you shoot," Keith said.
"That's what it takes sometimes."
Krissey pulled Keith aside. "Stop drinking. You're drunk, and this guy works with you. He'll tell everyone."
"It's fine. Really."
"What if you lose this job? Where will you go?"
"It's no big deal."
"What about your son? What if you have to move farther away from Christopher?"
"I'm fine. No big deal."
Larry said, "I was talking about you with Henry. He works with Duke on that project. You know, there are openings. We might be able to hire you."
"Work for the Agency?"
"Yes."
"Do you know what they pay?"
"We'd have to ask around."
"What about an office?"
"What about an office?"
"Can I have one?"
"I think there's an office available."
"Then I'd love to work for the Agency."
"Great," Larry said. "I'll talk to Henry in the morning. You're coming in tomorrow, right?"
"Bright and early."
# # # #
Krissey insisted on driving back to her apartment. "You're so damn drunk," she said. "I can't believe it. I can't fucking believe it."
"Aren't you happy for me?" Keith asked. "I'm getting a job. A real job. No more kissing someone's ass because I'm on contract, like a fucking indentured servant."
"It's not like that and you know it. Besides, if you think you're getting a new job tomorrow, why did you stay and drink until twelve-thirty. I can't fucking believe it."
Keith laughed. "I can't fucking believe you're using the eff-word. I don't think I've heard you say fuck before."
"And don't think I'm going to do it tonight either."
"That's fine," Keith said. "I got me a new job."
"I don't know how you'll get home though. Do you?"
When he didn't answer, Krissey looked over and saw that Keith had fallen asleep.
# # # #
Keith awoke to the sound of knocking close by his ear. It was dark out and he was inside a car. His car, he realized. He couldn't make out who was knocking on the window because of the darkness.
"Keith, it's me," Krissey said. "Wake up."
Keith didn't know why he was sleeping in his car with Krissey knocking on the window, but he unlocked the door without worrying too much about the reasons.
"Hey," Keith said. "How you doing?"
"How are you?" Krissey asked. "Did you get sick? Do you feel okay?"
"Why would I get sick?"
"You drank about twenty fish-bowls last night."
"That explains why I have to pee so badly."
"Well c'mon in. Coffee is ready."
Inside Krissey's apartment, Keith figured out that it was five in the morning.
"So what happened last night?" Keith asked. "Were you mad at me? Is that why I slept in the car?"
"You were dead to the world. That's what happened. I couldn't carry you, and you probably couldn't walk if you had woken up. So I locked you in the car and left you in the parking lot, hoping some deviant killer didn't break in and cut your head off."
"Thanks. But why get me up this early?"
"You don't remember the guy you shot pool with is someone you work with? He offered you a job? You're getting a new job today, unless you show up looking like you're hungover and that you slept in a car?"
"Oh my God," Keith said. "I forgot. Thanks. I guess I'll drive home and change."
"Yes, you better," Krissey said. "And take the time to shower and shave. That's why I got you up at five."
"Where're my keys?" Keith grabbed a cup of coffee and headed for the door.
Krissey handed him the keys. "I can't believe you're not sick," she said. "All that beer and you look like you're fine. Are you even hungover?"
"No, I don't get that way. I never have. It's a gift."
"It's a curse."
"Why is it a curse?"
"Because you've never learned to not drink."
Keith was at his mother's house by six a.m. He had lied a little about not being sick, and vomited in the driveway as he got out of his car. Then he truly felt fine, and fixed himself some breakfast when he went inside. His mother trudged downstairs and stood blinking in the kitchen doorway.
"Did you just get home now?" she asked.
"Just walked in the door." Keith flipped his eggs and put bread in the toaster.
"Chris called. He wanted to talk to you."
"When, last night?"
"It wasn't this morning."
"Is he okay?"
"Yeah. Just needed cheering up. He needed his dad to cheer him up, because Grandma couldn't do it."
