by The Demon
He parked in front of her building and Linda looked up at the third floor. The lights are out. I guess my roommates asleep already. Sorry, smiling, but I wont be able to ask you up for coffee. I dont want to wake her up.
Thats O.K. Im kind of bushed anyway.
I had a wonderful time, smiling broadly and sincerely, and thanks so much for driving me home. Harry waited until she entered her building, then drove away, anxious to get home and get some sleep.
Krist, the following Monday was a drag, a big, fat drag. The closer it got to the time to get up, the more restless was his sleep. He tossed, trying to find a comfortable spot, but couldnt, and hung, imprisoned, in a gray and painful limbo between sleep and wakefulness. His body ached and burned with fever, yet his head, in reality, was cool. He tried hard, very hard, to believe he had the flu and should stay in bed all day, but sleep was impossible, and to lie in bed, awake, and relive the outing and the ride home with Linda over and over again was much too torturous, and so, five minutes after the alarm sounded he got out of bed and cooled himself off with a hot shower.
And the goddamn subway reeked like a sewer. All those goddamn animals jammed into the train like the ark . . . yeah, thats what they are, a bunch of stinking animals. Like a zoo on a hot day. Yeah, New York is a Summer Festival. The rotten bastards. I got their festival . . . with this kind of weather. Just lovely weather. So goddamn hot and humid it was like being in a shower, you sweat so much. And those assholes smell worse than animals. Never heard of soap and water and toothpaste. Jesus, what a stink. Ugly goddamn slobs. They smell like they rubbed their armpits with garlic and onions . . . and chewed on dirty underwear. Like that
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goddamn baboon over there. Looks real natural hanging from the strap. He/d probably love it if I threw a few peanuts atim. Jesus, I/d like to see the orangutan hes married to. Can just see them sitting around watching the boob tube, picking nits off each other and eating them. Shes probably as hairy as that dog over there. Krist, shes got a bigger mustache than Groucho Marx. Shit, shes got more hair growing out of that mole on her cheek than I have on my head. I/d hate like hell to see her legs. Hair probably hangs off in festoons. . . . Jesus, its hot in this rotten trap. The sweats rolling down my back like a river. Sweet Jesus, what a miserable way to live, starting off the day jammed in a train with a herd of stinking animals. . . . Shit, no animal smells this bad ... or looks this bad. A bunch of goddamn peasant. . . . Slobs! Krist, look at the uniforms theyre wearing. The goddamn chimps in the circus are dressed better than these cretins. Those coordinated sets from Kleins basement. A dollar ninety-eight for the whole damn thing, including a free radio as a bonus. Red slacks! Red jacket! Pink knit shirt and a red asshole polyester tie. Krist. They must be twins, one guy couldnt be so dumb. And the broads. Jesus, what outfits. Uglys really in this season. Ahhhhhh, screwem. All but . . . Shit, maybe I should move to the city and get away from these rotten subways. Or maybe to the suburbs where you have a higher class of slobs riding the trains. Shit! Who needs it. Screw the suburbs. And these assholes. These low-life cretins. Screwim. Where they eat.... Suburbs. Shit! Who needs it.... Who wants.. .
He
bumped and jostled through the sweaty tunnel with the decades of stink and graffitied walls and the tomblike tile and Neanderthalic slobs hacking up phlegm from the depths of their bowels and sucking on it before splattering it onto the tracks or into the shadows of the girders and stomping it into the pores of the cement and hiding it under last years dirt
and
up into the joy of honking traffic and menagerie streets heated from a sun hidden by those goddamn slabs of steel and bull-
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shit, but you know the goddamn thing is up there somewhere because its so hot and God forbid there should be a breeze to cool it off because even if one did try to sneak up on the rotten oven of a city, it would get cut off by one of those phallic symbols except in the wintertime when nothing seems to stop the wind from freezing your balls off
but even the streets
are better than getting jammed in the elevator next to some broad loaded with cheap perfume that burns your eyes until they feel like two piss holes in the snow
and you finally get to
your desk and start going through the garbage on it, waiting for the air conditioning to break down.. . .
