“Davis, Bill in Contracts tells me you still haven’t finalized that Anderson deal.”
Even on the cheap answering machine Bob had bought after leaving his wife six months earlier, the threat in his boss’s voice came through loud and clear.
“We can’t wait any longer. It’s been hanging fire for too long. You need to get him to sign this contract right now. When I hired you last year, despite your lack of recommendations, I made it clear that you had to perform—not spend company money taking multiple trips when one should do it! Your flight leaves at 7 AM. Get that contract signed this time,” the words “or else” not heard but implied.
Bob rubbed the back of his neck as the words echoed in his mind. He knew he was in trouble. His sales figures had been dropping and, for three months running, he had failed to meet his quota. There were younger, more aggressive men waiting to take his territory. It wasn’t that he liked his job—he hated it with every fiber of his being. But it was his, and he’d be damned before he let some sonofabitch upstart take what was his.
But he was tired and the prospect of a flight to Milwaukee did little to bolster his energy. It was close to midnight and he had just come from a pointless trip to a backwoods town with no deal in hand, knowing full well that it would result in another black mark against him.
His plan had been to stall his arrival at the office the next morning until he knew his boss would be tied up in meetings, hoping to delay the inevitable review of his performance. But while the Milwaukee trip would accomplish that goal, it would do so at a cost that was more than he wanted to pay.
“I’m sick of it!” he raged. “I’ve been there longer than any of those other bastards and he thinks he can replace me! I’ll show him!”
Yanking his sweat-stained shirt from his body, Bob dropped it on the floor before heading to the kitchenette. He was tired, but he knew that if he didn’t have a couple of stiff drinks, he’d never get the few hours of sleep his body so desperately needed.
He grabbed a chipped glass from the kitchen cabinet and then slammed shut the door, the sound bouncing off the walls of the cheap apartment. It was all he could afford after paying the mortgage on the house. His house, but she was the one living in it while he was stuck in a cramped and dirty hellhole.
Knocking back another scotch—the third that night—he contemplated how he would get even with all of them: his unreasonable boss, his stupid bitch of a wife, the damned super who still hadn’t fixed the air conditioner even though it was sweltering hot, thanks to the July heat wave. He hated them all, even the damned answering machine that never gave him good news, only bad.
“I should have stayed at Petersen’s,” he mumbled, splashing more liquor in his glass before undoing the button on his too-tight pants. “And I would have, too, if that stupid secretary hadn’t made such a big deal over everything!”
It was nothing, really. So he caught a feel at the end of the quarter party—so what? It wasn’t like he had stripped her naked! Besides, judging from the shock on her face, she probably hadn’t been touched in years! She should have been glad that someone noticed what were, in reality, some pretty sub-standard boobs.
But all that sexual harassment crap came down on his head and he was out on his ear, after more than 15 years of earning money for that damned company. That’s how he ended up in this job, working for an idiot who thought threatening him would do the trick.
“That’s what you think,” he mumbled, as he crawled into bed, still holding the half-full tumbler. “You can’t threaten me!”
The next morning, the alarm rang far too early. Fumbling for the off button, he knocked it on the floor.
“Goddammit,” he swore, as he tried to find it in the dark. It kept on ringing, the shrill tone reminiscent of his goddamned wife. She never shut up either, at least not until Bob gave her a good crack. Then she would stop her whining. He never regretted it either, he recalled, finally locating the off button. A man was entitled to some peace in his home. But the last time—well, maybe he had gone too far. All he knew was that it seemed like a better idea to leave under his own steam then to wait until she came to her senses.
“Then I’ll go back and teach her a lesson,” he said to himself, scraping a dull razor against his chin and cutting himself in the process. Damn it. He was supposed to pick up a fresh pack of razors last night, but he was so frustrated after the trip that he decided he had earned a drink or two. And then, by the time the bar closed, it was too late to make it to the store. He stuck a piece of toilet paper on the cut, trying to keep the blood from dripping onto the shirt he pulled from the closet. It was wrinkled, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that now. He was out of time. He had to get the cab and get to the airport or he’d never make the flight, and then there would be hell to pay.
“Once I get that contract signed, I’ll shove it in that jackass’s face,” he said to himself as he pushed the cab door open at the airport. “Then maybe I can take a few days off. I earned it after all.” He tossed a couple of bills at the driver, taking a deliberate pleasure in not including the expected tip. The bill was high enough. Why should that damned cabbie get anything more?
Nobody tips me, he thought, shuffling through security. Why should I tip anyone else for doing what they were hired to do?
At least I can get a seat and read the paper once I board, he thought, pushing his way through the waiting area, crowded even at that early hour. But as he reached the gate, he heard the announcement: “Passengers waiting for the 7 AM flight to Milwaukee, please be advised—there is a slight delay due to bad weather.”
