The Applicant
Each weekday morning,
Ashland Morrow looked forward to wrapping his thin fingers around a large latte
created by a twenty-something he found attractive but could never like who took
the trouble to carve a hot milk heart into the top of the pure white froth. He
liked the emptiness of the wood-paneled elevator rising silently in the
gleaming tower where he worked; the quiet of his office before the day
officially began. He liked standing at the window high above the city’s stink
and din, watching the clouds move from west to east across a horizon he always
thought of as his.
Arriving just after
eight, Ashland wasn’t expecting to be greeted by an applicant waiting for him
in his large, modern sanctum sanctorum at the end of a lane created by
the cubicle farm he had populated with hand-picked support staff.
“Good morning,” said
the well-dressed young man causing Ashland to stop just inside his double
office doors and release a slight gasp, a barely audible intake of breath
clearly heard in the near perfect quiet of this pristine aerie with its thick
carpet and expensive art.
Rising out of the
expensive low leather chair bought precisely because it was lower than
Ashland’s high-backed, ultra-slim Cobra, the young man continued, “Gillian said
it would be okay if I waited in your office. I’m Tom Hardy.”
“Gillian often doesn’t
know what she’s talking about, Mr. Hardy,” said Ashland a little stiffly. “I
appreciate promptness, but you’re early. Sit down. Let me finish this,” he
raised the cardboard coffee cup as if it was a trophy, “while I read your
vitals.”
As the two men enjoyed
the stillness—punctuated every now and then by a slight slurping sound—Ashland
began to feel as if he had seen this man before. Not professionally nor
casually yet there was something about him.
“Your last position was
with Roth-Riley-Horne?”
“Yes. Now just
Roth-Riley. I think they like their new R-R logo. Reminds them of their new
British owners. I got caught in a…”
“Reorganization,” said
Ashland. “I don’t like the concept of downsizing. It isn’t natural.”
“Call it what you
will...”
“And I do,” interrupted
Ashland again. There began an uneasy silence as the head of HR for
Dunwoody-Bevin-Marks—Partner and Senior Vice-President, Ashland would have
said—returned to the man’s CV. As he read, the nagging feeling he had seen the
man before kept returning and if there was one thing Ashland didn’t like, other
than being called Ash, was having a nagging feeling about anything. It was as
if his personal gravity had been tampered with. His solid feet-on-the-ground
attitude became jeopardized. A sureness that he wore like armor faded and he
felt betrayed by his own protective planetary system in which he was the centre
of the universe.
“I think I may have
seen you in late August?” said Ashland.
“I doubt that,” said
the younger man.
“No. I’m quite sure. I
was on my way to a mid-week ballgame. I left my Jag and took the subway. I
exited near your old employer. Coming up the stairs, too filthy to be believed,
I witnessed a remarkable scene. A man, perhaps you, was carrying what appeared
to be a white plastic clothes hamper. On top of it was a large laundry basket.
Both were filled with what looked like file folders, brown inter-office
envelopes, binders, boxes of pens, paper clips and possibly business cards,”
Ashland paused for breath and wrapped things up in what he liked to consider
his trademark dismissive tone. “Although why anyone would take their business
cards after leaving a company, I cannot imagine.”
“From mid-August to
early September I was in Paris with my soon-to-be ex-wife.”
“Really? Paris? What
was it like?” Before the man had a chance to answer, Ashland added, “Never
mind. Don’t tell me. I would hate the traffic and the food and the people. I’m
sure of it.”
An extended silence
gave the young man time to look around. He liked the office. A little too chi
chi, a little too sparse, but the view south over the city to the
waterfront was spectacular.
“You said, ‘soon-to-be
ex-wife.’ You must know all the laws, the rules; things we can ask, things we
can’t. Why don’t you tell me whatever you feel comfortable telling me.”
“There’s not much to
tell. We were both in some sort of corporate monogamy. We loved our jobs more
than each other. I was never home, neither was she. We had planned the trip as
a last-ditch attempt and then the,” Hardy paused, “then the reorganization
happened.”
“So you went anyway?”
“Why not? It was paid
for and the severance was very good.” Hardy looked at his watch.
“Hope I’m not keeping you,” Ashland was
clearly offended by the younger man’s gesture. “Quite rude,” Ashland added
rudely.
“Old habit from my
previous life. I was wondering what time security shows up,” said the young man
as he looked at his watch again and then looked up and across the long expanse
of wood that had gone into crafting the one-of-a-kind desk, the grain
uninterrupted by a single sheet of paper or computer. He then looked at Ashland
for a what seemed like a full minute, which made the older man a little uneasy.
