Tilting at Windmills

by Joseph Pittman

  For the moment, I felt great personal satisfaction. Forgetting, of course, that I’d just thrown away everything I’d worked for. My job, my security, the woman I’d once loved.

  But what I had in return had no price tag. I had my self-respect, and if that’s not something to build a new life on, I don’t know what is.

  Of course, escaping the confines of the Beckford Warfield Group with my newfound self-esteem intact was quite another matter. First I had to get to the elevators, and that entailed sneaking past Maddie’s office. And really, can you still call it self-esteem if you’re using the word sneaking?

  Not ten minutes had elapsed since Justin had stormed out of my office, and I’d managed to gather up my few belongings. I began to make my escape to freedom. Hopefully the word wasn’t yet out and people would not stop me to express whatever they felt. As I walked down the corridor, past cubicles and busy workers, no one looked up, no one bothered.

  As I approached Maddie’s office, my feet kept walking, but my eyes couldn’t avoid a peek inside. My mind filled with all sorts of excuses about what I was doing and why I was leaving. My tongue, though, felt thick and unable to form words, and that was just as well, since Maddie’s office was empty. I’d been holding my breath, and I let it out in a rush of air.

  Seconds later, I reached the bank of elevators and pressed the DOWN button. While I waited for the indicator button to light up and ping, I heard instead the click of heels against the marble floor. Distinctive, deliberate heels. Maddie’s heels. Coming my way.

  Staring at her reflection in the glass of the elevator door, I waited for what she had to say. She didn’t look particularly pleased.

  “Weren’t you even going to congratulate me?”

  THREE

  Perhaps I was foolish to think I could escape confrontation for a second time. Standing before the bank of elevators with a box of my personal belongings—the box itself a beacon of retreat—I couldn’t delay this face-to-face with Madison Laurette Chasen. Well, nearly face-to-face, since I’d yet to turn around and face the obvious hurt that was in her voice. Already she had assumed the role of victim—a role I’d already claimed.

  So I turned around, my shoes making a screeching noise against the hard floor. No one took notice. Everyone nearby had cleared the area, and if I were smart, I’d have done likewise. Maddie wore a stern expression on her otherwise lovely face and her arms were crossed; she was defensive and angry. She stood four feet from me. We were like two opponents ready for battle. A referee would have been a nice buffer—a down elevator even nicer.

  “Well?” she asked me. I still hadn’t responded to her question, and wasn’t sure if I was going to.

  Finally, in my best monotone, I said, “Congratulations.”

  “Can you say it and mean it?”

  I seriously considered her question before answering with a definitive “no.”

  “So Justin’s right—you’re leaving because you’re jealous. Christ.” She let out a short, unattractive snort, accompanied by a flick of her lustrous golden hair. Aggression and beauty, wrapped in one conflicted package. “Were you even planning on telling me, the woman you’re supposed to love? Or were you waiting for Justin to distribute an ‘all concerned’ memo? God, Brian, I can’t believe that after everything we’ve been through, you’d pull a stunt like this.”

  “A stunt? It’s anything but a stunt. And anyway, this isn’t really the place to get into this, okay? As for Justin, he’ll believe what he wants; he always does. What surprises me is the nearly biblical effect his words have on you. He says it, you believe it, like it’s some fucking eleventh commandment. Honor your boss. In some circles, they call them yes-men. Or yes-women.”

  Her nostrils flared at the suggestion that she was incapable of making up her own mind. She fired back with equally stinging words. “Better than being a quitter. Jesus, Brian, we used to be a team.”

  Just then, the elevator arrived and the doors opened. I made a move toward them. The box was getting heavier.

  “Can we talk later?” Maddie asked.

  I hesitated, reminding myself to be strong, to just get into the elevator and let the doors close on her. But I held the doors—glad no one else was inside the car—and stole a last glance at her, this amazingly beautiful creature who had shared my life for so long. Now, I saw a picture to admire but nothing beneath. “Later? That’s not a good idea, Maddie. It’s better here, better now.”

