EQMM, February 2007

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EQMM, February 2007 Page 8

by Dell Magazine Authors


  Hanging around the lobby, hoping that the police would restart the elevator so he wouldn't have to take the steps, Charlie had learned that no one knew Geoffrey had fallen down the shaft until this morning. Romero, from Maintenance, had heard Geoffrey's cell phone ringing from the elevator. Geoffrey's wife had been trying to reach him, wondering why Geoffrey hadn't come home the night before, though she suspected he'd stayed at the office, or with thatwoman from the office, or a combination thereof. Anyway, while retrieving the lost phone, Romero had found Geoffrey impaled on the stop springs at the bottom of the elevator shaft, Osterized by an uncaring elevator that had gone about its usual business: up, down, crunch, mash.

  Charlie wondered what kind of saying Geoffrey would use in this situation. When it came to idiomatic expressions, Geoffrey knew them all, for every occasion. Charlie thought of one that fit the occasion of someone falling to their death: “It's not the fall, it's the sudden stop."

  No. Not even Geoffrey would be that crass—well, perhaps not.

  Charlie considered the project at hand, a new Web front-end for the customer point of contact. He looked at his keyboard, keys dotted with orange stains, then to the bag of artificially cheddar-flavored corn puffs—last night's dinner. He'd stayed late, programming the back-end of the Web presence front-end. Always, he stayed late, programming the back-end of some front-end. He normally didn't mind. In the after-hours dim, immersed in writing code, the office became his little world. He'd sit at his computer, absorbed in his objects and classes and methods, the virtual entities of writing programs, no one there to disrupt the flow of his coding with silent reproachful reminders of his inadequacies.

  He never saw that reproach in Mary's eyes.

  Sometimes he'd take a break—"bio break,” as Geoffrey would always refer to it during his pedantic meetings on the “corporate vision.” He never failed to laugh. And always everyone laughed at Geoffrey's witticism, too, though the term had lost its funny a long time ago. Geoffrey had charge over setting the direction of the Web division, was the giver of promotions and, most importantly, the giver of raises. Being the boss afforded Geoffrey a lot of tolerance for his stupid humor.

  Often, Charlie would see the men of the Web-presence Customer Service brigade or the Web-presence Sales vanguard in the bathroom during one of Geoffrey's “bio breaks,” each standing before his own porcelain shrine, clutching himself, head back, groaning from relief, uttering the ritual, “God, he's such a jerk."

  Sometimes, at night, Charlie would take a different kind of break from his work, not a renal-relief kind, but of another sort of bio-driven nature. He'd wander down the aisle to Mary's desk, looking at all her pictures. In each, someone shared a toothy smile with her. Always, someone stood beside her, with an arm clasped around her. Charlie would gaze at the pictures that depicted a life so different from his. He'd place himself behind one of those toothy smiles shared with Mary, hearing himself say words he'd probably never say. Words like, “Would you like to have dinner” or “go to the symphony.” Each time he would hear himself stutter over “with me,” and the fear of that stutter prevented his words from becoming real in Mary's presence.

  Charlie had no pictures of himself with anyone beside him sharing a toothy smile. Oh well, he thought, and sighed. As Geoffrey would say, “Sometimes you eat the bear and sometimes the bear eats you."

  Charlie still panted from the climb up the stairs, his build being of a roundish type. Last night Charlie hadn't been alone in his cocoon of objects, classes, methods, and datagrams. Geoffrey and Mary had been there, in Geoffrey's office. Charlie hadn't seen them. He'd heard them, loud and disturbing and distracting. At first their noises had been unintelligible and plaintive, then angry and succinct, mostly from Mary. Something about Geoffrey having a wife at home didn't sit well with Mary's constitution, that being of a marrying kind.

  One time, about a week before, after Mary had stormed out of Geoffrey's office, Charlie had gone in to ask Geoffrey about the plan for the back-end of the Web front-end. The flowers Mary had brought him lay on his desk and the vase lay on the floor. Geoffrey wiped his face dry, smiled, and hid his anger behind one of his idiotic sayings.

  "You know, Charlie, it's true. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned."

