Close Encounters

by Jen Michalski

  “Is Bob in today?” David asked the receptionist as he entered the building.

  “I don’t believe so. I can try his extension.”

  “Don’t bother.” David waved his hand distractedly. “I’ll stop by his desk on the way up.”

  In the elevator he stared at the smooth metal walls around him. Sometimes it seemed to him that everything was composed of these same walls, from the carpet in his office, which was a color he could not quite remember, to the walls, to the bodies that passed him in the hallway, bodies who said hi to him and to whom he replied. Yet it was not a haze that he was in; he was constantly thinking, thinking of new strategies, tinkering with old ones, streamlining packages and refinining their targets and stimulating their growth. He could wake up from a deep sleep and recite the day’s plan, the week’s plan, the year’s plan, effortlessly. No, it was not haziness.

  He walked over to Bob’s cubicle. His computer and light were turned off. Although Bob was a sloppy man, his desk was impeccably neat, his post-it notes stacked carefully in his desk caddy, his pens arranged by color in a cup, his printed-out emails and notes dutifully organized in desktop folders. In fact, David mused, it was the desk of a man who did not have enough work to do. On the opposite wall were photographs of Bob’s wife and presumably children, a look of contentment in their round, sanguine faces, contentment maintained by the sedentary American lifestyle and high-fat, high-starch food products. He picked up a pencil with the name of a school on it and twirled it absently in his hand, looking closely at Bob’s photographs, one of him and his wife at what appeared to be some sort of cookout. He wore an obnoxiously loud Hawaiian shirt and a brimmed straw hat. But it wasn’t Bob’s wardrobe that caught David’s attention. It was the fact that his right index finger, wrapped with the rest of his hand around the generous waist of his wife, was faded and missing. He untacked the photo to inspect it more closely, turning it over to read the date. The photo was taken last month.

  “Bob’s not here today, David.” One of Bob’s reports stepped into Bob’s cubicle. David quickly pinned up the photograph. “Isn’t that a nice picture? It’s from Bob and Annie’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party.”

  “Yeah, it’s a nice picture.”

  “He practically invited the whole company to his house for the barbecue. Did you go? I don’t remember seeing you there”

  “Umm, I was out of town for the weekend. Visiting relatives.” David vaguely remembered Bob passing out invitations to something last month, but he didn’t bother to read it. “Do you know when he’ll be back in?”

  “I don’t know—it’s been a few days now. Must have the flu or something.”

  “OK—thanks.” David squeezed past her and headed back up to his office, wondering where he might have stuffed that invitation, if he hadn’t already thrown it out. There was a tip among management to prominently display invitations and company party notices on one’s cubicle or door, even if one wasn’t planning on attending, to foster community with all levels of associates. In his office he rummaged through his desk drawers, leaning over to pick up his ringing phone.

  “How was your appointment, honey?” Sara asked.

  “Um, it was OK,” he answered, leaving through a stack of company memos he had delegated to a trash folder. “He said everything looked OK.”

  “He didn’t think you should go to the optometrist to see whether you needed your prescription updated?”

  “No. It’s really not that kind of problem.”

  “How long did you say this has been going on?”

  “Maybe a week or so—two weeks, tops. I mean, he said it could be fatigue.”

  “So do you have a follow-up appointment with…what’s his name?”

  “Dr…uh…” He fumbled through his wallet to find the ophthalmologist’s card. “No, I don’t. He suggested some other avenues to explore. I guess I’m going to wait and see.”

  “What time are you coming home tonight?”

  “I don’t know.” His eyes came upon the invitation to Bob’s anniversary barbecue, complete with address and directions, slightly crumpled in the corner of his desk drawer. “I might be late—I have to stop at a colleague’s house to pick up some stuff—he’s been out sick, and we really need the materials.”

  “So…should I make dinner?”

  “Umm…you can…if you want. If you don’t want, I can just pick something up on the way home.”

