Losing Our Edge

by Jeff Gomez

  He quickly responds to a few emails and texts. Then he sees Randy’s email from the other day about that concert next week. When Charles mentioned him to Grace again last night, lamenting that they’d drifted out of touch and talking about what great friends they used to be, she suggested having Randy over for dinner this weekend. Charles writes a quick email.

  Randy, hey. Yeah, the Bottlecap thing sounds great, but we’d also like you to come to dinner on Saturday if you’re up for it. Just let me know.

  As he hits SEND he sees Tom approaching from the direction of O’Brien’s office.

  “Charles, my man.” Tom slaps Charles on the knee. “Hope you weren’t waiting long.”

  “Not at all. Just got here.”

  Heather shoots Charles a look.

  “Then come on in.” Tom enters his office. While Charles gets up and follows him, Tom calls out, “Heather, darling, hold my calls, will you?”

  As he closes the door, Tom motions for Charles to take a seat. Charles approaches the chair but hovers near it for a moment, waiting for Tom to sit down first. Charles catches a slight grin on Tom’s face as he does this.

  “So, Charles, how are you?”

  “Good, good.”

  “How’s Maddie? What is she, six now?”

  “Eight, actually.”

  “Eight? Wow. Time flies.”

  “And how’re your boys?”

  Charles knows that Tom has two boys, thirteen and two.

  “An adventure, always an adventure.”

  Then there’s silence. Charles wonders whether he should try and fill it. Should he make the comment about the weather he’d come up with earlier? He decides it’s Tom’s move.

  “Listen,” Tom finally says. “Thanks for coming by. As you know, there’s been a lot of scuttlebutt about some changes and reorgs and everything and, well, I just wanted to make sure you heard this straight from me.”

  “Of course,” Charles says. He crosses his legs and leans back, trying to look comfortable, even though he’s not.

  “The fact of the matter is, we’re going to make Dylan a vice president. He’ll be moving up here to work directly with the management team. I wanted to tell you personally because it means you’ll be taking on a few of his former duties.”

  Charles is stunned. He’s not sure he heard it right, the name Dylan and not Charles. His phone buzzes in his pocket, probably a text from Grace with an even more expensive quote from the contractor.

  “Well, Tom.” Charles’s voice is even and measured even though his heart is racing and he’s pissed off. “I have to admit, this is a bit of a shock.”

  Tom looks down and makes circles on the glass desktop with his palm. Charles sees that Tom’s wedding band is tight around his ring finger. It’s practically cutting into his skin. Charles hopes it hurts.

  “I know, I know.” Tom’s shaking his head. “To be honest, it was a shock to me, too. And, not to pass the buck, but this isn’t a decision I feel I can agree with wholeheartedly.”

  “You mean because Dylan’s a fucking idiot?”

  Tom laughs. Cursing in the office is not only accepted, it’s encouraged. If you can’t say “fuck,” you’ll never rise above assistant.

  “I appreciate your candor,” Tom says, “and I want you to know your feelings are echoed among some of the management team.”

  There’s silence again. Charles fears that Tom is going to leave it there, with indignation registered but no change in the actual decision. That’s not good enough. Charles wants that job. He needs that job.

  “You know that Dylan’s intern does most of his work, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Sharon,” Charles says, not quite believing he’s saying it. “Well, she’s not exactly an intern, but she might as well be. Isn’t even a manager. She does everything. If you want to make someone VP, promote her.”

  Tom chuckles darkly. The only women you see on the sixteenth floor are secretaries. He slowly says, “Continue.”

  “She writes all of his reports, does the weekly highlights email. She even pulls together the material for the newsletter every month. She also writes his presentations for the sales conference.”

  “You mean drafts, right? From his notes?”

  “No, Tom. I mean the whole fucking thing. Frankly, Dylan doesn’t have an original thought in his head. He’s just taking up space. Everybody thinks so.”

  “Jesus.”