  No one would ever be plagued by Geoffrey's sayings again. Charlie looked into his coffee cup, considering the black and green fuzzy paste caked in the bottom of it, wondering how far the fury of scorn might take a woman. He didn't know. He'd never scorned a woman in his life. He knew he'd never evoke Mary's fury, because he'd never scorn her. She'd never be as angry with him as she got with Geoffrey. Charlie couldn't help envisioning himself helping, rescuing Mary, as it were, from her anger toward Geoffrey and thereby winning her affections. He wondered how late Mary had stayed after he'd left last night.

  No answer lay in the fuzz at the bottom of his cup despite how hard he stared at it. Charlie didn't often drink coffee, but he hadn't slept well the night before. Mary, and her anger with Geoffrey, had been on his mind. He figured running hot water in his cup would rid it of the miniature terrarium growing in it.

  Beside the kitchenette counter, where sat the automatic-drip coffee maker, stood The Bevy. The Bevy had always been cordial to Charlie, but never included him. Charlie was not of The Bevy, though he should be; he knew something about everyone in it. They muttered things to him, usually in anger, usually about Geoffrey, as if muttering to the dog.

  "Hi, Charlie,” said The Bevy in its unified workplace social voice and created a path for Charlie to reach the sink.

  "Hello—” Charlie almost added “—Bevy.” “How's it going?"

  "Did you hear,” said the Robert component of The Bevy, “that Geoffrey fell down the elevator shaft and lived to tell about it?"

  "Oh, Bob,” reprimanded The Bevy's Sarah component, but an encouraging giggle trotted right after the admonishment.

  "Yeah.” Charlie spoke flatly and precisely, because he always spoke flatly and precisely. “He told several people on the floors below during the approximately three point seven seconds he was alive, the rate of acceleration during a fall being thirty-two feet per second, second."

  "Gee, Charlie,” responded Robert, “that's great."

  "Eeew,” said Sarah, watching Charlie run hot water into his cup.

  "I mean,” continued Robert, “that's really funny, you know. When you think about it.” He forced a laugh.

  The Bevy laughed.

  Sarah gagged.

  "Oh God.” She watched Charlie pour coffee in his freshly “sanitized” cup. “Are you going to drink that?"

  Charlie read Sarah's concern in the scrunched features of her face. “Though it's true that the temperature of hot tap water wouldn't kill all the bacteria in the cup, there's nothing in there that doesn't go into the making of a good antibiotic. Yes, I'm going to drink this."

  Sarah gaped in chagrined horror as Charlie lifted the mug to his lips. Robert pulled the conversation away from Charlie's coffee habits.

  "You guys think that maybe Geoffrey stepping into an open elevator shaft may not have been an accident?"

  Sarah's chagrined horror became titillation.

  "What are you saying? Of course it was an accident. I mean, who..."

  The Bevy looked around, examining each other, seeing the secrets poking through each other's scratched facades. Then they studied their own coffee mugs or fingernails and The Bevy sauntered away, a herd wandering off over the corporate range, seeking a fresh pasture in which to avoid work.

  "G'bye, Charlie."

  Charlie turned from the coffee maker. Mary stared at the copier—alone, not having moved off with The Bevy. Mary held only part-time inclusion in The Bevy, and generally only when it consisted entirely of men, probably because her slender, angular build also possessed gratifying round aspects to it. When the female components of The Bevy were present, Mary stayed away. Mary had once been a full-time member of The Bevy, until she began having one-on-one lunches with
Geoffrey, and after-hours “meetings” in his office, discussing marketing strategies—what else? Mary worked in Marketing.

  Mary had been staring at the copier for so long that it had gone into power-save mode. Charlie approached, and when she looked at him he plied her with your-secret-is-safe-with-me eyes.

  "How are you doing?” he said, using an assuring, protective tone not normally associated with a Systems geek. He considered telling her he knew she'd been in Geoffrey's office the night before, but decided it might be a bad idea. It might have the undertone of blackmail to it. He wanted Mary to actually like him.

  "I'm fine, Charlie. Since when did you start drinking coffee?"

  Charlie inflated. Mary knew that he didn't drink coffee. She paid attention to him. He shrugged.

  "I just figured you might be a bit distressed by Geoffrey's death. You're still standing here, although the copier finished making your copies quite some time ago. You were pretty close to Geoffrey, this must be upsetting."

