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
20
Lola
McIntyre sat at the usual table, waiting, as others took their
spots in the break room to empty paper bags and unseal plastic containers. She
had observed the night-before preparation ritual in advance of a long morning
commute, but the ham-and-cheese-on-white stayed in her oversized purse despite
her growling stomach.
Once, at
the point of reaching in, Bill had stepped inside the door and stood there in
the black broad-shouldered tunic that sent a charge through her. He jerked his
head and she followed him. Though lunch turned out to be fast
food eaten in the limo, it was the most romantic noontime she could remember
since high school so, in hope of another lunchtime summons, she waited
as long as possible.
Mailroom
Joe dropped a wrinkled brown bag on the table and took a seat. His white ear
buds were in place under stringy brown hair that touched his shoulders. Then
Stockroom Bob came in, looking neat in checkered short-sleeved shirt that
showed off his muscles. A Tupperware man, he placed a rectangular container and
two small round ones before him, nudging one into alignment. “Aren’t you
eating?” he teased. She nodded, eyes fixed on the door. Then Bill entered.
“Driving
Slade to the Palisades. Not much time.” He pulled an apple from his pocket and
bit in. The statement from the tight-lipped chauffeur triggered questions and
conversation about the CEO who was going to tour the mansion owned by an ally,
where Dave Forester’s wedding would take place the next month. Joe
mentioned the fancy hand-lettered envelopes that had passed through the
mailroom. Lola averred they were the invitations then expressed excitement over
who’d receive them, followed by depression for being excluded. “It’s a big
event in the company. It's not right we don’t get to go.” She tossed her head and
the charms on her bracelet jingled. The blonde wave plastered to her
face did not move.
“I’m
going.” The chauffeur wasn’t the kind of guy to boast of such things.
Lola blinked rapidly and began to plead. Joe seemed to wake from a slumber. Even Bob, who liked things in their proper
place, displayed a kind of expectation. “You want to go? You have to work.”
He looked around the table. They were unanimous. “I’ll tell the caterer.” Lola
shouted “Hooray!” to smiles all around.
Bill headed for the door, and she hurried
after to push him into the hallway. She whispered, “I want to tell you: I’ve
been to the condo.” She paused for effect but the face beneath the shaved head
did not crack. “Helen asked me. It’s lovely! The view! The furniture! You
should have taken me. Listen. Let’s go together. What do you say?”
“She
lives there.” Before she could object, he added, “After work she doesn’t go to
an apartment or anyplace else. She stays. When she goes out, she comes back. I got to
go.” He left her staring with mouth wide open. She had thought to
zing him; instead her mind was racing to catch up: Slade buys the condo, transfers
Helen. She must be (blank). She dates Atom, then he leaves because (blank). Bill is
following so (blank).
As a
storyteller, Lola strived for certain effects but right then wasn’t sure of the
gist. Delighted to deliver pithy comments to elicit laughs, her subjects often
were the same as on TV comedies. She favored stories that ended happy after
frustrated desire. She wasn’t good at drama. With something of graver import,
her voice croaked to a halt mid-sentence, forcing her audience to complete the
thought so they'd believe she knew more than she was willing to say.
Her mind
drifted. A zero-minute commute, nice! Helen dreaded transferring to the condo,
and now lives there. Funny, yes? Wanting to laugh, she felt something crawling
up her back. She headed to her workstation.
Good stories start as first drafts. She was wont to try hers out on Mimosa
Liang, the co-worker in the next cubicle. Her qualifications were that they
didn’t share the same friends, she tended to hone in on consequences and had an easy-to-read face.
Petite
with long black hair and dark eyes, Mimosa liked living on the happy side, so
seeing Lola approach evoked a frown. As she listened her face
expressed a holy sorrow. “The poor wife! At home
with the kids, while he spends time with the other woman. That’s humiliating!
No wonder we never see her, or else he keeps her away so she doesn’t find out.
What would she do? The kids have priority, sure. I didn't think Helen was that way, but he isn’t so sure about her if he’s
having her followed. I could see her liking Atom. He must have been a threat. I
don’t like this. It’s not pleasant. Somebody’s going to pay. Why are you
telling me this?”
Signaling
confidentiality with a finger to the lips, Lola retreated into her own cubicle
with a better sense of inevitable crash and injury. She blushed thinking about
workplace romances, but was thrilled more than
cautioned, certain of being beyond the flack zone where she could watch
harm-free.
The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.