"Oh, wow. What a bummer."
"But did you have fun shooting pool and drinking to all hours? I figure that's what you were doing, right? Drinking beer like a fish drinks water? Then you went and humped your little fat honey?"
"Jesus, Mom. Why do you have to talk like that?"
"Ain't it the truth?"
"No it ain't. That's not how it was."
She went to the counter and pulled the basket out of the coffee maker to dump the grounds. "What part?" she asked. The used filter hit the edge of the trash can, spilling wet grounds on the floor. "What part ain't true? Did you just get too drunk to get laid? Was that it? Or did you skip the booze and go straight to the humping."
"Why are you doing this now?" Keith asked. "I thought this was going to be a great day. I might get a real job, with decent benefits. Something like a career with a company. I might be able to afford my own place and a decent car and to do more stuff with my son."
"You can do all that now if you didn't blow twenty or thirty dollars every night at the bar. Isn't that what you spend? Probably more."
Keith dumped his eggs on a plate and left it there on the counter to go and get dressed for the day.
Keith was at the office at five minutes before eight, the only time he was on time since his first day. He was surprised at the bustle in the hallways, people moving and talking. Phones rang and the copy machine spewed paper.
Keith had the hated office to himself. He dragged the phone from Mark's desk back to his own and called his son. Chris's mother answered.
"This is me," Keith said. "Can I speak with Chris?"
"He's about to leave for school," Vickie said. "You better not."
"But he called last night. He wanted to talk to me."
"I don't want him upset before going to school. It's tough enough for him putting up with all the blacks and spics."
"But what's he upset about? I'm his father. I should know what's going on."
"As far as I know, he's only upset about you not calling more often. But this is not the time to call."
She hung up.
Keith decided he needed a cigarette. On his way outside, he walked past Henry's office, and Larry was in there talking. Keith scooted past quickly, as if he were terribly busy and couldn't stop to chat even if they invited him in.
He smoked just outside the front door. The building was on a pedestrian mall, a full block from the road, and so it was pleasant there. He watched Mark and Linda approach together from the parking garage on the next block, and for once Keith was not ashamed to be seen smoking. He was there before they were, and had nothing to explain, at least this day, about his hours.
"Good morning," Keith said.
"Morning," Mark replied.
Keith walked past Henry's office again on his way back, and this time it was empty. Perhaps they were discussing the deal with Henry's boss or someone in Human Resources. Perhaps by noon he'd have his offer.
Marked watched Keith sit down, but Linda ignored him. He noticed his marked-up document on his desk, now with a yellow sticky-note attached. The note read, "Please see me. --Duke" Keith pushed it aside and worked instead on a program on his computer.
"Duke wants to see you," Linda said.
"You mean me?" Keith said.
"Yes."
"Okay. I think I'll go talk to him this afternoon."
Keith, his back to Linda, could feel her glaring at him.
"Would you hand me the phone please?" she asked.
Keith put the phone on her desk, flipping the cord so that it would catch in the legs of his chair.
Linda dialed a number, then said, "Hi, it's Linda. Fine. Keith said he'd see you this afternoon. I just thought you should know. No, he's right here."
Keith could not bear not to look. When he did, she was holding the receiver out for him.
"Duke would like to speak with you, if you don't mind."
Keith walked down to Duke's office not as worried as he might have been. In just a few hours, Duke might be negotiating to keep him, offering ACMA more money so that ACMA would give him a raise. Then this silly User Guide that Linda the Editor didn't like would mean nothing.
Duke was typing an e-mail when Keith knocked on the door. Duke looked at him briefly, motioned to a chair with one hand, then finished the e-mail, looking up at Keith when his finger clicked the mouse.
"Thanks for coming down," Duke said.
"You're welcome."
"I heard something this morning from Henry."
"Oh. Yes."
"So you know what it's about?"
"I'm pretty sure."