  "No one was close to Geoffrey.” Mary scooped up her copies, nodding across the office to where The Bevy had gathered by the matrix of mail slots. “I doubt anyone will go to his funeral unless a memo is sent out and raises are dependent upon it. What about you, Charlie, you gonna go to the funeral?"

  "Sure, why not? He was my boss."

  "Yeah, but he wasn't exactly nice to you. Actually, he was downright mean to you."

  Charlie inflated even more. Mary had been observant and sensitive to the way people treated him. “You noticed?"

  "Of course I noticed. Everyone did. It was almost embarrassing. How come you never stood up for yourself?"

  Charlie deflated. Mary found him disappointing. “I thought you liked Geoffrey."

  ” ‘Like’ isn't exactly the right word. I don't think the word ‘like’ and ‘Geoffrey’ belong in the same sentence. Not even his wife liked him."

  Charlie wanted to ask Mary how she knew that, but he wasn't that bold. Besides, already knowing the answer made the question moot. Charlie looked at his own dark reflection in his coffee, searching for words that would comfort Mary and take him into her confidence.

  "Mary, do you wonder what circumstances had to fall into place for Geoffrey to step into an elevator when no car was there?"

  As soon as he'd asked, he wished he hadn't. Mary stiffened as if freeze-dried, her stare chilling Charlie. She turned away, shoulders slightly hunched, pulling her secrets deeper inside. Charlie cringed: Instead of stepping into Mary's circle, he'd caused her to close it. Mary pulled the papers from the copier and tossed a chin at the gossip-grazing Bevy.

  "Who do you think did it?"

  "What?"

  "Who do you think pushed Geoffrey down the shaft, Charlie?"

  Charlie eyed Mary with suspicion. Why did she ask? If anyone would know, it would be her.

  "What makes you think someone pushed him? Maybe he jumped on his own."

  "Naw. Geoffrey would never do that. Too assured of himself, even when he was wrong, despite being a jerk."

  "They found the key to the elevator door with him at the bottom of the shaft, like he'd taken it with him when he jumped. Must have stolen it from Maintenance."

  Mary nearly gasped, as if one of her secrets had been found out.

  "How do you know that, Charlie?"

  Charlie blinked and stepped back. “I heard the police talking about it, downstairs—when I came in through the lobby."

  Mary's eyes widened. “You spoke to the police?"

  Charlie took another step back from Mary. “No. I just overheard them speaking. I would never speak to the police—about you."

  A sub-zero atmosphere descended around Mary and Charlie. Mary leveled icy eyes on Charlie.

  "Of course you wouldn't, Charlie. Why would you have anything to say to the police about me?"

  Charlie shrugged.

  Mary left.

  The police arrived with questions, oh so many questions. Of course, the others all immediately directed the police to Mary, discretion no longer being a survival skill. Charlie remembered the time when upper management had come to Geoffrey's office and warned him against any “office fraternization.” Geoffrey had come out of his office looking beleaguered. He sighed and spoke to Charlie in a tone of fatherly advice while delivering one of his maxims.

  "Charlie, don't ever get your meat where you get your bread."

  Charlie gaped at the ribald implication of Geoffrey's adage. At his next staff meeting, Geoffrey allowed for no “bio breaks” and made a threatening announcement of layoffs. Discretion not only became wise, but necessary. Mary and Geoffrey continued their one-on-one meetings in his office, usually after-hours.

  Staring down at his keyboard, Charlie considered wiping off the orange stains while he listened to words muted to unintelligibility by the door of the conference room. He could hear the earnest tones of the police offset by Mary's anxious, frightened tone. One word came through succinctly in Mary's voice.

  "No!"

  Regardless of what Mary might have done, Charlie wished he could whisk her from the attack of the police interrogators. When the door to the conference room opened, it framed Mary with on-the-verge-of-tears red eyes and though she was fully clothed, her posture was that of a naked person not allowed to cover herself. The Bevy had recongregated at the coffee maker, which conveniently gave them a view of the conference room, hissing in their collective secretive tone. Seeing Mary, they spoke in conglomeration.

  "How're you doing, Mary?"

  "Hang in there, girl."

  ” ‘Atta girl. Stay strong."

