“Safe flight,” Hugh said, already closing the door on them.
They walked down the staircase, slowly.
“I don’t want to go,” Mark said.
Fred nodded, not entirely without sympathy.
“I’d like to stay here,” Mark said. “I, I like it here. I like my job.” He felt it starting to happen and he desperately tried to stop it, tried to stop the blubbering. “It’s, I, I need this, I like this job, I know I talk a lot of shit but I don’t want to go.” A single tear slipped embarrassingly over his cheekbone and dripped off his face into oblivion.
“Mark,” Fred said. “This is a Big Promotion. This is a Great Opportunity.” Something twisted in Mark’s stomach, like a kneecap popping out at the bottom of a quarterback sack. He wanted to throw up, but all he’d had that morning was orange juice. “We’re looking for REAL Team Players here. We need you to step up.”
“This isn’t fair,” he said, petulantly. His tone surprised him. “You’re just…you’re just using me. To get out.”
Fred smiled.
Said nothing.
“I’m expecting big things from you,” Fred said, clasping Mark’s shoulder manfully. He was already looking a little younger, Mark—Mr. Mellon—thought. Just a little bit. And a little bit more tomorrow. He reached into his pocket. “Oh, Hugh took care of your rental, it’s parked out in front.” He slapped the key into Mr. Mellon’s hand.
They looked into one another’s eyes one final time.
Mark tried to summon some kind of resistance. Something. Anything.
Fred’s eyes were ice-blue walls.
He crumpled, sinking back inside his suit. Fred gripped his hand and shook it vigorously.
“You have a good flight home, sir!” he said loudly. Mark watched himself return the handshake.
“Yes,” he said, trying to think of something appropriate to say. “Yes, good luck to you, young man.” He didn’t have to look around to know that the employees, the shoppers, everyone, everything inside the store was looking right at him. Making sure he was on board. Making sure he was a REAL Team Player.
He was.
Mr. Mellon shuffled down the rest of the stairs and took that long walk down Aisle 5. Past the mouthwash and toothpaste and dental floss, the shaving cream and razor blades, the hairbrushes and nail polish. Then it was out past the girl at the register (“Goodbye, sir!”), out into the sweltering morning heat, and behind the wheel of the rental car.
Traffic was light, and he got to the airport sooner than expected.
Patrick Flanagan was born, he grew up, he has five previous writing credits (with Grand Mal Press, Library of Fantasy Press, Living Dead Press, and Sam’s Dot Publishing), and, well, that brings us up to date.
Agnes: A Love Story
David C. Hayes
13
His wife, Maddy, didn’t believe he was actually working late. In some sort of delusional, two-lines-of-coke-a-day, suburban housewife paranoia, she actually thought he had a lover on the side.
Him!
Jack Feinberg, partner of Feinberg, Feinberg and Johnson does not have time for an affair. Jack Feinberg doesn’t have the patience to put up with another woman.
The partners of Feinberg (Jack), Feinberg (Jack’s brother, Tim) and Johnson (Tim’s wife, Arlene, under her maiden name) were the only employees of the firm that kept cocaine up Maddy’s nose and the payments on their fashionable house under control.
The three of them graduated from University of Michigan’s Law School in the mid-eighties (Jack and Arlene one-year ahead of Tim) and quickly became dissatisfied with the state of the legal profession. A few years as a corporate lawyer apiece was sufficient to, in one stellar, drunken Thanksgiving dinner in 1996, draw the three of them together to change direction. To help people.
Maddy would have disapproved, had she been awake and not passed out in a wine and drug coma.
The three quietly left their corporate jobs a year later and founded the firm. To their disappointment, the partners of Feinberg, Feinberg and Johnson quickly realized that those they intended to help, the people that truly needed it, couldn’t always pay. Taking the bull by the horns, Jack founded the personal injury and bankruptcy division of the firm, solely to keep them in business. With a steady stream of deadbeat dads claiming financial hardship as they signed over checks for thousands to the firm, and elderly women who waited to enter stores until they saw some hapless stock boy mopping the floors, the firm was able to stay afloat. Everyone got a new chair, a new desk, a used photocopier, and Jack, for all his efforts, got an ulcer. As Arlene and Tim championed the people with pro bono, humanitarian work, Jack Feinberg dealt with the shadiest people he had ever encountered.
