by Craig Davis
CHAPTER VI
Time flowed through the seamless days and weeks, leaving Joe B.’s prosperity further behind but bringing him no closer to the day when his full vestment in Universal Whirligig’s retirement would set him free – or at least so it seemed to him. He felt stuck in a high-rise purgatory, separated from the life that went before and with no definite future in sight. As events slipped through his fingers, so did the family’s savings, try as they might to stretch each ATM withdrawal. Credit cards had suffered an early sacrificial fate, first under the blade of some large scissors, then again on all the family’s favorite internet retail sites. But as investments inevitably dwindled, painful cuts remained to be made.
The sun arose that day like any other morning, but there was nothing light about it. A van sat upon the driveway, cargo hold gaping open, waiting to swallow the contents of the grand Victorian house. Joe B. had no choice but to move his family into more affordable housing. With no salary worthy to justify a new mortgage, they would have to settle down in an apartment. The master bedroom would accommodate Marie’s equipment, and Joe B. and his wife could squeeze into the small bedroom. Faith and Hope would be thrown together in a loft over the living area.
Packing down a three-story house into a smallish apartment took creative planning, hard decisions and lots of boxes. Many items accumulated over the years, so seemingly precious at the time, received the dreaded tag for sale out in the yard. The book collection was long gone, each volume gradually sold off in attempt to save the homestead, a battle now lost. Fortunately, Universal Whirligig’s health insurance paid for Marie’s bed, inhaler, physical therapy paraphernalia and wheelchair; but everything that had fallen out of use or could be spared went onto the auction block.
“My lingerie armoire!” bemoaned Joe B.’s wife.
“I know,” Joe B. offered her weak support. “It’s a beautiful piece, but maybe that will help us get a good price. And we just won’t have room for it.”
At the sale Joe B. talked the armoire up for a prospective customer: “It’s got a genuine veneer finish.”
“For real?” she asked.
“Faux real.”
“Huh?”
What didn’t sell so well was a box of Joe B.’s electronic gadgets. The intervening months since his demotion had turned his technology into anachronisms. Only his pager brought in a decent price, from an antique dealer. But as the family sorted out its belongings, one piece of electronics gave Joe B. a sudden inspiration, and so he set aside the video camera for later use.
One day soon thereafter, Joe B. arrived at work particularly early toting the camera and a suit bag, both of which he stowed away in his locker like a ninja. After a long shift of sorting letters and receiving packages, he shambled back into the locker room and set his brilliant scheme into action. He spent the next fifteen minutes rubbing lotion into his parched hands, a daily exercise that failed to have any effect on the open and bleeding cracks in his skin. Then he peeled off his coveralls in favor of the suit and tie that had waited all day for this moment, and took up his camera.
Well versed now in the ups and downs of the Universal Whirligig building, Joe B. once again confidently rode the elevator to the highest floor he was allowed privileges. Then he yet again mounted the stairs and began working his way to the Big Boss’ office suite, official Universal Whirligig notebook tucked under his arm and camera dangling from its shoulder strap. He paced himself evenly, pausing momentarily at each new floor so he wouldn’t appear winded when he got to the top. At each step the camera swung back and forth, and Joe B. caught himself silently repeating the mantra:
I will fulfill your kitty wishes
And fill full your kitty dishes,
which he’d heard Hope reciting that morning as she skipped around the cramped kitchen of the new apartment, dancing with the terrified cat.
At the top of the stairwell and out the door to the hallway – tie knotted up and shirt smoothed down – Joe B. met his old nemesis, the security guard. But would he be the grumpy, retributive guard of his first encounter, or the gracious, kind-hearted guard of the second? Joe B. suddenly realized he should have shaved.
“So nice to see you on this floor again, sir,” he greeted Joe B.
“Yes. Thank you,” Joe B. replied officiously. “I’m here to see the Big Boss.” He flashed his notebook as if it meant something.
“Well, sir, you may be able to see his outer secretary, if she’s at her desk. You’ll find her just beyond those double doors.”
“Yes, I know,” Joe B. said smugly, savoring the lame private joke with the guard before striding off in a manly way.
The guard rested his hand on his walkie-talkie.
Sure enough, there sat the secretary, behind her desk.
“Hello!” he greeted her like an old friend, trying to sound confident.
“Hello again. This seems to be your time of day for a visit,” she returned with a fleeting look at the clock.
“Is that so?” he said, not wanting to let on that he was on the mailroom schedule. “Is the Big Boss in?”
“Um.” The secretary cast about some thoughtful if not suspicious glances. “Yes. He’s in.”
“Well,” Joe B. began his calculatedly spontaneous spiel, “I’m here for his interview.” He laid his hand on his camera as though he were petting Jack Russell’s head. “We’re preparing a documentary about Universal Whirligig – its beginnings and development, the role it plays in the world – and of course we have to talk to the Big Boss.”
“I have no time set aside for an interview,” the secretary was looking through her accursed date book, “which doesn’t surprise me, since the Big Boss doesn’t do interviews, especially not for television.”
“Oh, this isn’t for TV,” Joe B. tried hard to get her to buy the idea. “We’re going to post this online, on SchmoozeTube. It’s all about the new media, you know. Great promotion with the younger generation. You know, 58 percent of all youths ages 15 to 37 get at least 79 percent if not more of their information from the Internet or some other source.”
