Duplicity A New Beginning

Brent was our team’s director, and he had a special talent for popping up like a prairie dog every time you let your foot off the gas for a nanosecond. Every time. His surprise appearances were always coupled with some sort of “gotcha” comment, delivered with a look of condescending patience. A look like, “I understand, because I’m smarter than you, but if you keep trying and I’m patient enough, we just might get past your stupidity one day.”

When Brent spoke, Steven’s chubby frame jolted upright at the same time Lori spun 180 degrees, awkwardly squeezing Nick between them. The Stonewall Street spectacle was officially over.

The company couldn’t have found a more dedicated VP. In the six years I reported to him, Brent only missed a half-day of work, to attend his father’s funeral. He wore his ID badge on a blue lanyard around his neck at all times. He wore it at lunch. He wore it at offsite company teambuilding events at the Bobcats games. He probably wore it to bed every night.

“Guys, don’t forget, 2 p.m. today in the big conference room, instead of 2:30,” Brent told us.

“And Gus, I’ll see you in my office at 10, right?”

“Yep, I’ll be over there in just a few.”

I had caught wind of my imminent termination two weeks before when Allison from HR mistakenly sent an e-mail to me rather than Brent, explaining the timetable for a new hire’s computer setup and training schedule. Some guy named Jeff would be taking in the view of uptown through my window on Monday morning.

“Bring your FY 2010 revised figures, too, please,” he said, glancing around my office.

“Oh, and the wreck down there,” he said, nodding toward the window. “A bread truck rolled over on top of a Honda. Crushed a girl to death.” Brent had C-Span playing on a flat panel TV in his office day and night, and the bottom of the screen had burn-in from the stock ticker. He had probably just surfed the local network affiliates for the best helicopter footage of the crash.

Because of the e-mail, getting fired wasn’t a surprise. In fact, I was so sure that I’d be leaving the building for the last time at 10:15 a.m. today, that I had made plans to meet Stella at Skyland Diner at 10:30 for breakfast. The only real surprise was that Brent turned off his flat screen when he fired me.

The elevator ride to the lobby was long and uncomfortable. Dantavius, the 280-pound security guard, who normally would have been talking about Panthers football the whole way down, was mum. He stared straight ahead at the steel doors with cold eyes and pursed lips like he was escorting a maximum-security prisoner to his cell.

“Armanti Edwards going to run a couple back for us this year, you think?” I asked, not seeing any reason why we couldn’t still be buddies. I had talked to the guy practically every morning for the past six years.

Six years didn’t mean anything to Dantavius apparently, and he maintained his new strict code of silence all the way to the sidewalk.

“I see you’re still in one piece,” Stella smiled, looking up from her menu. We sat in a booth at Skyland Diner and, aside from an elderly couple gazing out at South Boulevard two tables away, we had the place to ourselves. The waitress set down two cups of coffee and walked over to the older couple.

“It went exactly like I expected,” I explained. “He had me bring in last year’s numbers, pointed to the red ink, and called security. I was in the car by 10:20.

“It was kind of anticlimactic, really. And you know that gigantic security guard, Dantavius, that won’t shut up about the Panthers?” I continued. “He didn’t say a fucking word to me the whole way out of the building. Not one word. Wouldn’t even talk about the Panthers. That guy loves the Panthers. That’s scary, actually. That’s like Donald Trump not wanting to talk about money.

“They don’t let you pack up your stuff apparently now either, it’s just straight to the door. I guess they spare you the humiliation of walking out with a cardboard box, and just send you your stuff by mail.”

“So is Eminem going to take your office now?” she asked, laughing.

Stella had the kind of natural beauty and charisma that you couldn’t turn away from. She could melt even the most bitter people with her smile. With just a little eye makeup she could be deadly. She was out of my league for sure.

I wasn’t quite ready to laugh it up just yet, though. Surprise or not, I was still numb from the shock of being asked to leave the place where I’d spent six years of my life and being escorted to the door. Text messages were flooding in now from Steven, Lori and Nick.