12
His marriage hadn’t always been traumatic.
Maddy was, at times, a very good wife. She was pursuing an undergraduate degree in Economics when she happened to attend a party at Jack’s fraternity. Maddy never finished her degree program, but it didn’t seem to matter at first. She loved him, and he loved her. He became a highly paid corporate lawyer and she became his stunning, showpiece wife.
Jack believed that it was the perennial boredom that first attracted Maddy to recreational drugs. A snort here and there, in between skim lattes, went a long way to supplanting the need for a workaholic husband. She actually tried to clean up for awhile when Jack and Maddy attempted to have children. But between Jack’s schedule, and Maddy’s skewed ovulation patterns from the boozing and “relaxing,” they weren’t able to conceive. Then Jack’s already limited free time was cut even further by the creation of the firm, then the need to keep it alive.
The accusations of infidelity were nothing new for Jack. Maddy had screamed philanderer for months, without even the barest of reasons.
He would leave for the office at seven every morning.
She would wake up around noon and badger Mrs. Alvarez, the poor unfortunate woman that cleaned their home, and then call Jack at the office, demanding to know where he’d spent the previous night. Never once did he arrive home drunk, smeared in lipstick or smelling like another woman’s perfume, but that seemed immaterial to Maddy. If it was an attempt to draw them closer through mutual aggression, or fever dreams she had after passing out, Jack didn’t know.
He worked far too hard for far too long to deal with her daily ramblings. The caller ID that he had installed at the office helped a great deal.
11
And, yet again, he found himself at the office nearing 9 p.m. Nearly Maddy’s pass-out time, he noticed with a great deal of apathy.
Jack stared down at the case he was working on, the files swimming together. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. The squidgy sound the rubbing always made never failed to sicken him a little, but it worked like a magic wake-up call. With a sigh, he gathered the documents in front of him together and headed over to the bargain photocopier. The client had requested all documentation from the case, and paying customers, even surgeons who amputate the wrong leg due to a hangover, got what they asked for.
The tiny office didn’t provide for a long walk to the photocopier, but during these 10-second trips, Jack never failed to envy Tim and Arlene. While they were off stopping the gentrification of culturally historic neighborhoods or stopping the executions of innocent men, he toiled away in the basement of the legal profession. The hardest thing to cope with was that his brother and his sister-in-law were desperately in love with each other. The last seconds of the walk always brought a flash of anger that was quelled by knowing they needed him.
The ugly gray photocopier stood before him. Mottled here, speckled with toner stains there.
The day the firm had enough money to buy the ancient monolith from a closing convenience store, Tim and Jack lugged the thing into the freight elevator themselves then proudly set it up at the rear of the office.
Arlene, with a strange holdover from her childhood that required her to name everything, decided to call the copier Agnes after
a nun from her Catholic high school days. “Sister Agnes was a big gray box, just like this machine,” she said with a giggle. We’d all laughed. And the name stuck.
A coin deposit slot jetted from Agnes’ wounded side, and the yellow, triangular 5¢ Copies sign was still plastered on her. Jack snagged a handful of nickels from the jar next to the copier and dumped them into the coin slot. At first, he found this practice immensely annoying, but learned to enjoy the rhythmic song of the nickels as they plopped into the machine’s belly. He removed the coins every Friday and put them back into the jar to start the process all over again.
As the first coins fell, the display screen lighted with a strange, pea-green color, blinking a familiar message to Jack: Warming Up. And with that message came the deep rumbling hum that, perversely, made Jack smile as if he was engaged in an affair. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d warmed Maddy up or heard her hum like Agnes. A small laugh escaped him when he realized he was paying Agnes for her services.
