by Tom Stern
And if he was going to walk two blocks from his home anyway, Walter reasoned that he might just as well keep right on walking to work. So it was that Walter decided to get out of bed and to keep his job for at least one more day.
Once he had escaped Mills Street, he found himself dialing.
“Hello, Wally,” Eleanor answered.
Walter hated that nickname. But it didn’t sound all that bad coming from Eleanor. He wondered if she was wearing her glasses.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” Walter replied, nipping in the bud any concern she might have had that he was no longer interested in her.
“What have you been thinking about me?” she taunted back, the confidence in her tone clearly revealing that she had harbored no concerns about his infatuation with her waning.
Her response seemed almost professional in tone.
Or was it just the product of deep, intense infatuation on her part?
Either way, Walter was admittedly not the most experienced man in the world when it came to dirty talk. As such, he was not sure how best to answer this question. He’d said dirty things before, sure. But more typically in the throes of coitus, and even then his comments were not usually of the terribly provocative varietal. They were typically more gestures of support and encouragement to his partner. And even with this type of talk, he found himself regularly concerned, particularly in hindsight analysis, that he might actually have sounded a bit like an awkward, sweaty pervert. Of course, when he didn’t say dirty things at all, he was left feeling like a complete dork. So he really couldn’t win either way. Which was the reason for the minor panic setting in over what he was convinced was really little more than a fairly novice dirty talk question coming from Eleanor…
“I’ve been thinking about when we were together,” he eased his way in, experimenting with sort of implying the dirty things. He reasoned this might be a happy medium and a good starting point. But not to leave too much unsaid, he added, “It was really hot.”
This last bit of editorial, however, made him feel like both a dork and a pervert simultaneously.
“Yeah?” answered Eleanor, in what Walter feared was merely an attempt to positively reinforce him for his effort.
“Yeah,” answered Walter, freezing up. He decided to just get to his point. “I want to see you tonight. At seven.”
“I can’t tonight, Wally,” Eleanor explained, only moderately apologetically.
“Oh,” Walter’s heart sank as he wondered whether better dirty talk might have garnered better results.
“But what’s your lunch break look like?” she redirected. This counter-proposed encounter time was in direct conflict with another rule that Walter had constructed to assist himself with navigating this unclear circumstance. He had decided against any workday trysts. He acknowledged that their timing was convenient, but he further reasoned that he would be prone to rush were he balancing simultaneous obligations. And when Walter rushed, he made mistakes. Additionally, having a hard stop on the encounter would probably keep Walter from relaxing into it as much as he otherwise would, which threatened to denigrate the overall quality of the experience, and the return on investment if it turned out he was a paying customer. Either way, a rushed session would cause him to get less time and lower quality for the same risk and, possibly, cost.
“I can do lunch,” Walter said.
“Yay,” Eleanor cheered.
As he hung up the phone, Walter noticed a broad grin had stretched across his face. He tried to hide it, but he could not.
The first thing Walter noticed upon arriving at the office that morning was that it looked summarily unchanged. He did not know why he would have expected it to be any different, but it did make him realize that he had been hoping that it would be.
But the floor was still gray concrete.
The desks were still metal and made in the 1970s.
The chairs were still lopsided and squeaked when reclined in or rolled around.
The air was still dusty.
The back half of the hangar was still chock full of boxes of hotel amenities, forming a wall right behind the handful of work stations.
Mr. Sheprick’s office was still nestled along the west wall of the hanger, its door still in its perennial three-quarters-shut position.
Beau Chalmers was still trying to make himself look busy.
The other two salesmen, whose names Walter just could not remember, were still actually busy.
The shipping department, more specifically Meg Halmish, was still fairly idle but for sudden small flurries of activity.
Walter’s desk was still strategically stacked to represent a work-load greater than that which he truly handled.
And Beau Chalmers still lit up every time Walter walked in the door.
Today he actually stood up and came across the hangar toward Walter, wrapping his work-friend in a big bear hug.
“You got lipo!” Beau yelled out in an almost celebratory tone.
“I did not,” muttered Walter quietly, before realizing that his response should really at least match Beau’s in volume so as to dissuade everyone in earshot who had just heard Beau’s proclamation. “I did not!” Walter yelled this time, protesting far more than would be reasonable even if Beau had been wrong, which he was.
“You can’t lose weight that fast, buddy,” Beau casually disregarded Walter’s exclamation. “It feels like a century since I’ve seen you.”
“I had a tumor,” Walter spat back, still a bit too loud to seem like a truthful explanation.
“Are you okay?” Beau asked suddenly soberly grave, his volume brought down to a personable, reasonable level.
“Benign,” explained Walter. “It was benign,” he repeated still loud enough to be heard by all even though he was directing the totality of his attention to Beau.
“What was the cause?” Beau insisted, now seemingly on the verge of tears.
“No cause. Just happened.”
“There has to be a cause. Is this an uncommon thing?”