“Bad weather, my ass,” Bob muttered, pacing impatiently in the waiting area. “The damned pilot probably can’t get his lazy ass out of bed.”
The other passengers shifted uncomfortably as he strode back and forth, his anger a palpable force. But he didn’t care that the other passengers could hear his tirade. Maybe if they got off their butts and complained about the incompetence of the flight crew, something would be done!
“Instead you all sit around like sheep waiting for the slaughter,” he muttered. “Not me, though! I’m not going to sit quietly and take it!” He shifted his focus from the waiting passengers to the woman behind the counter. “Damn it, how much longer?”
Without looking up, she answered, “We expect the plane to be arriving momentarily, sir.”
She turned away to answer a co-worker’s question—“Like I’m not even here!” Bob thought angrily. He stood there a few minutes more, but when she left the counter and headed down the jetway, he gave up and headed to the bar.
“But I’ll show you!” he said loudly enough to make certain everyone could hear him. “You just wait until I get back! I’ll file a complaint against you, against the whole damned airlines! I’m a paying customer and this is a crock of shit!”
Even the arrival of the plane some two hours later failed to assuage his anger. He knew what the delay had cost him. No way would he make his 10 AM meeting. “And it’s all the fault of incompetents like those idiots flying this tin can!” he blasted to the flight attendant distributing coffee and crackers. “And you call this coffee?” He waved the foam cup around, splashing the jacket of a seatmate who shifted as far from Bob as he could within the confines of the narrow seat.
He shoved the cup back at the attendant and then pulled a manila folder from his briefcase to glance at the proposals he had prepared for the customer’s review. Everything the bastard wanted was there: the terms, the conditions, the specs and the MSDS. All that was needed was a signature and Bob could fly back to his boss and shove the damned paper in his face.
But there would be something—there was always something—and he had that familiar sinking feeling that this time, like so many others, he would fail. No, not fail. “It’s not me,” he said to the aisle. “It’s the idiots I am dealing with. The stupid, sonofa—”
“Sir? Sir?” It was the blonde flight attendant, the one who looked like she had a hell of a boob job. “Sir, I must ask you to keep your voice down.”
“Why? Am I bothering someone? Who complained? I wouldn’t be this pissed off if you people could have started the flight on time!”
“Sir, please,” she continued, but he knew that the politeness was just for form’s sake. If necessary, she would call the captain and they would institute some kind of bizarre retribution that would only land him in hotter water with his boss.
He shut his mouth even though he wanted to tell her to go fuck herself, and, satisfied, she moved away.
One more indignity to lay at the airline’s door, one more aggravation that was really the fault of his boss who ran the company like some prison, with threats and punishment handed out to people like Bob, who was just trying to do his job despite the idiots he had to deal with.
Things were no better in Milwaukee, where a steady rain drenched him as he hailed cab after cab in vain. The one that finally stopped had some kind of PC rule about no smoking, the driver informed Bob when he lit his cigarette.
“No smoke,” the cabbie said in his heavily-accented voice, pointing out a sign that told Bob in six different languages that his craving for nicotine would have to wait. And so would his meeting, the secretary informed him upon his arrival. “We had you scheduled for 10 this morning because Mr. Anderson would be out of the office the rest of the day. Perhaps tomorrow?” she added, but with no great hope expressed in her tone.
“Fine,” Bob answered between gritted teeth. “I’ll be back first thing tomorrow.”
He left, barely controlling the urge to slam the door behind him. Now he had to find a place where he could get a decent drink and some sleep before tomorrow’s hoped-for meeting—not that he had much hope for the outcome. In his experience, once things started going wrong, they usually continued that way.
He stopped at a bar, grabbed a late lunch, and had more than a few scotches before heading up to his room. Hours to fill with nothing to do but flip through the channels. Nothing to do but nurse his anger—at his boss, his wife, the world.
And the anger stayed, pent up and building, clear through to the next day. Anderson grudgingly agreed to see him—“I’m a busy man and this is quite an inconvenience,”—and then took forever over the paperwork, scrutinizing each document to find a flaw. Bob fumed, shifting in his seat as each piece of paper was picked up and gone over.
“Just sign the damned thing!” he thought to himself. “For Chrissakes, sign it!”
“Excuse me?” The man looked across the desk at Bob, who realized belatedly that he spoken his last thoughts aloud. “You may be in a hurry, but where my company’s money is concerned—”
“Sorry, sorry,” Bob muttered quickly, trying to keep the salesman’s smile fixed to his face. “Bad night, you know?”
Anderson was apparently unsatisfied with the halfhearted excuse. “I’ll need to have my department head review the proposals and give you a call later this week with our decision,” he said, standing up to signal the end of the meeting.