  And I stepped into the empty elevator.

  “Brian?”

  The way she said my name, her soft voice suddenly shaky and betraying her lost Southern roots, made my knees waver. I knew this approach, usually so sultry and successful with me. Slowly I closed my eyes in an effort to resist Maddie’s persuasive powers. Her next words would dictate my next move.

  “Brian, I love you.”

  The words sank into the pores of my skin, and briefly my heart swelled, more out of regret for the past, for all we’d shared. Maybe she thought those words would melt my heart, make me reveal the truth behind my actions. I felt words flowing to my tongue, the wrong words, those that would tell all that my eyes had witnessed. I wanted to ask her how she could have slept with Justin, but then, as soon as the image of them came to me, the urge passed. My eyes opened and they were dry. “No,” I said. “No, you don’t.”

  Timing is everything, and the elevator doors seemed to know this. They closed and the car fell quickly, as did my heart.

  A minute later, back out on the streets of New York, I realized I’d done the unthinkable and was now free and clear of any and all responsibility. The next step in life would be anything I wanted. I grabbed a cab, headed uptown. Traffic was light and we jerked onward. Forward motion—that was good.

  All I’d avoided telling Maddie, I revealed instead to John. He deserved to know what I’d done and why and what my plans were, even if they were sketchy in my own mind. So that’s how, later that day, he came to stand in my foyer with an incredulous look on his face, his chin halfway to the floor. I’d called him just over twenty minutes earlier. He’d been at work, halfway across town. And now he was here.

  “You did what?” he said as I opened the door and let him in.

  “Like I said on the phone, I quit my job.”

  “You quit your job.”

  “Gee, do you notice an echo here? And I haven’t even moved out of my apartment yet.”

  His eyes widened in further shock. “You’re moving out?”

  “Away,” I said, correcting him. “Moving away.”

  “You’re moving away?”

  “What exactly do you call an echo that repeats itself? Isn’t that redundant?” I laughed a bit. “I think you need a drink—and since you finished the beer the other night, we need to go somewhere. I dumped all my booze weeks ago—wasn’t doing me any good.”

  “You dumped your booze?” he said, about to explode from too many shocks. He backed up, double-checked the number on my apartment door, and said, “Brian, is that you? Are you in there? Where am I?”

  Truth be known, it was the reaction I’d expected. Disbelief. My best friend couldn’t believe what I’d done, but then again, neither could I. However, the deed was done and there was no going back. All of me thinking, Why should I, anyway? I was absolutely thrilled, overcome with a sense of freedom that surely defined the concept. After thirteen years of continuous corporate culture, I’d cashed in my personal stock options to pursue God only knew what.

  John gathered his wits and entered the apartment. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You marched into Justin’s office and announced you were quitting your job. Just like that, after six weeks of being on sick leave and, well, leaving them to deal with the pressures of this new client, one you were instrumental in getting?”

  “Actually, I did it in my office.”

  “And then you say, ‘That’s it; I’m outta here.’ No notice?”

  I shook my head with nonchalance. “None. Oh, he asked for two weeks,
but then things got ugly and he threw me out. Man, John, it was great, like a movie. I walked out, never to return. Even got the little trinkets off my desk.”

  Overwhelmed, he dropped to the sofa. “Fuck me.”

  I patted his shoulder and said, “Well, it’s probably words to that effect that brought about this whole situation.”

  “But . . .”

  “Yes?” I asked, an eyebrow arched.

  “But . . . whoa, wait a second. This doesn’t compute—no way. You’re Brian Duncan. The most responsible man on the planet. The guy who finds a nickel on the sidewalk and then takes out a classified to track down its owner. The guy who helps little old ladies across the street . . . and waits until a telemarketer finishes the pitch before hanging up . . .”

  “Hey, John?”

  “What?”

  “Shut up.”