“I don’t know, Beau,” Walter barked, not having prepared himself for a Goddamn inquisition. “Things like this can just happen. I didn’t look into the whole history of it.”
“You’ve got to know the history of it. It could happen again. Could it happen again?”
“I’m pretty sure no.”
“Is that what they said? Or is that what you are saying? Who is saying that?”
“That’s what they said.”
“They said, ‘Pretty sure.’”
“Yeah.”
“That doesn’t sound like something a doctor would say.”
Walter could never decide which side of Beau Chalmers he found less tolerable, the side of him overly concerned with all of life’s dramas or the unyieldingly apathetic side that permeated all aspects of his professional activity.
“I need to clock in, Beau,” Walter diverted the conversation.
“Sure. Yeah,” Beau replied as though the air itself could, at any instant, spark a brand new gigantic tumor somewhere underneath Walter’s skin. “Do you want me to clock you in?”
“I’ve got it.”
“Because I can clock you in.”
“I’m not an invalid, Beau.”
“Okay. Yeah. I’ll be at my desk,” Beau said.
But he did not move.
He just stared, waiting for Walter to move. Or to say or do something.
So Walter headed toward Mr. Sheprick’s office to clock in.
Beau still did not move.
He just watched Walter go.
Once Walter reached Mr. Sheprick’s office, he side-stepped into the one-quarter-open door.
“Welcome back, Walter,” Mr. Sheprick said cursorily, peering over well-worn reading glasses and stacks of long sedentary files from behind his
desk in his dusty office.
“Thank you,” Walter replied, equally pat.
“I hope your medical situation is positively resolved.”
“It seems for now.”
A silence set in and Walter could see that all niceties that were going to be exchanged had now been traded. So he picked up his time card and clocked himself in.
Not two seconds later, Mr. Sheprick began, his tone suddenly severe…
“I’m going to tell you first.”
“Excuse me?” Walter replied.
“Sit down, Walter,” Mr. Sheprick insisted.
Mr. Sheprick never asked anyone to sit down, as was evidenced by the stacks of files occupying the three chairs on the visitor’s side of his desk. He parried most attempts at conversation, casual or business-related, in favor of people just getting to work. Of those conversations he truly could not avoid, however, nearly none of them, in his mind, merited a significant enough time commitment that it made sense for both parties to be seated. This, apparently, he considered one of those most unlikely conversations. As Walter transitioned some files to the floor, he struggled to recall the last time he had actually sat down in Mr. Sheprick’s office. It was perhaps three years ago. Not since he had been asked to negotiate the renewal of the Wells-Bergamot Corporation’s contract.
“Our business model is old, Walter,” Mr. Sheprick started in the second that Walter finally lowered into one of the chairs.
“Excuse me?” asked Walter, unsure of where this was going but suspecting the general direction of this conversation would not be a good one.
“I’m old,” Mr. Sheprick added.
“What?” asked Walter, now uncomfortable as well as unable to conjure a safe response.
“Things change. The speed of business has changed. The cost of business has changed. The look of business has changed. I’m not certain how sustainable or relevant we are anymore.”
Walter could not be sure, but if Mr. Sheprick was starting to say what he suspected Mr. Sheprick was indeed starting to say, then Walter had dreamed of this day for years. Namely, the day that brought with it a blameless and mandated way to escape from this deeply unsatisfying line of employment. Walter took in a deep pull of the dry, dusty air around him and waited for confirmation before allowing his heart to soar from his chest…
“I’m not sure that Sheprick Consolidated is much longer for this world,” Mr. Sheprick added.
And there it was. If not an end, the promise of one in the not-too-distant future. Unexpectedly, however, Walter found these particular words from this particular man cast his heart quite heavy rather than weightless and surging skyward.
At first Walter suspected, as anyone feeling sadness in his current circumstance might, that he must in truth feel a much deeper connection to his work than he had heretofore suspected. Perhaps it was the people, at least those whose names he remembered anyway. Or maybe it was the intrinsic value of the work itself, adding a layer of meaning he had taken for granted. Or maybe it was an unspoken joy he took in subconsciously knowing that travelers the country over were able to remove wrinkles from their clothes thanks to his hard work. Perhaps there was even something in the title of salesman, in the clarity of the role, that he considered somewhat noble if not downright but silently heroic. Or maybe it was the money.
But none of these things seemed quite the thing tied to the increasingly leaden sorrow anchoring his heart.
“We have been through a lot, Walter,” Mr. Sheprick went on.
And that was when the most unthinkable thought surfaced in Walter’s mind. So stupefying that he had to repeat it three or four times to himself just to make sure he was honestly thinking what he thought he was thinking. And even then, he had to repeat it one more time to make sure he was not actually being ironic and missing his own humor. But sure enough, he found no irony present. He was indeed saddened by what seemed to be the inevitable and imminent loss of his job for one reason and one reason alone: without gainful employment, he would not be able to support Twin in his pursuit of an MBA.
