MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,
a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,
a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence
and the woman important to each
6
Nine-fifteen meant
morning break. Lola McIntyre pushed through the doors of the lunchroom to take
her place at the table near the wall and watch everyone coming in. Wearing snug
brown skirt and carmine red blouse, her sandy blonde hair was clipped short
over yearning brown eyes. A charm bracelet jangled on her right wrist.
Employed at Slade for ten years, the staff was the subject of her gossip that ranged over absences and work habits, marriages and affairs, waistlines and diets, conflicts and complaints. New people added to her amusement but also contributed to anxiety.
She was invested in routine. Her job as billing consultant engaged the mind just enough without hurting, and lent self-esteem when explaining ins-and-outs of premium billing to baffled clients. Difficult calls could be passed on to a supervisor, thereby sustaining her good spirits. But someone new might be her replacement, so she listened for the slightest sound of ground giving way, easy in the lunchroom’s bright lights where conversations bounced off the yellow walls of the L-shaped room with twenty tables and a bank of vending machines.
Shy when by herself, she counted on a coalition of willing tablemates. Stockroom Bob arrived next. In his thirties with muscular arms covered in tight blond curls and hair cropped close to the ears, he wore cotton trousers, steel-toed shoes and red-and-blue checkered shirt. As he sat, he scraped a crumb from the table. “Morning, Lola.”
Next came lanky Mailroom Joe, whose ubiquitous earphones were like life support. Wearing jeans, black t-shirt and backwards cap trapping stringy hair, he stepped just inside the swinging door, then stopped to gaze into his handheld. When the door tapped his bottom, he expressed surprise – then moved the rest of the way inside. He sat wordlessly, his greetings assumed. Lola by then was squirming like a schoolgirl.
Instead, Betsy Murray came in. The petite executive secretary, who was about Bob’s age, fed quarters that ka-plunked into the coffee machine’s register. Lola called, “Come sit,” and she was going over when Bill kicked through the door. Tossing his cap on the table, he turned a chair backwards to sit then craned his shaved head, looking each of them in the eye. Betsy inched her chair away. Lola tried to calm herself.
Before her was a measure of the company. Stockroom Bob, for one, had a part in uncovering the supply cabinet overstocked with Wite-Out. Rank and file of nail-polish-sized bottles in colors of pink, blue, yellow and white were on hand despite the advent of the digital age. The Underwriting secretary derived comfort from placing orders and wouldn’t acknowledge the waste. Bob brought it to management’s attention. The secretary departed not long afterward. And Mailroom Joe, who could match mail to people sending or receiving non-work-related items, provided material for endless speculation: credit card bills, scented purple envelopes with no return address and magazines in brown wrappers. What did such routing conceal? She had always to coax him for information, but the effort worthwhile. That morning she started with Betsy. “So what’s going on upstairs?”
The secretary cupped hands around her coffee and cast eyes to the ceiling. “The execs are always coming and going. I see Stephen the least, in the mornings usually. Sometimes I don’t see him the rest of the day. The others think I’m busy with him and don’t ask. I feel useless.”
“Trade you,” Lola quipped, eliciting laughter. She turned to the chauffeur. “Is he on his Blackberry when you’re driving in?” He shrugged. “I keep my eyes on the road.”
Employed at Slade for ten years, the staff was the subject of her gossip that ranged over absences and work habits, marriages and affairs, waistlines and diets, conflicts and complaints. New people added to her amusement but also contributed to anxiety.
She was invested in routine. Her job as billing consultant engaged the mind just enough without hurting, and lent self-esteem when explaining ins-and-outs of premium billing to baffled clients. Difficult calls could be passed on to a supervisor, thereby sustaining her good spirits. But someone new might be her replacement, so she listened for the slightest sound of ground giving way, easy in the lunchroom’s bright lights where conversations bounced off the yellow walls of the L-shaped room with twenty tables and a bank of vending machines.