Bob’s raging continued through the return flight and the long cab ride back to his apartment. “If the plane hadn’t been late, if that idiot had just taken the time to make his decision instead of palming it off on some damned department guy, if—”
Bob jammed his key into the deadbolt on the apartment door. “I’m sick of this shit! That stupid bastard had no idea what he wanted! He was just jerking me around!”
As he dropped his bags inside the door, the blinking light of the answering machine caught his eye. Messages. That was all he needed. Probably from her, begging him to come back. He would go back in his own good time, when she had learned her lesson. But she didn’t have to know that. And every time she called, he decided to wait a little longer, make her pay a little more.
“This is a message for Mr. Davis from Credit Systems,” the tinny voice said. “Please contact our office regarding the overdue payment on your account.”
The next message wasn’t much better. Something from the utility company—electric or gas, he didn’t really know or care—about a shut-off notice. The third, predictably, was from his wife.
“Bob…” His wife’s voice filled the room, but there was something different in her tone. One of the things he had always detested about the woman—one of the many things—was her mealy-mouthed way of speaking.
“Bob, if it’s okay with you,” she would always start, “I was going to go to the store now.”
Most of the time, just to watch her wilt, he would refuse her permission, and instead tell her to go sit somewhere out of his sight. If he had had particularly bad day, he might even grab her arm and push her into a room, locking her away until he felt like opening the door. Sometimes, he wouldn’t let her out until the next morning.
But she never learned her lesson. When she was finally out of the room and within hearing distance again, her voice had the same weak-willed spineless tone. It was a good thing for her he had to go to work every day. That voice of hers could have pushed him over the edge otherwise.
But this time, her voice held a different quality—stronger, more determined.
“I’ve decided to file for divorce, Bob. And don’t bother coming here. I’ve got a restraining order against you. Pictures, too, of what you did the last time you were here. You can’t touch me anymore.”
Pictures? What the hell was she talking about? Pictures of what? He hardly touched the bitch, just shoved her against the wall a few times. Okay, maybe he did pull at her arm, but so what? If she had taken it like a man instead of crying and pleading, he might have let her off a little easier.
The rage that had been simmering in him since the trip boiled over. H grabbed the answering machine and threw it across the floor, the still plugged-in electric cord keeping it from hitting the wall.
“I’m sick of it!” he yelled, kicking the helpless box. “All you people do is demand things from me and I’m sick of it! One of these days—”
He paused when he realized the machine was struggling to play the last message. He picked it up and tossed it back onto the counter. The cover, cracked from the last time he had sent it flying through the air, had finally been broken beyond repair.
Damned machine. A worthless piece of crap made in some two-bit factory overseas—
“You’ve had your last warning, Davis.” It was his boss’s voice, more cold and ruthless than Bob had ever heard him. “Get in here and clean out your desk. You’re through.”
“I’m through?” Bob yelled. “I’m through? You lousy bastard! You think you can let me go? I’ll show you!”
He punched in the number of the office, and when he reached his boss, he began yelling.
“You bastard! I’ll get you! You can’t fire me! You’re nothing but scum, do you hear me? Scum! And when I get there—”
The line went dead. Bob threw the receiver down and tore from the apartment. He’d had enough. He’d go to the office and kill that son of a bitch. And then he would go after his wife and kill her, too. “Restraining order”—no stinking piece of paper could stop him!
What did stop him was two uniformed police officers who were waiting for him inside the office complex at his boss’s request. Bob didn’t have a chance, especially when they saw him reach inside his jacket.
“I don’t understand it,” his boss kept saying, as the ambulance pulled away from the curb. There were no sirens or flashing lights required, no need for speed. The officer’s aim was far too accurate. “He was raving about being fired. But I hadn’t even talked to him since he returned.”
And despite their careful searching, the police could find no clue to his behavior inside his desk drawers, or even at his apartment, although the room’s disarray raised eyebrows
“Looks like the answering machine took a beating pretty regularly,” one said, noting the missing lid and cracks across the body. “Guy had a hell of a temper.”
“Play the messages back,” the other one suggested. “Maybe there’s something on the tape.”
They pushed the button, the machine’s voice filling the room, repeating over and over: “There are no messages. There are no messages. There are no messages.”
A passionate fiction writer, Nancy Christie’s short stories have appeared in literary magazines such as Full of Crow, Fiction365, Red Fez, Wanderings, The Chaffin Journal and Xtreme. In addition to her upcoming short fiction collection, Traveling Left of Center, she has also published two short fiction e-books—Annabelle and Alice in Wonderland. For more information, visit her website at www.NancyChristie.com or connect with her on Facebook, Twitter and LinkedIn.