Jack stroked Agnes’ cover as her hum faded.
The display changed to Ready to Copy.
10
Jack scanned the first document to be copied and winced. It was the initial medical report about the young woman whose leg had been amputated. Her right leg slated for the chopping block due to cancer, she had the misfortune of falling under the blade of Dr. Morgan Braun, full-time alcoholic and part-time surgeon, and lost her left leg in the process.
Anger welled in Jack as he placed the document face down on the scanning plate. He slammed the cover down, getting angrier.
A flurry of thoughts:
How dare Braun call himself a doctor?
Why am I doing this? I’m fucking complicit!
What the fuck?
Jack’s mind became a whirlwind of doubt, anger, and frustration. Thoughts of his do-good partners swirled through his psyche, pierced by flashes of a drunken and stoned Maddy.
They all did their part to create his horrific reality: maniacal doctors that smelled of bourbon and blood, attacks from dogs that were beaten regularly, crying children that wanted nothing more than smack free mothers who made them grilled cheese sandwiches and kissed them before bed…it went on and on like an afternoon talk show.
Jack’s teeth gritted as his finger slammed the green Start button.
Agnes hummed, bringing a small amount of relief to Jack as she put on a light show for his benefit. She spit a copy into her tray.
Jack snatched her still warm offering, the burning scent of fresh toner invading his senses. He flipped the page over to make sure everything had copied properly.
Jack’s eyes widened in disbelief. Shaking his head, he pushed the Start button again, and waited…and waited.
Finally, she spit out another piece of white, recycled paper.
Jack reached a trembling hand down. He lifted the paper gingerly—it felt even warmer this time—and flipped it over. He read the message on the paper over and over again.
It wasn’t the medical report.
Dearest Jack, it read, I appreciate you—Agnes.
He smiled nervously.
09
Jack let his hand drop to his side as he stared at the machine. He gently laid the message from Agnes on her cover and rubbed his eyes again, not caring about the disgusting squidgy sound. With a sigh, he picked up the paper and read it again. Nothing had changed, no medical report, just an endearing letter from an inanimate object.
Slowly, Jack lifted the cover and picked up his original document. The medical report in all its grisly detail was unaffected.
Jack pulled the next document to be copied from a tall stack. It was a memo from the firm representing the young girl in her malpractice suit. The avatars of justice at Fariman and Capelli were demanding a cool three mill, as well as the revocation of Dr. Braun’s license.
Jack slipped the page onto Agnes. The scanner’s glass was still warm to the touch, and Jack felt a little electric thrill as he touched it. He laid the cover down and pushed the Start button again.
Hum. Light show.
Jack, his hands trembling again, picked up the new copy from the tray and slowly turned it over.
Dearest Jack, You are needed. You are a vital part of everything that happens. I appreciate you—Agnes.
Jack read the message over and over.
The short walk back to his desk was uneventful, his thoughts completely commanded by Agnes, or his own delusions. Jack looked up and back at Agnes.
She clicked loudly and began a sort of reverse hum that softened by degrees.
Jack cowered into his chair, visualizing her standing up and eating him, her scanner cover flopping up and down like a huge mouth.
She’s just going into standby mode, he told himself as he slowly stood, knees shaking like yogurt. He rested his head in his hands, sweat dripping from his furrowed brow.
Without so much as a glance at Agnes, Jack snatched his suit coat from the back of his chair and headed out the door…firmly believing he had a fever from working too hard.
08
Jack walked into the house at 11:30 p.m. and flicked the television off on his way to the bedroom. The unusual events at the office took a backstage to the disrepair of his home. Strewn about the kitchen were empty liquor bottles. Shards of Maddy’s mirror were scattered on the food preparation island, and a rivulet of blood ran from one of the broken shards in a weaving, stumbling line to the sink.
Serves her right, he thought with a smirk.