Shy when by herself, she counted on a coalition of willing tablemates. Stockroom Bob arrived next. In his thirties with muscular arms covered in tight blond curls and hair cropped close to the ears, he wore cotton trousers, steel-toed shoes and red-and-blue checkered shirt. As he sat, he scraped a crumb from the table. “Morning, Lola.”
Next came lanky Mailroom Joe, whose ubiquitous earphones were like life support. Wearing jeans, black t-shirt and backwards cap trapping stringy hair, he stepped just inside the swinging door, then stopped to gaze into his handheld. When the door tapped his bottom, he expressed surprise – then moved the rest of the way inside. He sat wordlessly, his greetings assumed. Lola by then was squirming like a schoolgirl.
Instead, Betsy Murray came in. The petite executive secretary, who was about Bob’s age, fed quarters that ka-plunked into the coffee machine’s register. Lola called, “Come sit,” and she was going over when Bill kicked through the door. Tossing his cap on the table, he turned a chair backwards to sit then craned his shaved head, looking each of them in the eye. Betsy inched her chair away. Lola tried to calm herself.
Before her was a measure of the company. Stockroom Bob, for one, had a part in uncovering the supply cabinet overstocked with Wite-Out. Rank and file of nail-polish-sized bottles in colors of pink, blue, yellow and white were on hand despite the advent of the digital age. The Underwriting secretary derived comfort from placing orders and wouldn’t acknowledge the waste. Bob brought it to management’s attention. The secretary departed not long afterward. And Mailroom Joe, who could match mail to people sending or receiving non-work-related items, provided material for endless speculation: credit card bills, scented purple envelopes with no return address and magazines in brown wrappers. What did such routing conceal? She had always to coax him for information, but the effort worthwhile. That morning she started with Betsy. “So what’s going on upstairs?”
The secretary cupped hands around her coffee and cast eyes to the ceiling. “The execs are always coming and going. I see Stephen the least, in the mornings usually. Sometimes I don’t see him the rest of the day. The others think I’m busy with him and don’t ask. I feel useless.”
“Trade you,” Lola quipped, eliciting laughter. She turned to the chauffeur. “Is he on his Blackberry when you’re driving in?” He shrugged. “I keep my eyes on the road.”
“What else, Betsy?”
“We hired some mucky-muck consultants who are planning to upgrade our systems. ‘For the new century’, they say. Their presentation’s like geometry.”
“Was Stephen there?”
“Oh, yes. They make nice in front of Stephen, but think he’s hiding something. They’re afraid of being left out.” She stood. “My relief’s probably pulling out her hair.” She stepped away through the room now busy with people and conversation.
A goofy grin spread across Bill’s face. “You’re all going to be replaced ---with robots. Nobody’s going to have a job. Then you can stay home and watch soap operas. The plans were in the back seat. Circles and lines and dollar signs. No people.”
Lola gave him a sour look. “No drivers, either.”
“Good! Then I can get out of this monkey suit.” He beamed like a precocious child, causing her to laugh and blush. Though married with a teenage son in the suburbs, she nurtured a crush for the big man, who seemed like the spicy reward for long commutes. The thought of the flirtation upending her life was part of the thrill, with every gesture fraught with the question --How far will I go?
They would meet in the limousine parked in the underground garage, which occupied an outlined spot near the elevator. Foot traffic was minimal after early arrivers filled the first level, but every car had to pass going to the lower ones. Roaring engines in the low-ceiled chamber made her skittish, as did the windows lowered a crack to let the heat escape. In semi-privacy, she explored a fantasy: gazing into his eyes, she saw reflections of the young offenders on the TV news, something wild though cleaned up and in uniform.
The first time she felt like a teenager gone to a forbidden liaison, with the sound of echoing heels her trailing conscience. Seeing cigarette smoke escaping the window, she nearly turned back, but he flung open the door. Inside, her brassy persona vanished and she sat tongue-tied with knees pressed together. He laughed, reaching a meaty paw to pull her over. She turned to jelly. They pressed close, but a passing car made her pull away. “Too hot,” she said. “Somewhere else maybe, not here.” He grunted and lit another cigarette, as possibility hung in the air with no place to land. They continued to meet without advancing the relationship, but on learning about the condo, she grafted onto that. Now face-to-face in the lunchroom, she asked again, “When?”