Ashland also wondered about security.
Hardy was taking the
measure of the man known in the industry for being ruthless, some said
heartless. Rumor had it he once took a top-performing sales manager out to
lunch, supposedly to celebrate an unprecedented uptick in the bottom line, and
fired the man at the end of the meal. “Sometimes you just need to shake things
up a bit,” Ashland had supposedly said. According to industry lore the poor
bastard never recovered.
“I suppose you were
escorted out of the building?” asked Ashland, breaking the silence.
“No. They don’t do that
sort of thing. I was walked out by the Vice-President, a company limo was
waiting to drive me home. My assistant was tasked with cleaning out my office.
Everything was neatly packed in those ubiquitous, sterile banker’s boxes and
delivered the following week by a small company known for their security.
Nothing was missing, nothing broken. All very well done, considering.”
Ashland Morrow had to
force himself to keep his lower jaw firmly clamped against his expensive,
perfect, gleaming, upper implants. “We won’t provide that sort of exit here.”
“You mean,” Hardy
paused then smiled. “I have the job?”
“Oh, no. Sorry,”
Ashland was clearly flustered. “No. Nothing here happens that fast,” and that’s
when he noticed it. It explained perfectly why this younger man looked so
familiar. The broken button, third from the top, left sleeve. He had owned this
suit, the one this man was wearing.
Ashland had stormed out
of a meeting with department heads reluctant to adopt more stringent hiring
parameters slamming his arm against the door jamb. The impact split the button
down the middle but extra stitching kept it from falling off. Ashland had disposed of the suit the next day
at a rather exclusive executive men’s recycling shop called The Boardroom. “I guess it’s been a bit rough these last few
months,” said Ashland.
“Yes, that would
describe it, but it worked out just fine. After Roth-Riley and I went our
separate ways and my marriage ended I decided to downsize. I know you dislike
the word, but it’s appropriate.” Hardy could hear some conversation just beyond
the double office doors. “For example, the company had provided me with a car
so I made the decision to live without one. My apartment lease was coming due
and now that I wasn’t to be married, I could easily live in a much smaller
place. I found inexpensive neighborhood restaurants where I could enjoy long,
relaxed meals without the pressure of having to race back to the office. I
didn’t need a double-width closet full of suits so I cut back on my wardrobe.”
“But that’s a nice
suit,” Ashland said hoping to open a wound.
“Second-hand. Bought it
at The Boardroom.”
Ashland couldn’t
believe Hardy actually sounded proud of his new, lower status. The look on his
face confirmed to the younger man that a decision had been made. Hardy nodded,
as if to signal he knew this meeting was over. He stood up, then walked to the
doors. Ashland noticed how tall he was. How young he looked. How well his
discarded suit fit the younger man.
“Leaving so soon?”
Ashland asked in a mocking tone, knowing he had defeated the upstart, but Hardy
did not respond. He walked out of the office, pausing just long enough to talk
to the company’s security people, instructing them to be gentle with Ashland.
To make sure they had his dismissal letter and settlement agreement and a car
waiting downstairs. He then turned to the assistant and said, “The office is
fine the way it is. We can work on the decor when I come back in the morning.”
“Of course, Mr. Hardy,”
she replied. “Welcome aboard.”
R.A. Lucas
Ralph Lucas, writing as R.A.Lucas was born in Montréal, Canada in
the first half of the last century and began writing in his early 20s. He was
first published in a 1968 U.S. poetry anthology titled The Soul and the Singer.
His first collection was published in 1972. More recently, in 2018 his poem
“Feels Like 40” was picked up by Amomancies (Vol. 3 Issue 2) and subsequently
selected for inclusion in that year’s Best Of Amomacies book. For 2019, the
poem "Strathmore: 1954 - A Short Film" was selected for the Spring
2019 issue of Silver Needle Press, and “Classifieds” was selected for inclusion
in the anthology Our Poetica from Cathexis Northwest Press. In the 1970s, while
working on his 2nd book of poetry, he wrote science-fiction for broadcast in
Toronto (CKFM-FM) and a 39-part children’s story for broadcast in Montreal
(CFQR-FM). More recently his story “Old Friends” was included in Procyon, a
2014 anthology from Tayen Lane, and “Wilson” was selected by renowned Indian
writers and editors Abha Iyengar and Mona Verma for inclusion in the 2018
anthology The Other, published in India by StoryMirror.
Tags:
Short Fiction