“Oh, come on Gus. Lighten up. We knew this was coming.”

The lunchtime crowd began filing in, and a group of four young guys in tailored suits eyed Stella as they slid into the booth behind us. The woman at the register shouted something in Greek, and the grill began to hiss loudly back in the kitchen.

“You’re glad it’s over, right? I mean, working for Brent? Come on. What a douche.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Capital is a much better fit anyway.”

“You’re still having drinks with all those guys at Zink at 6 tonight, right?”

“As far as I know, we’re still on,” I lied.

“So, it’s pretty much a done deal, then?” Stella said, swallowing a bite of English muffin and wiping her mouth. “Just got to get your comp package figured out?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

When I found out I was losing my job, I had panicked and created the fictitious story about a better job opportunity with another company. The lie had now advanced past the point of no return. There were no opportunities at any other companies right now, though, and she should have known that.

We had an $80K wedding on Isle of Palms in two months, and our architect had just delivered the tiny model of our new home yesterday afternoon. A month ago, a backhoe had unceremoniously razed a brick ranch in a wooded lot just off of Wendover Road to make way for our new 4,500-square-foot place.

Stella hated lying more than anything. Actually, that was the only thing in the world she hated. All that charm and appeal evaporated when she smelled a lie.
If I had found the right time to tell her that our wedding and new home may not happen, though, I’m not sure she would have been able to hear it anyway. In this case the truth would only do more harm than good.

Besides, I had a plan.

The four guys at the next table leaned forward as they rehashed details about the bread truck and the unfortunate Honda. I heard one of them whisper something about the smell of burning hair.

“Cool. And you know we still need to cut that check to Tracy,” Stella continued, going down her mental punch list.

“The new photographer she recommended is a little more expensive, but his work is way better. Definitely worth the money.”

My stomach churned. Our wedding was two months away, and our planner was already juicing me dry. She wanted another six grand by the end of the month.

“Yeah, I know. I’ll get it out tomorrow.”

“And how crazy was that crash this morning, huh?” Stella continued, talking louder over the increasing noise of shuffling tables and chairs. When she said this, the four young guys at the next table all looked over at us before leaning back in for more carnage. It was noon now, and the lunch crowd had brought the diner to life. The grill sizzled loudly back in the kitchen.

“Yeah, I heard a bread truck flipped on top of an Accord over on Stonewall Street and caught on fire,” I said, sipping my coffee. “Some girl died.”

“Really?” Stella said, setting down her fork. “I heard it was a BMW.”

I lay in the middle of the stage at Freedom Park alone, and spent the afternoon nursing a six pack of Miller Lite tallboys. Cicadas screamed at the top of their lungs as the steamy August afternoon heated up around me. I was in a cave – a cool island oasis of chipped concrete and ’60s architecture, surrounded by punishing heat waves and wilted grass. For hours, my only company was a group of 30-something-year-old moms across the lake. They were dressed for tennis, and each one of them gripped an expensive-looking stroller with bicycle tires. Except for the occasional curious glance, they ignored me. I’d bought the beer from the midtown Texaco – the one with the walk-in beer cooler – and the cans were so cold they were making my fingers numb. They made my body numb, too, and I lay back and closed my eyes, and wondered whether this was what prison beds felt like.

On the third ring, I sat upright. I wasn’t able to get my phone out of my pocket by the time the call had gone to voicemail, so I just stood up and stretched. It was late afternoon now, and the park was much hotter, and completely deserted. It was way too intense for little kids, and the four tennis moms were gone. Heat shimmered off of the lake and even the geese looked tired as they circled impatiently.  The brown paper bag with the six empty cans next to me hadn’t moved.

I now had a total of eight missed calls and 23 text messages, and as I drove north on Tryon Street, past the Amtrak station and a dozen used car dealerships all offering easy credit, Rob’s voicemail confirmed that we were still on for 6 pm.

He’d be wearing a black baseball hat and waiting for me at the warehouse off of N. Davidson St.

~ Matt Kokenes