  “Is that a yes or no?”

  “Ummm…no. Don’t make it. Or make it if you want to for yourself, and I’ll reheat mine when you get home. Or don’t make, it and I’ll pick myself something up. Or I can pick something up for both of us.”

  “Don’t bother. I’m going to my mother’s house for dinner, then. You can pick something up for yourself.”

  “Something wrong, Sara?”

  “What are you doing? Are you doing something else while you’re on the phone?”

  “I was just picking up a piece of paper that fell off my desk. Why?”

  “You just sound so distracted; you’re always so distracted.”

  “Well, when you call me at work, chances are you’re catching me in the middle of something.” He tried to say it in the nicest way possible. “I mean, that’s why they call it work, right?”

  “Do you really want to know what’s wrong?”

  “Um…yes,” he answered, folding the invitation neatly into this wallet.

  “What do you mean, um, yes? Did you have to think about it?”

  “No…it’s just that if you’re going to tell me, I wish you would, because I’ve got to get to a meeting in a few minutes.”

  “Forget it, then.”

  “Well, tell me later, OK? When I come home. When you come home.”

  “Whenever that will be, right? Are you getting home at seven or ten? Can you narrow it down some?”

  “Probably by seven. How about you?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll talk to you later.” With that, she hung up. David shook his head and dropped the phone back into the cradle.

  He didn’t need Sara upset at him on top of everything else—if she only understood that the urgency he placed on getting this matter resolved was directly proportional to the urgency that he wanted his life to return to normal, his life at work, his life with her. If he could resolve it without drawing her into his increasing torment, he would save her needless suffering and avoid exposing this fragile part of himself in the process. It reminded him of being a teenager, of being confused and small and insignificant, a person Sara did not know and he did not remember much these days.

  After work he carefully followed the directions laid out on the invitation; they took him to a solid middle-class neighborhood full of modest ranchers and American-made cars. He pulled into a crowded driveway. What was he doing here? He could not believe it had really come to this.

  He got out of the car and walked across the patchy lawn to the porch. An assortment of homey, country knick-knacks adorned the windows and door, and a rather ornamented sign with “The Fullers” on it rested above the mailbox. He knocked on the door and waited. He hadn’t arrived with a script or a plan; conversely, his desperation had dragged him here well ahead of his brain.

  “Can I help you?” The plump, serene-looking woman from the photograph stood in the doorway. She wore a silk-like blouse and black polyester slacks. He wondered whether she thought he was a Jehovah’s Witness or something.

  “Mrs. Fuller? I’m David Tucker, from your husband’s work?”

  “Is he expecting you?” she asked, a little suspiciously, her soft features hardening like clay. “He didn’t mention anyone was coming to visit.”

  “No…I heard Bob was sick, and I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d see how he was.”

  “I’m sorry for being so rude.” She stepped away from the door to allow him entry. “I was a little surprised, like I said. Let me see if Bob is awake. Why don’t you have a seat on the sofa?”

  David s
at down and waited. The table lamps gave the rooms a cozy glow, along with the smell of coffee and chicken a la king. In fact, it reminded him of his maternal grandmother’s apartment, the smell of coffee brewing all day, bacon grease and organ meats, the bright lights of the kitchen pouring over his grandmother’s every mole and wrinkle. She was a small woman of Czech descent who would say but little to him and when she did, it was in her native tongue. Her yellow-blue eyes would fill with the glaze of age, her face weighted with wrinkles. He did not think of her much these days. She seemed incongruous to his life and now it was if she hadn’t existed. He tried to picture her ambling around this living room, but her mannerisms, the way she wore her hair, did not come to him.

  “He’ll be down in a minute.” Bob Fuller’s wife interrupted his thoughts. “Would you like some coffee or something?”

  “Umm, sure.” He straightened up on the sofa, interview-nervous, and checked his watch.