A deep
breath, a sigh, and a ahhhh, fuckit, and a new day, a new week, is begun. . . .
And
anyway, whats the big deal, what in the hell is everyone griping about? I didnt really say anything out of line. I didnt hit anyone on the head or rape their wife. Maybe it doesnt sound so hot, out of context, but its easy to misinterpret a joke or an off-the-cuff remark like that. You know, youre driving along with the radio playing and theres the noise of traffic and the breeze coming in the window and youre concentrating on driving and you dont quite catch a word and you say something like, hes got a good head, and it gets all jumbled up in someones ear and its liable to sound like—a— anything, you know—like, he should drop dead, or something, I dont know, maybe thats not a good example, but you know what I mean, or maybe you do say something like, he should drop dead, but you mean it in a joking way and if the person could see your face they would know that you were joking, but they cant see your face in the dark and theyre not used to your sense of humor and so they take you seriously and by the time they repeat it, it gets all twisted out of shape and it takes on a connotation and meaning that has nothing at all to do with what you said and meant . . . you know what I
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mean, right? I dont have to go into detail and run the shit into the hole—
and goddamn it, what happened to the spec sheet for the Clauson job? I know fucking well right I had it right here last Thursday and now the son of a bitch is gone. If Louise took it, I/ll. . . .
O.K., O.K., so here it is. Somebody probably moved it while they were looking for something. I wish to krist people would leave my desk alone. . . .
And for krists sake
keep those corny jokes to yourself. I dont have the time to stop and listen to every dumb joke some idiot heard. I have work to do. Some of these dumb broads think everyone is like them and theyre just here because they have nothing else to do and they dont give a shit about the job and only think about coffee breaks, lunch breaks and time off—
you know
better than that, Mr. Wentworth. You know I wouldnt say anything like that about any employee. Jesus . . . Ah, you know. . . . Im not going to say that whoever said that I said that is a liar, but I will say theyre mistaken....
I suppose it does sound like Im
jealous, but I/ll tell you the truth, Linda, the Gods Honest Truth. Im not. For one thing I like Davis, Harrys face relaxed with a sincere smile, and respect him. Hes as hard a worker as you will find and has been a lot of help to me. And after all, hes been here longer than I have and . . .
No, no, not at all, Mr. Wentworth. I dont mind tying up the loose ends of his work. After all, we/re all here to do the best we can, right? And if ...
Krist!
Its amazing how people screw things up and make a big deal out of nothing. You make some idle chitchat to some broad and someone has to make a federal case out of it. And anyway, its none of your goddamn business. Why dont you just butt the fuck out of it. I didnt ask you for your opinion. If you dont want to believe me, then thats your problem. I know I didnt
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say anything and thats enough for me, and if you dont like it, then up yours. Go peddle your bullshit somewhere else. I dont need it. I do my job and I dont have to apologize to you or anyone else for anything! Anything!!!!
And
then the ride home . . . clickity, clackity, fuckidy, shittidy, hackidy, coughidy . . . Thats it, chew on it, you son of a bitch. Roll it around in your mouth you—achh, what an animal. But at least the days over and I dont have to listen to that office bullshit and those dizzy broads talking about wha
t a nice time they had Friday, and isnt it a beautiful place, and can you imagine, one man owned that whole place once, and wasnt the food wonderful, and, and, and . . .
Piss on it. I/ll
go to a flick tonight with a couple of the guys, or something. It/ll be better tomorrow—it better be! Everybody shouldnt be so screwed up because of the outing and I/ll be able to get back into the swing of things—thank krist that hackin son-ofabitch got off, they shouldnt allow those bastards on the train—and see about coming up with something on this new Langendorff proposal and we/ll see what old Wentworth has to say then. . . . Yeah . . . It/ll be more than a night on the town. .
Harry abandoned himself to work with a drive that absorbed all his energy. He wasnt concerned about a title, he didnt need some dumb title to prove who was really important. And he wasnt going to say anything to anyone, but just go about his business and develop an idea that had been floating around in his head for a while and lay the best goddamn proposal on Wentworths desk that he had ever seen ... or anyone else, with or without a title—Hahaha, I wonder if he/ll get a Bigelow on the floor????