"Apparently you asked Larry to ask Henry for a job for your sake?"
"Sounds about right."
"Henry came to talk to me about it. Did you think he would do that?"
"No, I don't think I thought about that. Why?"
"A couple of things. First, what did you think I would tell him about you as an employee? That you are tops in late arrivals and sub-forty-hour weeks? That you smoke two packs a day, averaging two cigarette breaks an hour?"
"Well, no, I wouldn't think you'd tell him that."
"But it's the truth, right? And then what about your actual work, that you can not write a sentence in English and are disinclined to be part of a team."
"I hope you wouldn't tell him that either."
"That is what I told him. I value his trust in me as a consultant, so I was obligated to tell him all that."
"Well I guess I won't be getting a job offer from them."
"No, I don't think you will be."
"So I guess I'll go back to work."
Duke raised one finger. "Would you wait right here one minute? There's another matter we need to discuss, but, if you'll excuse me, I need to see someone right now first." Duke stood up and left.
Keith suddenly felt very tired. He had gotten something less than four hours sleep and really just wanted to rest. Slumping at his chair would not be enough either. It might be one of those days where he needed to take a long lunch and sleep in the back seat of his car. Although it was true he went to a bar almost every night, he did not always get drunk like he did last night; but on those days after he did get drunk, he was worthless at some point the next day, and it was pointless to resist.
He reminded himself to call Chris at three-thirty, when Chris was supposed to be home from school. He should probably do that away from his desk, on the cell phone, so that he could talk freely.
First he would have to endure a ream-out by Duke, who would certainly make clear what he, Keith, was expected to do. Edit the User Guide as Linda wants. Dress nicely. Get more done. Whatever. Had anyone even mentioned the fact that his shirt was pressed and that he wore a tie? Sitting there, Keith noticed a stain on his trousers, and that the edge of his shirt cuff was frayed, threads dangling near his thumb like the tendrils of jelly-fish.
Duke returned and sat at his desk. He smiled briefly and falsely, his cheeks raised to peel back the lips and expose teeth.
"Here's the deal," Duke said. "There was a provision in our contract with ACMA that specifically forbade you to seek employment with our customer while involved in an engagement."
"Whoa, sorry," Keith said. "I didn't realize."
"Under provisions of that same contract, I will be notifying ACMA that we no longer desire your services on this engagement."
"What? You're serious?"
"Yes. I'd like you to clean out your desk and leave. You have fifteen minutes."
There was a rush of blood to Keith's head and his stomach twisted with nausea. "Wait a second," he said. "What the hell is there to prevent me from quitting ACMA and just getting a job here at the Agency anyway."
"Yet another provision of the contract," Duke said and flashed another false smile. "The No-Compete Clause forbids you from seeking employment with any ACMA customer for a period of two years after you leave ACMA. That's in your employment contract with ACMA. I know that because our contract with ACMA has a provision requiring them to enforce that clause, meaning that I can force ACMA to sue you should you seek employment with the Agency."
An hour later, Keith was at Champs. He had the pool tables all to himself and racked the balls for nine-ball. He chalked his stick and then sat down and smoked a cigarette. He emptied his fish-bowl, and motioned for the bartender to pour another. Then he stood up and broke the rack, sinking the six.
He sat down again and lit another cigarette. ACMA might find him an assignment. Then everything would be fine. They might not be tickled, but there'd be money for cigarettes, pool, the occasional beer, and his mother. And Krissey. And Chris. It would all keep going to whatever end awaited them. ACMA would find him an assignment.
Keith studied the table and saw one possibility for running the table. He had to put the two in the corner and leave the cue ball there. Then put the five in the opposite corner and bring it back. That would leave a lot of green for the seven and a tricky kiss to drop the one in the side. Then, with all the clutter gone, the rest would be easy. Keith rubbed his hand on the chalk and stroked his cue stick. Then he lined up the shot.
Lansing, Michigan, 2000