  "Come over here for a minute."

  Mary straightened. It seemed that with the demise of Geoffrey, her status in The Bevy was about to be restored. As she moved past him to take her reinstated place, she spoke to Charlie in a low voice, her lips barely moving. “I wasn't here last night, okay, Charlie?"

  Charlie replied with a simple nod. Mary moved forward to be reabsorbed into the social strata of the office. The Robert component enfolded her with a big arm wrapped over her slender shoulders. Robert had been Mary's office romance until Geoffrey had been promoted to V.P. in charge of whatever he had been in charge of. With Geoffrey gone, Robert would surely be placed in charge of whatever Geoffrey had been in charge of. He could afford to be magnanimous with Mary.

  "I'm so sorry, baby. I know you were close. We'd all like to take you to lunch today, calm you down a bit. Be there for you and all that."

  Charlie watched Robert and Mary, feeling what it might be like to have her under his arm. Certainly he knew he'd be better suited to “be there for her” than Robert. He doubted Robert would want to protect Mary the way he would. Robert didn't know what he knew, but if he did, Robert would sell Mary's secret at the first chance he saw an opportunity for gain. Something sizzled annoyingly into Charlie's thoughts of the unfairness of office politics. He looked toward the source of the sizzling. One of the police detectives had set a buttock cheek on his desk, examining the mostly empty bag of artificially cheddar-flavored corn puffs. The police detective held it up.

  "Dinner?"

  Charlie nodded. The detective grimaced at Charlie's keyboard.

  "You were here late last night?"

  "I'm always here late. That's when I do my programming."

  The cop looked at a clock Charlie kept on his desk.

  "Interesting."

  Everyone found the clock to be “interesting.” An old-fashioned shelf clock that needed to be plugged in and still had hour, minute, and sweep hands would be interesting.

  "Yeah. I collect old clocks. Have a bunch more at home."

  "It's slow."

  Charlie glanced to The Bevy. Swarming around Mary, they looked back at Charlie with frightened, about-to-be-sheared sheep eyes.

  "I'm Stan. Why don't we go into the conference room."

  Charlie shook the hand Stan had extended as a greeting, then followed him into the conference room. There were three other police people, none of whom int
roduced themselves. All of them were much less friendly than Stan.

  "Charlie, how late were you here last night?"

  "Until,” Charlie thought, and then thought again, “about seven P.M."

  "Was anyone else here?"

  "Geoffrey was here."

  "Did you see him?"

  "No. I could hear him in his office."

  "Hear him?"

  "Yes. Making noise, banging around. Talking."

  "Banging around? What kind of banging around?"

  Charlie pictured what he could only imagine. He tried to envision himself in Geoffrey's place, then thought of the vulnerable Mary, dependent on him at that moment.

  "I dunno. Moving around or something. I couldn't see what he was doing. The door was closed."

  "Talking? To whom? Who was he talking to?"

  "I dunno."

  "Was he alone?"

  "Yes."

  "Then who would he be talking to?"

  "Himself."

  "Himself?"

  Charlie had to think for a moment. “Yes, himself. He would often practice things he wanted to say in meetings."

  "Things like what?"

  "Things."

  "Like what?"

  "Like, ‘Don't try to teach a pig to sing. It's a waste of time and it only annoys the pig.’ Or, ‘When you're up to your ass in alligators, it's hard to remember your original purpose is to drain the swamp.’”

  "He'd say things like that?"

  "Yes."

  "In meetings?"

  "Yes."

  "Really? Were his meetings interesting?"

  "Not particularly."

  "So, no one else was with him?"

  "No."

  "Are you sure?"

  For the briefest of moments, Charlie's eyes drifted up and to the right. Then he pushed the image of Geoffrey and Mary out of his mind.

  "Yes."

  One of the less friendly detectives fixed Charlie with one of those give-it-to-me-straight gazes that police learn.

  "Was Mary with him?"

  "No."

  Charlie spent another hour with the police, who took turns asking variations of the same questions. When he left the conference room, the congregation around the coffee maker had dispersed. One by one, heads poked out from cubicles. Then one by one those heads appeared at Charlie's cubicle to ask him varying renditions of the same question: “Did they ask about Mary?"

 

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