  “David Tucker.” Bob’s voice boomed from the doorway. He wore a slightly ill-fitting red tartan plaid role with a pair of sky-blue pajamas underneath. He shuffled over to an armchair opposite David and sat down, breathing heavily. David leaned over to catch a glimpse of Bob’s right hand, but Bob rested it in his robe pocket. “What a surprise. I take it you have met my wife Barbara.”

  “Um, yes.” David smiled and clasped his hands together. He felt strongly out of control, as if the center of power had shifted to Bob, who looked worse than David had ever seen him. Barbara Fuller came out and set a cup of coffee down in front of David.

  “Would you like any cream or sugar?” She asked politely but not warmly.

  “No, I’m OK, thanks. Thank you…for the coffee.”

  “So to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Bob asked, watching his wife exit.

  “Actually, I was in the neighborhood, and I knew you hadn’t been feeling well, so I thought I’d stop in and see how you were doing,” David explained, taking a sip of the coffee.

  “My, that’s so very gracious of you,” Bob smirked, shifting his volumous body in the chair. “Do you personally visit every associate who’s feeling a little under the weather?”

  “Well, like I said, I was in the area and…”

  “Who put you up to this?”

  “No one put me up to this.” David forced a chuckle. “I’m sorry that you seem to have taken my visit out of context.”

  “I don’t know about you, David, but not many people I know get a personal visit from the vice president of technology solutions to inquire about their health.”

  “Bob, I’m not here as part of any company directive. I came of my own volition. So, how are you doing?”

  “I haven’t gotten the tests back from the doctor yet, but I’ll let you know that I talked to HR before I went out sick, and I’m fully apprised of my rights regarding disability leave and FMLA.”

  “I hope you don’t mind my being so forward, but what do your doctors…think is wrong?”

  “I’d prefer not to say.”

  “OK—I was just curious—I didn’t realize it was…I thought maybe you had the flu or something.”

  “Well, if you thought I just had the flu, why did you come see me?”

  “Look, Bob.” David set his coffee cup down and sighed. “I don’t know what you’re driving at here, but maybe you can clue me in?”

  “Look, David, I’m no dummy. I’ve been around the block a few times, particularly with this company. I was in management back in the Eighties when the company decided that hiring newly minted MBAs who knew nothing about the company would be a smarter long-term plan than hiring from within. I was in management back in the Nineties when my department was downsized and my longtime customers treated like second-class citizens so that the newly minted MBAs could spend aggressively in the tech bubble, which burst soon after. Of course, my customers are still with the company after twenty years, but who cares about them? They’re part of the old economy, right, the old way of doing things. Just like Bob Fuller.”

  “Surely you can’t be implying that I…”

  “So I find it particularly fitting that the whiz kid on his way up gets sent over by corporate to let the old guy know his days are numbered now that he’s sick.”

  “Bob,” David laughed incredulously. That Bob thought corporate cared that much about him to make such a show tickled him. “There is no conspiracy theory. And if there is, and that’s a big if, I’m not in on it.”

  “Don’t.” Bob shook his head. “I was once a young Turk like yourself—I know how it works. Each year my raises have gotten smaller and smaller—I barely make the standard of living now. Each year my budget has been disappearing, along with my staff and customer base. It’s not like I don’t have ideas. For years I’ve tried to get my opinions heard. Then, I saw the writing on the wall, and said to hell with it. I’m coming to work, doing my job, and keeping my mouth shut. It’s like the company wants to erase me. You may have lofty ambitions now, David, but I’d watch your back. There will always be younger ones, ready to come in and take your job.”

  With that, Bob raised his hand and pointed at him as if to lecture. David could see that Bob’s hand was not only fuzzy, but his arm was as well, almost up to the elbow.

  “I am not going to retire early,” he said angrily, the flab on his arm and the give on his cuff flagging in unison. “I happen to love my job and my coworkers. I will be back at work in a couple of days. You’re going to have to try harder than this to get me out.”

