HI, this is a 1400 word short fiction peice I've been working on. I'm pretty happy with it except for the odd sentence here and there. Sorry about the indents, I couldnt get the post to recoginze my format. Thanks for reading, appreciate any help with it.
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Robert Wiles fidgets with his briefcase as the bus rumbles its way through every one of its early morning stops. His long thin fingers search nervously for the latch and verify that it’s secure. Now his tie won’t sit right on his button down shirt. The collar of his jacket is too limp and wilted like a flower in July heat. His seat in the back of the bus is not particularly comfortable and places him in the open, much too exposed to the few other passengers. Although they all face forward, he can feel their inquisitiveness burn holes in him.
He worries when it is his stop that he’ll have to shuffle past them, briefcase and umbrella in one hand, bowler hat in the other. They’ll pretend they didn’t see him. Ignoring his knobby knees and sweating palms, but all the while they’ll secretly be craving to know what’s eating this wretched man. What dark force has hollowed him out and made him this flimsy shell of a buster brown suit.
In the end, he had been lucky, and most of the passengers had already disembarked before he reached his own stop. The slight breeze did nothing to help his quick pulse as he stood before the Randall Jones Building in downtown. He lamented as the bus pulled off that maybe he had been better confined with its steely cage than being here alone on the concrete sidewalk.
Forty eight floors of polished glass and chrome accents towered over him. The effect was dramatic and he suspected the architects of the monster had intended it to be this way. He didn’t bother putting his hat on his head for the short journey to the revolving door. He’d just have to remove it again in seconds, so he kept it precariously in his hands. Taking his normal small, shuffling steps, he entered the building’s cavernous maw.
“Your name sir?” the woman at the desk asked.
She was young, pretty and asked questions in a no nonsense way. She reminded him of his grade school teacher Ms. Nelson. He hadn’t thought about Ms. Nelson in years. He rubbed his hands together over his briefcase, hiding the liver spots that had cropped up there. It had been many years since he thought about Ms. Nelson. The younger, prettier Ms. Nelson looked impatient.
“Robert Wiles, ma’am”, he managed to spit out. His voice sounded thinner than his confidence. The woman rolled her eyes back to the computer screen and clicked the keyboard with strong, bold strokes.
“Yes, Mr. Jones is ready to see you now. You can go up to his office. It’s the elevator across the hall, top floor.”
“Thank you, ma’am”, he said, but the woman had already turned from him to answer the telephone. He was already out of her mind, a non-entity that did not exist in her fast paced world. Maybe she wasn’t prettier than Ms. Nelson.
The elevator wasn’t crowded but it moved too fast. The music was too loud; the sentiment too strong. The rising force made him reach for the polished brass rail. He almost lost the brown bowler hat but managed to keep it in his grasp. Nothing moves in its own time anymore. We’re all forced, all coerced to move at the speed of tomorrow.
The polished brass elevator doors finally open on the office of Mr. Randall Jones Jr. The floor is black butterfly marble. The windows go all the way to the ceiling in a picturesque view of the city. The furniture is all leather, all Italian, all very fine. Yes, at this height a man must feel like a god, Robert Wiles thought.
Randall Jones Jr. stood in front of those windows staring down on the city like it was his own creation. Square shouldered and knuckly, he would have made a great fullback. He probably did play at Princeton or Harvard or somewhere like that, and Robert Wiles was sure he had won. He held a whiskey sour in his hands and gave the ice cubes a good slosh every now and then. His back was to the elevator and he hadn’t turned when the doors opened. He hadn’t needed to.
“Come in Mr. Wiles”, he said in that gravelly voice that dripped authority.
Robert Wiles took his customary shambling steps from the elevator into the office, clutching his small briefcase to his chest like a bible. His shoes squeak on the marble floors. He doesn’t attempt to sit in one of the great leather chairs. He doesn’t take off his jacket or drop his hat and umbrella. There was no making himself comfortable in a place like this.
“The question is,” Randall Jones Jr. continued, “Why would my father send a lackey like you to have a meeting with me?” It was a fair question Robert Wiles admitted, but it still rocked him back on his heels.
“He told me you were coming. The old fart bag actually told me to clear my schedule! Can you believe that Mr. Wiles?” The look on Robert Wiles’ face said clearly enough what his mouth had lost the ability to.
“So I did some research on you. Wife deceased recently, one daughter. Thirty five years with this company, all a low level paper pusher. No promotions, no ambition. Your quarterly evaluations read like some kind of manual for boredom. Employee is always on time. Employee does acceptable work. Employee does not associate with coworkers. I couldn’t understand a man like you if I tried. How does it feel to have wasted thirty five years of your life for something that doesn’t give a damn about you?”
What ever reserve tank of courage Robert Wiles had been running on suddenly hit empty.
“Doesn’t really matter anyway does it? As soon as you leave this office you can consider yourself an ex-employee of this institution.”
Robert Wiles had known this was coming. His briefcase felt slick from the sweat of his bony palms.
“So again, why is a spineless slug like you infesting my office? Its probably that Prushner incident isn’t it? I told the old gas bag that couldn’t be helped. Times are changing, markets are diversifying. The investors won’t hold us responsible. It couldn’t be helped.”
Robert Wiles had no answer for him. He stood there as small and innocent as a child. Randall Jones Jr. couldn’t seem to get a read on the man’s face.
“Don’t tell me he’s still sore about that Richardson debacle. That old bastard is never going to let me forget that, is he? Well his time is coming. The board is finally on my side. We’re going to take this company someplace, were going to take it right into the future.”
Robert Wiles weathered the harsh words. It was all he had left to do.
“Speak damn it,” Randal Jones Jr. wailed.
With the smallest of sighs and hands quivering like a palsy, Robert Wiles put his little briefcase on top of the large desk between the two men. He pushed the small brass levers to the side and with an audible pop the spring loaded mechanisms opened quickly. He reached in and pulled out a small black envelope of the finest paper and extended it to Mr. Jones.
It was Randall Jones Jr.’s turn to be taken back. He turned the small message over in his hands. It was fixed with a curled purple ribbon and could have easily passed for an invitation to a royal event. He opened the letter carefully; the richness of the package deserved it to be handled with care. He read the delicate script of the message inside with some disbelief.
“What does this mean?” he asked.
He hadn’t noticed as Robert Wiles extracted the briefcase’s only other contents. Two quick sharp bangs echoed through the room, and Randall Jones Jr. crumpled on the floor of his magnificent office.
His task was almost complete, and whatever trepidation he had felt melted from Robert Wiles weary bones like he had just relaxed into a hot bath. He had expected to be so scared in the moments after. He had expected that he would have to force himself to finish. He smiled; the first true smile in a long time. Jeanie, his daughter was taken care of, Mr. Randall Jones Sr. had seen to that. He looked around again. Yes, a man could feel like a god in this place.
One more quick bang sounds as the elevator doors opened. Security guards rushed in, weapons drawn. Instead of answers they only found a finely written note on the desk which said, “Goodbye son”.
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