“What?”
“You know.”
“Then you know the answer.”
She squalled at his putting her off, while the others watched, thinking they knew what was at stake but not sure. “She’s there all the time, almost like she lives there. Sometimes when Mr. Slade goes up, he doesn’t ask me to wait.”
“Well, I’ll tell you something for free. He’s not the only one she spends time with.”
“Who?”
“Take me and I’ll tell.”
“Unless,” he slapped the table, “I figure it out myself.” Bob jumped up, saying he had to get back, and Joe slinked off behind him. The consultant and the chauffeur rose, her face angling toward his. But as her eyes closed, she became aware of a gathering stillness: the chatter had stopped. With eyes closed, no one could see, but that was fantasy. Instead, she patted his chest and made for the door, propelled by a press of eyeballs. Break time was over.
“We hired some mucky-muck consultants who are planning to upgrade our systems. ‘For the new century’, they say. Their presentation’s like geometry.”
“Was Stephen there?”
“Oh, yes. They make nice in front of Stephen, but think he’s hiding something. They’re afraid of being left out.” She stood. “My relief’s probably pulling out her hair.” She stepped away through the room now busy with people and conversation.
A goofy grin spread across Bill’s face. “You’re all going to be replaced ---with robots. Nobody’s going to have a job. Then you can stay home and watch soap operas. The plans were in the back seat. Circles and lines and dollar signs. No people.”
Lola gave him a sour look. “No drivers, either.”
“Good! Then I can get out of this monkey suit.” He beamed like a precocious child, causing her to laugh and blush. Though married with a teenage son in the suburbs, she nurtured a crush for the big man, who seemed like the spicy reward for long commutes. The thought of the flirtation upending her life was part of the thrill, with every gesture fraught with the question --How far will I go?
They would meet in the limousine parked in the underground garage, which occupied an outlined spot near the elevator. Foot traffic was minimal after early arrivers filled the first level, but every car had to pass going to the lower ones. Roaring engines in the low-ceiled chamber made her skittish, as did the windows lowered a crack to let the heat escape. In semi-privacy, she explored a fantasy: gazing into his eyes, she saw reflections of the young offenders on the TV news, something wild though cleaned up and in uniform.
The first time she felt like a teenager gone to a forbidden liaison, with the sound of echoing heels her trailing conscience. Seeing cigarette smoke escaping the window, she nearly turned back, but he flung open the door. Inside, her brassy persona vanished and she sat tongue-tied with knees pressed together. He laughed, reaching a meaty paw to pull her over. She turned to jelly. They pressed close, but a passing car made her pull away. “Too hot,” she said. “Somewhere else maybe, not here.” He grunted and lit another cigarette, as possibility hung in the air with no place to land. They continued to meet without advancing the relationship, but on learning about the condo, she grafted onto that. Now face-to-face in the lunchroom, she asked again, “When?”
“What?”
“You know.”
“Then you know the answer.”
She squalled at his putting her off, while the others watched, thinking they knew what was at stake but not sure. “She’s there all the time, almost like she lives there. Sometimes when Mr. Slade goes up, he doesn’t ask me to wait.”
“Well, I’ll tell you something for free. He’s not the only one she spends time with.”
“Who?”
“Take me and I’ll tell.”
“Unless,” he slapped the table, “I figure it out myself.” Bob jumped up, saying he had to get back, and Joe slinked off behind him. The consultant and the chauffeur rose, her face angling toward his. But as her eyes closed, she became aware of a gathering stillness: the chatter had stopped. With eyes closed, no one could see, but that was fantasy. Instead, she patted his chest and made for the door, propelled by a press of eyeballs. Break time was over.
The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.