He got to the office early and got immediately immersed in his work so that he was undisturbed by the usual morning
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chitchat and slow settling in, and stayed late, enjoying the quiet and solitude, and the quantity and quality of the work he produced during those few hours at night.
On a couple of days he spent most of his time out of the office collecting and collating information and checking previously submitted data. The longer he worked on the project the more completely involved he became with it, and when he got home late at night, he would sit quietly in his room and reflect on the days work, double-checking himself mentally to be certain he hadnt overlooked anything. And the more involved he became, the more convinced he was that he was right and that his idea was extremely workable, and the more he realized this the more excited he became, and a warm and wonderful feeling of smug satisfaction eased its way around inside him.
He went to the office on Saturday and by early afternoon he had become so intensely involved not only with the job, but with the projected results, that he became very excited and had to leave his desk and walk around the office for a while. Actually he strutted more than walked, and bounced on his feet as he had been doing at his desk.
He stopped in front of one desk and realized that it belonged to Linda, and simultaneously realized that he hadnt thought about her, or Davis, in days—it seemed like years. Jesus, that was only a week ago. Incredible. It seems so long ago that its almost a distant memory. Well, screw it, no point in thinking about her and Davis. Not now. Just get the job done. . . . Yeah.
He went quickly back to his desk and resumed work immediately, his right leg bouncing on the ball of his foot as if he were pumping fuel into himself.
By the middle of the following week he wrapped up the Langendorff proposal and two smaller Class A Linear-type proposals to illustrate how his new method would work on any-size proposal of this type. He also dug into the files and got out proposals from previous years for the same type of corporation. When he had everything assembled and ready to
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present to Mr. Wentworth, he was so excited that he found himself jumping up and down inside. Just looking at the job he had done thrilled him. He had to be careful in talking to Wentworth because he felt like bouncing in and slapping him on the back and asking him, hows tricks? Turned any good ones lately? Hahaha. Wait till you see what I got for you Wenty boy, youll shit a brick. A solid gold brick. We can really cut the competition now. What do you think of it, Wenty baby boy, you old son of a gun you, chuckling and guffawing, you think its worth a night on the town and a slooooooooooooooooowwww blow job from one of your pubic—ah, excuse me, I mean public relations people? Or maybe the whole damn department, slapping him on the back and laughing loudly . . .
But how does this data give us the results we need for this computation?
Well, what I did was to interpolate this information, on a semi-decimal basis, with this current data. Then I coordinated it with the experience projected on this data and fed it into the IL30 computer, based on a one to seventeen ratio, which is ultra-conservative, and still came up with a low figure.
Wentworth leaned back in his chair for a moment, staring at all the papers and charts Harry had assembled, then leaned forward and continued to stare at them. Combined with the technique you used on the Compton and Brisbane proposal, we are untouchable in the Class A Linear field.
Thats right.
How do you know you are right?
I checked back in our files and reworked old proposals on this basis and then checked it with the actual experience, and in each case it worked out to less than a 1 percent differential of the actual cost of the completed job, including all the intangibles and unpredictables.
In other words, peering up at Harry, we can eliminate the ten to twelve percent error factor and still have a minimum of 8 per cent margin at the outside.
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Thats right. Easily. Plus the fact that it takes half the time to work up one of these proposals.
When is the Langendorff proposal due?
The twenty-seventh of next month.
O.K., heres what you do. You take this, all of this, over to analysis and tell them I want these proposals, and procedure, ripped apart. I want them to chop it up from every conceivable angle. If there are any flaws in this idea of yours, I want them uncovered now. Got it?
Right, his insides burning with excitement and his arms and legs trembling as he gathered up his papers and charts and started to leave Wentworths office.
And Harry.
Yes?
Dont fumble the ball this time, a faint hint of a smile on his face.
I wont. Definitely.