“Well, nonetheless,” she replied, “there’s no interview scheduled.”
“I can’t imagine why not,” Joe B. pretended to study her date book from his upside-down perspective. “My producer promised me he’d set one up for today,” he lied.
“Your producer?”
“Certainly. I’d have never come up here if he – uh, she hadn’t said it was okay.” Joe B. was wide-eyed.
“I’m afraid he or she didn’t call me. I surely would have made a note of it on the Big Boss’ advisory list. He wants to know every time someone seeks his attention.”
“Every time?” Joe B. felt like he had been caught at something.
“Oh, yes. Every time.”
“Like last time with me?”
“The time before, too.”
“Well,” Joe B. swallowed hard, “I do apologize for the mix-up. And I’m sorry for leaving that dolly, too, last time. Thanks for not telling the supply clerk. Anyway, could I talk to the Big Boss anyway? Since I’m here with all my equipment?”
The secretary considered the compact camera hanging from his shoulder. “I’m sorry you had to lug all that up here for no reason, but the Big Boss just doesn’t do interviews.”
“It wouldn’t take very long. I need only ten minutes.”
“I’m sorry sir – ”
“Five minutes?”
The secretary smiled sweetly and shook her auburn curls. “I’m sorry, the Big Boss won’t do an interview. Questions lead to answers that lead to questions. But some things just can’t be known.”
“What? Are you saying he’s afraid of corporate sabotage or something?” Joe B. wasn’t sure he bought it.
She smiled again. “No, the Big Boss is hardly afraid. Universal Whirligig is a huge industrial concern, and questions about its operation only go astray. One reporter learns about the hardwood forests we plant, and suddenly Universal Whirligig is a clothes pin factory. An
other latches onto our third world power grid and turns us into a maker of twinkle bulbs for Christmas. Both are right, and both are wrong.”
“But what if I asked the right questions?” Joe B. put on a face of hard-nosed insight, but found it hard to hide his sarcasm.
“It can’t be done. Simple questions tend to reduce the truth down to answers that fit too neatly – conclusions that might fit on a bumper sticker. Universal Whirligig operates on all seven continents, and the Big Boss just has no interest in trying to boil it down into a sound bite.”
“Look, I’ll do all the research,” Joe B. turned anxious. “I’ll do the work to make sense of everything. But my report just won’t mean anything if people can’t know who the Big Boss is.”
“Oh, to know the Big Boss! That’s different!” the secretary said.
“Yes, thank you, finally! It’s different!” Joe B. blurted.
“Yes, understanding the Big Boss is far more elusive than sorting out Universal Whirligig. Some people have known him, but no one I know.”
Joe B.’s sudden hopefulness crashed into a mighty fireball, igniting his temper. “Now wait! You’re saying I can’t understand the Big Boss?! He’s that much better than me?”
“Well,” the secretary paused calmly, “I’ll make no judgment about you, sir, but let me put it this way. Universal Whirligig is a giant complex reaching around the world, and yet it all fits into the Big Boss’ mind. He conceived it all and brought it all about. Can a goldfish understand what lies outside its bowl? If I can’t grasp all the inner workings of his company – and I can’t – then I surely can’t understand the man who put it together.”
“So you know your place, then – can’t ask the Big Boss any tough questions! He can’t handle it! Tell me, haven’t you ever wanted to at least try?” Facetiousness turned Joe B.’s attitude ugly.
“Oh, yes, and since I see him every now and then, I do get a peek into his world occasionally,” she said. “But the more I learn, the more I realize I have left to learn.”
“So you won’t give me the opportunity to try?”
“Oh, I’d be happy to,” she replied brightly. “But the Big Boss doesn’t give interviews.”
Joe B.’s shoulders sank.
“But here’s something, so you don’t leave empty-handed,” she continued, handing him a camera bag with an embroidered Universal Whirligig logo.
“Man, they think of everything,” he thought as he studied the fine leather. The bag was just the right size, and it included lots of pockets for accessories, and Joe B.’s face froze as he suddenly noticed the battery conspicuously missing from his camera.
He turned resignedly to leave and saw his old friend the security guard standing in the doorway, grinning like a grandfather. His insipid expression sparked an impulsive thought in Joe B.’s brain. Much to the guard’s surprise, Joe B. abruptly wheeled back toward the office and made a break for the barrier partitioning the office beyond the secretary’s desk. Three long strides and he was there, setting his hand atop the rail to vault its height; but the Big Boss had set a high bar, and at the last moment Joe B.’s foot caught its edge. The ceiling seemed to whirl about in his vision, and somehow, in spite of his momentum, he fell back into the reception area. His head hit the floor with a sickening crack.
“Now, sir, I’m shocked at you! That was just silly!” the secretary hovered over him like a spectre, applying first aid.
Joe B.’s eyes slowly cleared. “I suppose the Big Boss will hear about this?” he groaned.
“Oh, yes, he’ll know,” she replied, tending to him. “I hope your head is not badly injured.”
“No, probably not – apparently there’s nothing in there to injure,” Joe B. concluded.