“You’ve been here with me for many years,” Mr. Sheprick continued. “So I wanted you to know first.”
Walter continued to put this thought through its paces, stretching it this way and that, considering it from various perspectives, considering the possibility that it represented some sort of psychic schism. But the deeper he considered his inability to help Twin, the greater his sadness grew.
“I’m going to have to downsize, Walter. I wanted you to know.”
Walter stopped breathing. He was speechless. He was sweating. He was running through his mind other businesses he knew where he might be able to land a sales job quickly.
“Did you hear me, Walter?” Mr. Sheprick asked the completely silent man sitting in front of him.
Walter looked up.
“I’ll pack my things,” Walter said, disgusted with himself for not putting up any sort of struggle.
“What?” asked Mr. Sheprick. “Why?”
“Why?” repeated Walter. “What?”
“Did you not hear me, Walter?” Mr. Sheprick barked again.
“You said you’re letting me go,” Walter muttered, confused.
“No,” Mr. Sheprick corrected, flatly. “I’m giving you the Wells-Bergamot contract to renew.”
“Wait, what?”
“If we can secure the revenue from the Wells-Bergamot…”
“So there was a comma in that sentence?” Walter interrupted.
“What sentence?” Mr. Sheprick answered, confused.
“I’m going to have to downsize…comma…Walter. Like you were telling me that rather than I was the object of it.”
“We don’t use punctuation when we speak. Do we?”
“I mean…functionally, I think so. I think tone and cadence communicate the information that’s normally communicated by punctuation.”
“Well…either way, I’m not laying you off. Or at least, not if you can renew the Wells-Bergamot Corporation’s contract.”
“Wait, what?” said Walter again, circling the conversation back once more as his heart began lifting its way back to its normal position in his chest.
“As you know,” Mr. Sheprick began again, “they constitute nearly thirty-nine percent of our total revenue. Once you sign that renewal, it will be easy for me to justify keeping you on and letting others go.”
Mr. Sheprick leaned forward in his chair and handed Walter a thick file with yellowing papers jutting from it in every which direction.
“You’ll need to go to Milwaukee.”
Inasmuch as he hoped to be successful in this endeavor, and inasmuch as that success would ultimately lead to others’ demise, Walter was suddenly quite glad that he could not remember the names of one-third of the people that worked at Sheprick Consolidated.
“Thank you, Mr. Sheprick,” Walter replied. “I really appreciate you thinking of me and giving me this chance to not get fired over the others.”
As soon as the words left Walter’s mouth, he knew they were ill chosen. But he was riding an emotional rollercoaster; he was going to make some mistakes. Besides, Mr. Sheprick was an awkward man, desensitized to awkwardness in others. So Walter decided not to call further attention to his misstep by bothering to correct it.
“Okay, Walter,” Mr. Sheprick said because there was really nothing much else to say.
Walter paused.
While his sadness had subsided, it interestingly had not been replaced by the type of joy one might expect, but by a calm but cautious type of optimism instead, an evenness that acknowledged a long road ahead.
“Get to work, Walter,” Mr. Sheprick added, flatly.
Walter stood up, nodded to Mr. Sheprick, and left the room intending to do exactly as he had been instructed.
“Hi, Walter,” Twin’s shrill voice jarred Wal
ter from the stack of dusty, yellowing, wrinkled papers that thickened the lifeless mass that was the Wells-Bergamot file. He looked up to find Twin and Veronica standing a foot in front of his desk. He also found the rest of the office staff staring, mouths agape, at whomever or whatever it was standing in front his desk.
“What are you doing here?” Walter managed to ask, albeit in a somewhat panicked tone.
“Twin wanted to see where you worked,” explained Veronica. “So we figured we’d drop by and take you to lunch.”
Walter checked his watch. Somehow it was already nearing mid-day. He turned back to Twin and Veronica but could not quite conjure a concise or deft manner of publicly explaining why it might not have been the most prudent decision to bring Twin by the office.
“This must be Veronica!” Beau Chalmers interjected, a profound excitement in his tone.
There was so very much explanation required of Walter right now, but he could not manage even a word.
A flattered Veronica extended her hand…
“It’s nice to meet you.”
“I am Beau Chalmers,” Beau went on. “But you probably assumed as much.”
Veronica scowled and looked to Walter, who was still considering the literally countless options that might constitute his next move.
“Beau,” Beau repeated, insistent. “Beau Chalmers.”
“I’m sorry. Off the top of my head…” Veronica started.
“Walter and I are good friends. So I just figured…” Beau cut in.
“We should go,” Walter finally chose a path forward, mundane and short term though it may be.
“Walter?” Mr. Sheprick’s voice sounded as he emerged from his office. “Who is this?”
And before Walter could even attempt to divert the topic, Mr. Sheprick’s stare and approach made it all too clear that he was not referring to Veronica, but to Twin. So Walter began fumbling with yet another attempt at conjuring some sort of explanation as Mr. Sheprick came to stand right in front of Twin and extended his hand.