  David did not answer, instead concentrating on his hands so that the coffee would not teeter out of the mug. A nervous energy surged through him, and he feared he might cry, or laugh, or scream, or something equally out of character.

  “I’m sorry you’re sick Bob,” David heard himself saying. “But like I said, I didn’t come here on behalf of the company. In fact, if you plan to file any sort of complaints with HR regarding how you feel the company may or may not be treating you, please leave my visit out of it. Like I said, I just stopped by to see how you were. I’m sorry that this idea was a bad one in your opinion, but I hope you feel better.”

  With that, he stood up and extended his hand to Bob. Bob extended his missing appendage. It was solid in David’s hand, but very cold.

  “Bob, do you feel like you have the flu?” David asked weakly. “Or have you had any problems with this arm?” “What do you mean?”

  “I mean…the grip…it doesn’t feel as strong. Do you have any weakness here?”

  “No, there’s nothing wrong with my arm.” Bob clenched a fist and raised it in the air. “See?”

  “Yes, indeed. Well, I won’t trouble you any longer.” David stood up. “Hope to see you at work soon, Bob.”

  “Tomorrow, if I can,” he answered, but did not get up to see David to the door. “Give my best to Bruce.”

  When David got home, Sara was not there. He wasn’t particularly hungry; in fact, he felt rather nauseated, so he went upstairs. In the bedroom, he took off his clothes carefully, piece by piece, as if to find that the shape and volume supporting the fabrics had suddenly disappeared. He walked over to the floor-length mirror by the doorway and examined his body, looking for patches of reduced visibility on his skin. He looked carefully at his hands, noted their color and firmness. He looked into his eyes, then turned around to make sure the room was the same as it had always been. He lay down on the bed and felt the cool sheets on his lower back, buttocks, and calves. He would have to visit the old woman tonight; there was no other way. He had to see her; lest he do something or go crazy tonight. His body screamed a vibrant anxiety, but he did not move. He wondered whether the bed would swallow him, and he half hoped it would. “David, wake up.”

  Sara stood by the bed, her arms crossed, her small, unremarkably pretty features ablaze with confusion and anger.

  “David, what are you doing naked on the bed?”

  “I was…feeling feverish. Maybe it has something to do with my vision…”

 
“David, are you having an affair?” She walked to the other side of the room and faced away. He sat up and laid his hands in his lap.

  “No, Sara, of course not. Why would you think something like that?”

  “What am I supposed to think? For months and months you’ve been emotionally unavailable to me, and now you’re going out for jogs at night, going to the doctor, stopping places after work. I catch you naked on the bed.” She turned to face him again. “So what is it then, David, if you’re not having an affair?”

  He looked at her soft brown eyes and knew that, if someone asked him a month ago to describe them, he couldn’t. Now, he could see the rich light brown that they were, with small flecks of gold. He hadn’t fallen in love with Sara because she was different than the rest; he fell in love with her because she was like all the rest, only better. She had the delicate features of a sorority girl but her eyes crinkled when she laughed, a rich, melodic, full laugh. Whereas some girls laughed as easily as they breathed, Sara’s laugh was genuine.

  “Well?” She probed him again. “I guess you can’t think of a lie?”

  “No, it’s not that…I mean, there’s no affair, no lie to think of. I was just thinking I hadn’t really looked at you lately, really looked…and looking reminded me of the reasons why I love you.”

  “Well, David, I could have told you that.” She turned to leave. “You never look at me anymore.”

  “I have to go.” He stood up and fumbled for his shorts.

  “What, you’re going to see her?”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know—you tell me.”

  “Do you want to come with me?” he asked. “Then you can see.”

  “See what? What is going on with you?”

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I think I’m going crazy. I’m seeing things that aren’t there…I mean, I’m not seeing things that should be there…I’d just like some answers.”

  “The doctor didn’t say anything…your eyes were OK?”

  “Yes. He said they were fine—he said it could be stress, you know, the blurriness.”