by Dan H Kind
Chapter 10
An Invidious Interview with an Igneous Indian
Jack Whiskey awoke hangover-free on Monday morning. This was strange because he had consumed many pints of beer yesterday and gone to bed before the sun went down. And he had lost his job for reasons unexplained. Maybe someone down at corporate—whoever had written that strange note—could clear up the mistake. He sprang from bed and skipped his way into the kitchen, whistling. He ate two bowls of Lucky Charms for breakfast, drank two pots of coffee, shaved, and took a shower. He dressed in gray and black camo cargo shorts, throwback Washington Redskins T-shirt, and burgundy Vans. When he got outside it was a beautiful day, so he decided to walk the mile over to the corporate office.
When he reached downtown Eden, he could smell the flowers—and the horse crap, which littered the cobblestone streets—from yards away. His eyes were sharper than usual—objects appeared clearer, colors more vivid—and he took in the hi-def surroundings with glee. The cool breeze blowing through the air effectively canceled out the humidity, which made for a pleasant morning. He walked past manicured hedges and quaint colonial houses in a state of bliss. Even the ever-milling, always-roving packs of tourists didn’t bother him today; they were just the creatures of Earth, going about their business like the birds and the bees (although tourists took snapshots and carried credit cards).
He strolled past the Magazine, the tower wherein the colonial locals had stored weapons and supplies in case of outside attack. In the eighteenth century the place had been a fortress, but was now a made-cheap reproduction. A twelve-foot-high wall of crossed wooden stakes jutting into the air like sharpened teeth surrounded the conical brick edifice.
He jaunted past Eden Parish Church, the first Anglican church built in the New World, which to this day boasted a thriving congregation. Its brick exterior was worn by time, and a graveyard filled with crumbling gravestones stretching all the way back to the seventeenth century surrounded the holy place like a funeral shroud worn by a being of light.
He strutted past the many colonial-style inns and taverns, where serving wenches served colonial foods at far-from-colonial prices. It was fun to get roaring drunk at these places, probably the most authentic thing to do in all of Colonial Eden.
He sauntered past the “Thomas Jefferson House,” where ol' Tom himself had stayed while attending the House of Burgesses in true colonial Eden. The building had burned down in 1799, and was currently being dug up for “historical research.” Dump-trucks had been hauling load after load of dirt out of the cordoned-off site, which was protected from prying eyes by a high fence and patrolled by Colonial Eden Security at all hours.
He waltzed past the gaol, the stocks, the Print Shop and Book Bindery, the Capitol building, and the liberty pole, from which hung a fake barrel of tar and a bag of chicken feathers. A hand-painted sign atop the T-shaped post read: “A Cure for the Refractory.”
Colonial Eden's corporate office was located on Duke of Gobstopper Street, a stone's throw from the Jims River. Its black-glass exterior stuck with incongruous arrogance within the redbrick, wood, and cobblestone of the rest of downtown Eden. Jack grimaced when he reached the steps of the building, his mood taken down a notch upon sighting the misplaced monstrosity, and walked inside.
The lobby of corporate headquarters was adorned with tasteless paintings of various reproduction buildings populating the greater Eden area. A small-scale model of downtown Eden in a glass display case dominated the center of the room. A row of uninviting metal chairs lined one wall, and a magazine rack filled with shameless Colonial Eden propaganda another. The sunlight that managed to slink in through the tinted windows was a murky gloomlight that made the place look spooky.
Jack announced himself to the receptionist, who told him to go up to the sixth floor to Mister Waa's office. He found the elevator and pressed the button for the sixth floor (this was unusual, because the last time he had been here there had been only five floors).
The sixth floor consisted of a stark hallway that seemed far longer than it should have been, with a single door at its end. Weird floor-design, thought Jack. After taking what seemed like thousands of steps to get there, he reached the nondescript black door at the end of the corridor.
“(ENTER)” intoned a deep voice from within.
Unable to do otherwise, Jack pushed open the door and walked inside.
The featureless office was lit with a faint blue evanescence that seemed to emanate from nowhere and everywhere. A man with a face that looked to be carved from sandstone sat behind an ancient-looking wrought-iron desk, peering at a laptop. He did not look up when Jack entered. The sourceless light gleamed off his massive shaved skull, blinding all who entered this dire little realm. Because of the last name Waa, Jack had been expecting someone of an Oriental persuasion, but this man looked to be a full-blooded American Indian.
Jack stood there, shivering in a draft and wondering why he had bothered to come over here.
Finally, Mister Waa looked up from the laptop. “Whiskey Jack, I presume,” he rumbled in a subterranean monotone. He did not proffer a hand to shake. “I am Sam Waa, the executive vice-president of Personnel, Research and Development, Colonial Operations, Historic Area Security, All Matters of Administration, Human Resources, Bookkeeping and Payroll, Analytics, Technical Operations and Web Site Design, Public Relations and Public Perception, Marketing, Advertising, and Making Every Employee's Working Life Here at Colonial Eden, Incorporated, a Living Hell. Please have a seat.”
“The executive vice-president of what now?” Jack remained standing, refusing to show he was impressed. “That's just strange. I’ve worked here for years, and I’ve never heard of you.”
Sam Waa gave Jack a look that could have wilted every garden in downtown Eden. “It is a new position that I was brought in from—ha—out of town to fill. I said (SIT DOWN.)”
Jack sat down in the metal chair fronting the desk. He had no choice in the matter. Sam Waa's voice seemed to rumble upwards from the bowels of the Earth, through the body, and into the listener's mind like an unstoppable auditory earthquake.
“A discrepancy in your time as an employee with Colonial Eden, Incorporated, has recently been brought to my attention.” Sam Waa's eyelids twitched, as if he was trying to imply something he couldn't say. “I trust you received my note?”
“Yes, but I don’t understand,” said Jack. “I’ve worked here for ten years without a single problem.”
Sam Waa's pupils winked from black to reddish-orange and flickered like the fires of Creation. “Actually, that’s the whole problem, because you have worked for us for far longer than that. You have been on the payroll at Colonial Eden since 1946, the first year of the company’s existence.”
Jack’s jaw dropped. He could not tear his gaze from Sam Waa's blazing eyes. “What?! But how can that be?!”
“I was hoping you could inform me of that, Mister Whiskey.”
Jack's mind was frazzled, scrambled egg-style, and he did not reply. He had had some important questions to ask before he walked in here, but could now remember none of them.
Sam Waa's stone face shifted into a disappointed scowl, while his eyes raged like exploding suns. “After review, we deemed it best for all involved parties to instantly break ties.” He looked down at his laptop and fluttered a hand. “This interview has reached its end. (NOW GET OUT OF MY OFFICE.)”
And Jack Whiskey, unwilling automaton, stood up and walked out of the office and corporate headquarters without another word.