  “All Dylan does is say yes yes yes to whatever Sharon puts in front of him. Rubber-Stamp Stevens, that’s what we call him.”

  They don’t actually call him that, but it sounds good so Charles says it. All he’s thinking about is his roof. And Maddie sleeping under the growing mold. Spores and germs and bacteria infecting his little girl, doing God only knows what to her developing brain.

  “You are aware,” Tom says, “of how highly O’Brien thinks of him.”

  This is the biggest stumbling block. Around Trust Insurance—around this branch, anyway—O’Brien is God. If tomorrow he sent around an email saying two plus two equals five, not only would everyone believe it, they’d make it their screensaver.

  “I know that there’s a connection between them, yes.”

  “Connection?!” Tom laughs. “He’s like his goddamn nephew or something. How do you think that little shit got the job in the first place? The point is, O’Brien likes him.”

  There’s silence again, but Charles doesn’t know what to say to break it. What to offer, or how low he’s willing to go. He needs Tom to take the lead.

  “To be honest, Charles, I really didn’t think you’d react this way. But I’m glad to hear it. You’ve got fire in your belly.” Tom swivels in his chair and looks out the window. Charles looks out the window, too. The views from sixteen really are nice. Tom says, dreamily, “You remind me of me at your age.”

  Charles decides to go for it.

  “Can it be stopped?”

  Tom turns back to Charles.

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On what you can get me on Dylan.” Tom leans forward, interlaces his fingers, and begins to whisper even though his door is closed and there’s no way anyone could overhear their conversation. “If I’m going to go to O’Brien and try to kill this, I need proof. Some ammunition. O’Brien’s going to push back, and I need to be prepared when he does.”

  Silence again. Out in the hall Charles can hear the pinging sound of the elevator arrive and its doors opening and closing. He says, “I think I can get you what you need.”

  “Well, okay then. See what you can dig up and, in the meantime, I’ll tell O’Brien about our little discussion. Test the water a bit. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Tom turns to his computer. Charles takes this to mean the meeting is over. He gets up and starts heading for the door. He’s almost there when Tom speaks again.

  “And I suppose that if Dylan doesn’t get that job, you’d want it?”

  Charles doesn’t want to overplay his hand.

  “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  Tom laughs.

  “Fucking bullshitter. I love it.”

  Bookstorage is busy. All afternoon Randy’s been running between the aisles carrying stack after stack of books, trading out the remainders for the new releases, restocking the Bestsellers section, and unpacking a box of children’s books he should have unpacked last week. Hector’s at checkout, Susan’s behind the information desk, and Bill has been on everyone’s ass all day, roaming the floor and telling the Bookstorage staffers to “look alive” over and over again.

  As Randy digs out a few copies of a hefty new novel from a cardboard box that says RODNEY & CO. on the side, three women brush past him heading from Photography to Art. Randy begins placing the unboxed books on the shelf—some new novel with a lurid cover featuring vampires at the United Nations—just as a young couple come in. They’re followed soon after by a woman with two kids. Susan looks up
something on the computer for one of the art-book ladies while Bill helps Hector at the front desk with gift-wrapping. Randy expects all this on a weekend, but it’s rare for a Thursday.

  As he bends over for another handful of fiction, the phone in his back pocket buzzes. Bookstorage policy is to only make or receive calls, or read or send emails and texts, during designated break periods or before and after shifts while in the break room. But Randy figures fuck it, and heads to the back of the store. Crouching in Science Fiction, he checks his BlackBerry.

  Charles has finally gotten back to him, agreeing to go to the concert but also inviting him to dinner this weekend. Randy writes back.

  Sounds good. Send me the deets when you can and I’ll see you then.

  After sending the message, Randy looks up and sees Bill watching him from a few feet away. He’s carrying a roll of James Joyce wrapping paper.

  “When you’re done with your personal correspondence, Randy, would you kindly meet me in my office? I’d like to have a word.”