Jack considered cleaning up the mess, but wanted Mrs. Alvarez to adopt another reason to hate his wife. He breezed from the kitchen, prepared to sneak into bed.
Lights blazed through a crack in the bedroom door. Jack hoped she’s simply left the lights on, but the ball in the pit of his stomach told him differently.
He pushed open the door to find Maddy naked, her bloodied hand wrapped in one of his shirts. Sprawled on their bed, she groggily lifted her head from the pillow and stared at Jack as he slogged into the room. She smiled like a victorious cat, droplets of blood peppering her mouth, likely from an attempt to stem the flow of blood.
He shuddered as he removed his suit coat and loosened his tie.
“How’s your hand?” he asked.
“Fuckin’ fine. How’s the bitch you just fucked?” Her smile grew wider.
Jack tried to bore holes in her head with an intense stare. He opened his mouth to tell her, as loudly as possible, that he didn’t cheat, then he sucked in a deep breath, ready to unleash, and inexplicably changed his plan.
Calmly. “Fine, darling. She’s quite a lover.”
As soon as the words fell from his mouth, he wondered why he’d said them.
Maddy’s eyes mimicked his, attempting, it seemed, to burn two bloody holes in his chest. She struggled up and out of the bed, wobbling. She splayed a hand on an antique chest of drawers to steady. “I knew it! Bastard! I fuckin’ knew—”
Maddy’s hand slipped from the dresser, and she dropped face first to the floor with a thud.
Jack walked over to Maddy’s prone body.
Her ragged, gurgling breathing indicating that she wasn’t dead. A pool of blood, seeping from her nose, grew.
Jack smirked, then slipped on a bathrobe and headed into the living room to fix a drink, half hoping Maddy would never wake again.
Who needed her? Not Jack Feinberg! He was the guy that held things together.
Even Agnes could see that.
07
Jack arrived at the office a little after noon. His neck was still stiff from a night on the couch. Unfortunately, Maddy was still alive.
He’d awakened at 10 to the sound of her stirring in the bedroom.
She gave no response to Jack’s “Good morning, darling!” other than gurgling. A gurgling curse, Jack mused with a smile.
Tim and Arlene were already in the office. Both were on the phone when Jack entered. Each waved hello. Jack sat at his desk, staring at Agnes, waiting for one of them to get off of t
he phone. Tim was first.
“Tim? Have you had any problems with Agnes?”
“Agnes who?” Tim had never accepted the name like Arlene and Jack.
“The photocopier,” Jack shot back.
Tim threw an askew glance at Jack. “Bad night with Maddy?”
“Forget her. I was wondering if you had any problems with the…photocopier.” Strangely, it felt wrong not to call Agnes by her name.
“Uh, no, Jack. Not really. I mean its old, but it works pretty well.”
Jack winced at the word “it.”
“Why?” Tim asked.
“No reason, forget I mentioned it.”
Arlene had hung up the phone in the middle of Jack and Tim’s conversation and sidled up to the brothers, shaking her head. “Jack, you okay?”
Jack answered without looking at her. “Never better, just fine, thanks.”
Tim and Arlene began collecting materials for court. They shared a glance, then Tim nodded in Jack’s direction. Arlene shrugged.
“Jack,” Tim said, “Arlene and I have to stand before a judge in twenty minutes. But if you need anything, page us, okay?”
“Don’t worry, I’m fine.”
“You sure?” Arlene asked.
“I’m sure.”
“Fair enough. Wish us luck.” Arlene said, not taking her eyes off Jack as she and Tim headed for the door.
Jack waited until he heard the click of the door.
Voices, probably talking about him, lingered for a moment before fading away.
He turned to face Agnes.
06
Jack slowly rose from his chair, grabbing a random piece of paper from his desk.
The walk to Agnes was oddly joyful.
He was alone with her, with Agnes.
She appreciated him.
She knew how important he was.
He was the fucking guy who held things together.
HELP! WANTED: Tales of On-the-Job Terror Page 12