  He considered this a second, then offered up his usual solution for conundrums. “Come on, Bri, we’re going for a drink. I don’t know about you, but shit, I need one.”

  Twenty minutes later, we were settled at the short oak bar of a place called the Gaf, located on East 85th Street, a few blocks from my apartment. We’d gone there often in years past because they had good scotch (which John liked) and good Irish stout (which never failed to thrill me). Today John ordered up his scotch, a double, and I had a cranberry and seltzer and tried to blot out the wonderfully rank smell of stale beer that tempted me toward medical truancy.

  We spent a couple hours there, he happily drinking away, the alcohol lessening the shock value of all that I’d done as our conversation took many turns. The first drink calmed him; the second made him curious about what my plans were. Another drink brought about a near-drunken rant of enviousness, and the next prompted a lecture about my out-of-character gumption. To shut him up, I offered up my apartment as a sublet, and he quickly agreed to take it, since he was overdue for new digs anyway; he still played the roommates blues. Finally, the talk wound its way to Maddie, her betrayal, her attitude toward my impulsive action this morning. The fact that she hadn’t owned up to her part in these developments set off a heated debate between us.

  “Are you ever gonna tell Maddie you saw her and Justin together?”

  “Nope.”

  “Shit, Brian, why not? It’s the best part of revenge, you know, the confrontation.”

  “I’m not in this for revenge,” I said, trying to come up with the words that would best explain my actions. “Look, John, I’m taking this as an opportunity, and a golden one at that. For me and Maddie, it was either get married or end it, and I thought marriage wouldn’t be so bad, really. We were certainly talking about it—you know that. Who knows, though, maybe she was having second thoughts. Whatever the reasoning, her decision to sleep with Justin was a conscious one, something she wanted to do. So let her get the promotion and let her get on with her life. And in the meantime, let me get on with mine.”

  “Which entails what, exactly?” he asked, his words starting to slur. Still, he ordered up another drink and so did I, just seltzer with a fresh wedge of lime.

  I shrugged off his question. “Who says I need to know now what I’m going to do? Pack up my apartment, hop in my car, and head out onto the open road. Destination unknown. Maybe somewhere along the way something will catch my eye, make me stop and see what it’s all about. But really, that’s not what’s going to happen, John. What I want, what I’m searching for, well, it has to come from within. This time away is supposed to allow me to explore all that’s churning inside me. Think about it: For the first time since college, John, I’m free of responsibility and can do whatever I want.” Then I laughed at my nonchalance. “Of course, my bank account’s going to suffer for a while, but I figure six months ought to give me enough time to start answering some of the questions I’ve got. After that, we’ll see.”

  He sucked down more of the scotch, then looked at me with bleary eyes. “You know what I think?”

  “No, but if tradition counts for anything, you’re going to tell me.”

  He pointed an accusatory finger at me. “You’re running away.”

  I laughed, a defensive move. “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No, John, I’m . . . Christ, before we get into a pissing match, let’s drop it. Okay?”

  “You’re so eager to drop it because you know I’m right. Do it once, do it again,” he said with the knowledge of years.

  “John, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  “At least face some reality, Bri. Come on—when you fall in love, you fall hard. When love doesn’t work out, well, you fall even harder. If things had worked out with Lucy years ago, you’d probably have two cars, two kids, and a big fat mortgage now—the American dream. But it didn’t work, and what did you do? You ran here, to New York, and sought help from yours truly. Now, listen to me again, and believe me, I can be this honest with you because, well, ’cause the booze helps. But listen up: You can’t run away again.”

  “John, dredging up history is pointless. Lucy and I . . . we were just grown-up kids who didn’t know anything about being adults. And it’s completely different. I wasn’t running away then; I was—”

  “Aha!” he screamed out. We caught the attention of the other people in the cramped little bar, curious looks indicating that they thought someone had had too much to drink. I tried to encourage John to leave, but he protested by draining his scotch and asking for another. I waved the bartender away.