  Bill brushes past him and heads toward his office, located just past the employee break room, on the other side of Self-Help. Randy can see Hector grinning at him from behind the cash register.

  Randy slinks through the back of the store and finds the office door open. Bill’s sitting behind a desk cluttered with invoices and packing slips. Randy’s been in here a lot lately, getting lectures or a slap on the wrist for some silly violation like being late or chewing gum. It always feels like being sent to the principal’s office.

  Randy sits down and points to the wall. “Quite a crowd out there.” On the other side of the wall is the store, where presumably there are still half a dozen people shopping for books.

  “That’s not a crowd, Randy. That’s a few people killing time before their movie starts at the mall. They’d have to buy half the store every week to get this location out of the hole it’s in. But that’s not why I called you in here.” Bill leans forward and places his elbows on the desk. He inhales deeply before speaking again. “I’m sure you’re fully aware of Bookstorage policy—policy that I have now had to speak to you about on several occasions—about employee behavior. Well, this is going to be the last time.”

  When Bill stops talking, Randy wonders if he’s supposed to say something. Apologize or admit something that Bill knows but that Randy doesn’t think he knows.

  “What are you saying, exactly?”

  “I’m saying your services are no longer needed at Bookstorage. You’re being let go. Today’s your last day.” Bill lets this soak in before continuing. “I was going to wait until closing, but your little stunt just now forced my hand. Turn in your vest and clock out.”

  “Bill, please.” Randy’s voice shakes when he speaks. He looks behind him at the open door. He wishes he had shut it. He doesn’t want Hector or Susan to hear what he’s about to say. “I know I’ve been remiss. And I’m sorry. But I like this job. I need this job. Please don’t do this. Please.”

  As Randy says this, Bill just looks over Randy’s head. He refuses to make eye contact. Randy feels like an animal.

  “Bill—”

  But he’s suddenly cut off.

  “Randy, I’m sorry. You were a good employee once, but your heart’s not in it anymore. Don’t try and lie and tell me that it is. You come in late and you leave early. It’s clear you don’t want to be here. Hector and the others, well, they just have more—”

  Bill stops speaking. He shuffles some papers on his desk, looking for the script. He continues. “It’s been nice knowing you, and we wish you all of the success in the world. Thank you for all of the contributions you’ve made to the Bookstorage family.” Bill says this in an emotionless way, like flight attendants going over safety procedures.

  “Bill, I’m begging you. Don’t do this.”

  Bill gets up, but stares at the ground. “Randy,” he says, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Randy doesn’t move. But he doesn’t really know what else to do, what else to say. When he finally stands up, his legs feel unsteady and his head feels light. It’s all he can do to shuffle out of Bill’s office. In the break room he peels off his Bookstorage vest and nametag, letting both drop to the floor. Randy’s aware of Bill’s presence behind him.

  He’s probably making sure I don’t steal anything on the way out. Like what? The water cooler? The packets of cream and sugar?

  As Randy’s standing there, too stunned to move, Hector enters the break room. He says to Bill, “Mr. Fuller, we’re running low on change. I thought I’d have Susan cover the front desk while I run to the bank before the evening rush. I don’t think we can wait until tomorrow morning. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Thanks, Hector.” Bill nods approvingly. “That’s smart thinking.”

  Hector walks back out to the floor. When the door’s open, Randy sees shoppers lined up at the cash register, Susan checking out one of the ladies from before with the art books. He also sees the box of books he was in the middle of shelving. A task he won’t be able to complete. He figures Hector will do it.

  These goddamn kids and their enthusiasm. Afraid to break the rules. Afraid to put their necks on the line for what they believe in. I’d rather live on my feet than die on my knees.

  Randy looks down and realizes he can almost see his knees through his worn jeans.

  He turns and leaves Bookstorage through the back door, slowly walking to where his car is straddling two spaces. The parking lot’s quiet; there aren’t many cars around. He can hear the hum of the freeway on the other side of the building.