Yeah, dont worry. Im not letting anything fuck things up. I sure as hell aint going to be sucking hind tit around here. Im on my way. Nose to the grindstone and a finger up my ass whistling Dixie. Yeah, forgot to ask him about the slooooooooowww blow job, or a little dancing cheek to cheek. Why not, ass is ass. Yeah, and a finger is a finger. Finger, schminger. Later for that. Got to sew this thing up. Yeah, tear it apart—chop it up—twist it and turn it, and when youre all finished, sew it up nice and neat and send it back where it came from. Right here.
He dropped in on the boys in analysis from time to time during the following week and each time was told the same thing: its still holding water. Eventually they could not think of any other way to attack the system, and so a report was forwarded to Wentworth detailing the methods used to try to refute the system, and the result: it is sound in theory and practice.
Harry was calmly excited when he had lunch with Wentworth. He enjoyed the slow walk through the office to the elevator; the chitchat as they walked to the restaurant; the
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waiting for the maitre d, the sounds of the dining room as they were led to their table, the adjusting of himself in the chair and the unfolding of the napkin; the smooth and quick efficiency of the waiter and the busboy; the sipping of his drink; the red, gold and beautiful script of the menu and leaned back in his chair as he leisurely read the menu, then nonchalantly laid it aside. It was a way of life to which he intended to become accustomed. Places like this were just one of the aspects—rewards—of the success he sought and was determined to attain. Harry White was excited and, for the most part, he felt at home sitting at the table with Wentworth, but a part of him felt like a visitor, the visitor that in reality he was, but someday he knew that he would feel as much at home here as Wentworth and the others he noticed as he glanced around the room. They looked like they were completely at ease and did not know what it was to feel like a visitor, and he was determined that someday, soon, he would fit in just like them.
In case you are wondering about it, Harry, I do not intend to discuss the Langendorff proposal—you read the report from the analysis boys—as far as Im concerned we/re going ahead
with it, smiling and looking at Harry, as is. Harry glowed inside and fought to keep a relaxed smile on his face as the significance of Wentworths remark sunk in deeper and deeper, and he became instantly involved with the future and what it had in store for him and how the barriers to success would be disintegrated and he kept going up and up and up. ... After the contracts are signed—and that seems to be an absolute certainty to me—I/ll see to it that you receive a substantial raise.
Thanks, smiling and making a conscious effort to speak as calmly as possible, I/ll always say yes to that.
Wentworth looked at Harry for a moment. But what I really wanted to talk to you about—again—is why I am not going to recommend you for a promotion . . . now. Harrys guts suddenly went flip flop and he hoped to krist his face didnt show it. Im not going to bother rehashing a lot of ancient history—and thats what it is as far as Im concerned—
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but you know we have had discussions in the past about your inconsistencies. Ive told you that I think highly of you, and its true, I do. When you apply yourself to your work—what you have just done is a perfect example—you are the sharpest young man in the firm . . . and maybe not just with respect to the younger men. I can guarantee a future that is without limit if you will just apply yourself consistently. Anyway, waving his hand, we have gone over all that and I think thats enough said about that. The point is—to be specific and pertinent—that I know you can do a great job for a while—this isnt the first time you have done it—but how do you wear over the long haul? That, my young friend, is the question. Youre great in the fifty-yard dash, but thats not what we need. We need men who can continue to do it day after day after day . . . year after year. Now, I think you can do it, but Im not certain that you do. I think that somewhere in the back of your mind you doubt that you can live up to your potential with consistency. Harry could feel his muscles twitching and he was fighting desperately to keep the right expression on his face, if he could only figure out what in the name of krist was the right expression. Thats why I do not want you to get a promotion now. I do not want you to think you have won the race and start to rest on your laurels, as you have done in the past, and count the spoils of victory. You see Harry, there is no finish line to the race, except down and out. Every day is another race that demands another victory. So, I want you to prove to yourself that you can apply yourself to the work with consistency. And, leaning back slightly and smiling, I am even going to make it a little easier for you to do it by giving you some additional work. I know what its like to be bored. They both smiled, and Harry started to relax a little more. Consistency is the secret of success, Harry. Its the bottom line to the top.