  “Thanks,” I said, tossing down thirty bucks on the bar, and, with my friend in tow, I exited the bar.

  It was late, past ten. We’d been there for four hours, and John was pretty drunk. Good thing I’d chosen the Gaf, so close to John’s place. With lots of help from me, we wove our way down the street, crossed Second Avenue against traffic, and soon found the entrance to his apartment building.

  “You need help going up the stairs?” I asked.

  “No, you run along,” he said. “It’s your pattern.”

  Deflecting his stinging comment, I helped him with his keys and got him inside the building. I turned around and headed down Second and toward home. It was a cold night, crisp and clear, and I enjoyed the brisk walk, liked the way the air cleared my mind after hours in the stuffy, dank bar. There were places that had nights like this all the time, where you could actually see the sky and the stars.

  Thoughts kept creeping into my mind. One in particular—John’s theory about how I always run from my problems rather than face up to them. Had I once? And was I doing it now? Was it really my place to talk with Maddie, to confront her with her betrayal? Or was it hers, to realize her mistake and come running to me? Nothing was making sense, and I wondered if maybe I were drunk on bar fumes. I tried to push these troubling, doubting thoughts away—and found I couldn’t. They were firmly lodged now in my brain: Brian Duncan just running away.

  Before long, a week had passed and I was ready for the next brave step. I packed, put things in storage, notified family and friends, and finalized all the necessary details. Putting your life on hold while you go off to find yourself is no easy task. I was up for it, though, enjoying the physical challenge while suppressing the cerebral. There would be time for mind games later.

  Before I knew it, Friday morning arrived. D day. Departure day.

  I awoke for the last time in my apartment, and for that single moment everything felt normal. As though I were going to work, making weekend plans with Maddie, and generally going about the routine I’d conditioned myself for these past thirteen years. But the two suitcases near the closet stood as reminders that nothing was the same, nothing would be as it was. The job was gone, so was a certain woman, and come tomorrow, so was the apartment.

  I had only a few second thoughts. I was leaving the comfort I’d known, intent now on my trek into the vast unknown. Fear didn’t begin to describe what I was feeling as a heaviness settled into my chest like a bad case of heartburn and nausea nestled
in the pit of my stomach. Emotions I hadn’t felt in years toyed with my system, and as a result, my blood was on fire and my body was alive.

  Thirty minutes passed while I made my final preparations, that one last sweep of the apartment to make sure I’d taken everything I wanted from my previous life, any objects that might ease the solitude that would be my constant companion on the road. There was one particular item in my desk drawer that, at the last minute, I took out and slipped into my jacket pocket. I thought fleetingly of Maddie, wondered if I’d hear from her, then dismissed it. My attention was drawn to the window, where I saw people on the streets rushing to work, dressed in suits and carrying briefcases. In jeans and a turtleneck, wearing sneakers and a brown leather jacket, I was dressed for the future.

  I grabbed the two suitcases, and with my heart suddenly full of an odd mixture of sadness and joy, I closed the door behind me, listening for that final turn of the lock. Its click lingered in my mind as I went down the stairs. Once out in the cool morning air, I realized I’d been holding my breath and so I let it out. A cold breeze washed over and invigorated me. Winter, it was clear, was still hovering, but spring was coming. Hope springs eternal indeed.

  My car was parked in the garage across the street, so it was a quick, no-nonsense walk with my heavy load. I’d packed only clothes, figuring any mementos would only bog me down with weight both physical and emotional. Besides, you don’t have to pack memories. They never leave you.

  Some even meet you head-on.

  A surprise guest was waiting for me in the garage. She was sitting on the trunk of my black Grand Am, her feet resting on its fender. In her hands I saw a tissue, which she used to dab at the corner of her eyes. She was dressed in an attractive package of denim and lace.

  “Is Justin allowing casual-dress Fridays?”

  Maddie said, “This doesn’t strike me as a moment for flippancy.”