  When he gets to his Tercel, he sees a piece of paper stuck under one of his windshield wipers. Written in block letters with red marker, the note says ASSHOLE.

  3: Nearly Lost You

  There’s a car in front of the practice space. Mark wonders if it belongs to Steve or Gary or some other guy who’s in some other band who’s here to practice early on a Saturday. The car, a beat up old Chrysler with an I ♥ ZOMBIES bumper sticker, is parked underneath a faded sign that says THE JAM ROOM. Below this sits a musical staff with assorted notes. Squinting through the windshield, the notes look to Mark like G, F#, G, A, D, A, G, F#. He whistles the tune, but doesn’t recognize it.

  Mark parks, turns off the engine, and just sits there. It’s what he used to do when the band first got together. Whenever Mark showed up to practice—if only Gary’s car was there—he’d sit until Steve showed up. He didn’t want to go in and talk to Gary because he didn’t know him. Steve had known Gary since they were kids, but Mark only knew Steve from mutual friends, and really didn’t know Gary at all. So Mark would stall until Steve showed up, and then act like he just got there, too.

  Mark sighs and gets out of the car. He grabs his guitar from the trunk, as well as a small suitcase that holds a few pedals, cords, spare strings, and a strap.

  The one-story building is red brick with wooden slats painted blue where windows used to be. The front door is open and the lobby—a small vestibule with an iMac on a desk, two old wingback chairs covered in stains, and a water cooler—is empty. The walls are decorated with records he’s never heard of by bands he doesn’t know. To the right, next to the men’s room, he sees STUDIO A. As he approaches, muffled sounds come from behind the doors. Someone’s tuning up.

  Mark opens the double doors. The first thing he sees is a drum set sitting along the large far wall, sandwiched between a huge rectangular bass amp and a squat Fender amp with a silver face. In the corner are various musical odds and ends—microphone stands, keyboards, amps, amp heads, and drums. While Mark stands there waiting someone comes out from behind the bass amp. It’s Gary. He’s wearing skinny green jeans, a tight black shirt with a red-and-blue bull’s-eye, and a pair of Converse sneakers held together with duct tape. His hair has thinned and is too black to be natural. Bangs hang into his eyes and, when he smiles, Mark can see brown, stained teeth.

  “It’s funny.”

  Hearing Gary’s voice again
sends chills down Mark’s spine. He hasn’t heard him speak for two decades. The voice is exactly like he remembers.

  “What?”

  “For so many years,” Gary says, “I had this big long speech of what I was going to say if I ever saw you again. For a while there, I wasn’t sure I ever would. See you again, I mean. But I always wanted to be prepared, just in case.”

  “Yeah?”

  Maybe this was a bad idea. I wish Steve were here. I should have waited outside.

  “I used to rehearse it,” Gary says. “Over and over. I’d even revise it from time to time. Make it longer, shorter, whatever. But then that went away and I—I just had questions. About why you did what you did. Why you walked out. I just wanted answers. And then, finally, that went away, too. And now …”

  “And now, what?”

  “Now, it’s just good to see you.”

  Gary sticks out his hand and Mark shakes it.

  “You too.”

  Mark lets go first.

  “So, have you been back before now?” Gary says. “To Kitty, I mean. I never really heard anything.”

  “No.” Mark looks at the ground. He kicks at one of the legs of a microphone stand. “This is my first time since we left back in ’93.”

  “Must be strange.”

  Mark grins.

  “That’s one word for it.”

  From behind them there’s noise. Gary and Mark turn.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  Steve enters the room carrying a pair of drumsticks in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He’s wearing blue sweatpants and a navy blue sweatshirt that says GO CAVALIERS in orange letters. A paunch pushes out the sweatshirt, showing pink skin.

  “Oh, my god,” Steve says. “Mark? Holy shit. Come here, man.”

  Steve rushes Mark and envelopes him in a hug.

  “Hey, Steve. Good to see you.”

  They separate and Steve nods to Gary.