Photo Credit: Original Artwork by Diana Carson-Walker
“Stan, could I see you for a moment?”, the dreaded words rang out across the office.
Stan jumped and looked around at his fellow employees. Furtive glances cut off as soon as he made eye contact, and heads ducked. Pink slips had been falling like rain lately; it was everyone for themselves. Stan swallowed and focused on getting his knees to support him on the short walk to Mr. Silva’s office.
Stan gazed distractedly at Edward Silva’s shiny pate while the senior partner pursued Stan’s file. Letting his eyes wander around the office, Stan felt a lump form in his throat when they caught on a “20 years of service” plaque. The pin that accompanied said milestone was proudly displayed on Mr. Silva’s lapel. Stan loved that pin; he had been saving for a new suit to buy when he got it, just to show it off.
“Well, you’ve heard the economic stress we are under here at The Firm”, Edward began. Even though Edward was the “son” in “Silva and Son’s”, he spoke of the company as its own entity. Calling upon his inner Teddy Roosevelt, Silva launched into his speech.
“We are all being called upon to sacrifice for the greater good,” he began, with a self-satisfied nod, as if he liked the sound of this direction, he picked up steam.
“You’ve put in a good run with us for… nineteen years? No doubt we wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for drones – I mean, hard workers like yourself, Stan. I am sure these times will turn around again, and in the meantime, we are going to cut your hours. As gratitude for your faithful service, we are merely cutting hours, not laying you off.”
Stan, flooded with relief, nodded enthusiastically.
“And as further reward for your having proven yourself, we are giving you Ted’s accounts.”
“Wait – Ted’s being laid off?”
“Not exactly, he was offered reduced hours and seemed to think he can do better elsewhere. So now you are staying with us and have an opportunity to really up your game with us Stan.”
“By getting paid less to do more work?”
“Exactly. You’re the perfect man for the job, Stan, we have complete confidence in you.”
“Thank you sir, you won’t regret this.”
At least that was how it went in Stan’s fantasy. His hazel eyes (neither a rich brown nor an “exciting green”, his mother had always lamented), stare back from the mirror over the bar. His box of desk detritus sits at his elbow. It hadn’t left his side since he walked out of Silva and Son’s accounting; under escort.
I just don’t get it, Stan thought. Nineteen years. “NINETEEN YEARS!! Oops, was that out loud?”.
“Nineteen years”, he repeats to Kris, the bartender; Kris, with a “K”. Stan had always thought she was cute, but couldn’t bring himself to think of dating a barmaid. Excuse me, bar “TENDER”.
Apparently that was out loud too. Now his bland hazel eyes stare back from a visor mirror; said visor belonging to a cab that Kris called and forcibly had him poured into. His neither-green-nor-brown eyes are disappointed, as if they are just along for the ride, at the mercy of this nutcase who is having a complete breakdown.
Why didn’t I just suck it up and take Ted’s accounts?, Stan wonders. He is still trying to figure out who the madman was that jumped up, slammed his hand down on Mr. Silva’s desk and told him to take the extra work and…
“SHOVE IT!!”
Oops, guess that was out loud too…well that’s ok, Stan thinks, it’s only a mile or so from here, I can walk the rest of the way. He watches lopsidedly as the recently vacated cab pulls away from the curb, window rolling up; the driver’s diatribe still ringing in Stan’s ears.
Toddling down the sidewalk, box in his hands, Stan notices little things he’s never seen before, even though he walks this stretch at least a couple times a week. A funny crack making a face opens right under foot. Skipping to the other foot to dodge the crack, he quickly skips back again to avoid a pile of gum. It’s a near thing, and the box nearly drops, but he recovers his balance; only to see a rainbow of light painting his beige raincoat. Raising his head in wonder, Stan looks for the source and sees a large “OPEN” sign in a window ahead.
Funny, I’ve never seen that shop open before, he thinks.
The bell set off by opening the door doesn’t so much jingle as rebound around Stan’s head. Ouch, I didn’t think I drank THAT much, he thinks, and pauses. Relief passes through him. Nope, apparently that wasn’t out loud.
The smell of dust and old leather meets his nose. Stan is sobering up now, and he is sure he’s never been in here. Looking around, he sees a classic junk shop, and a grey-haired clerk behind the counter in costume, sorting papers and stamping receipts.
“What’s with the 1890’s costume?”, Stan asks the man.
The clerk adjusts his green visor smartly and replies, “‘tis the very latest fashion, sir.”
“Uh huh. How long have you been open?”
“Oh, Higby’s has been around a LONG time, from before MY time.” he answers.
“That’s funny. I’ve never seen this shop before, and I live only three blocks away…”
A chuckle and a shrug, and the clerk responds, “Ah well, we’re the kind of place you don’t see until you need it.”, then goes back to stamping receipts.
Stan can’t see who would ever NEED an old junk shop, but then, here he is. He hears a weird buzzing ring. “What’s that sound?”
The clerk raises an eyebrow; obviously he can’t hear it. Stan is very proud of his hearing. He broke up with Libbey, his last girlfriend, because she ground her teeth, and constantly played her music too loud. Libbey called him Scooby; said his hearing was like a dog’s.
Ah well, maybe a ballast going out, he thinks, eyeing the ancient brown fluorescent lights flickering overhead. But the sound isn’t coming from overhead, more like from the back of the store. Stan wanders into the back and through a doorway, following the sound.
He finds himself looking at a shelf full of plastic bins, each overflowing with miscellaneous things. Digging through a bright blue bin, he finds nothing noteworthy; Ping-pong balls, a trowel, a slinky, old chargers, rusty scissors, an iPhone 4-something, then his fingers brush something that moves. Squealing like a girl, he snatches his hand back, only to discover he’s latched onto a wooden carving.
He means to fling it back, but brings it closer, examining it.
The face is innocuous enough, just a man. He looks a little sad, his clothes just suggested blocky carving, and his eyes just brown orbs. The overall effect is a bit…
“Wooden?”
Stan jumps at the voice, whirling to find the clerk standing at his shoulder, his eyes crinkled in amusement.
“Sorry to startle you, but I heard a shout, thought I’d better check on you.”, he nods at the statue, “just sort of stiff, boring, no expression, huh?”
Stan feels defensive of the statue as if it was his own handiwork being critiqued. “No, I think it’s… understated. I like understated.”, he says.
The clerk’s eyes take in Stan’s beige raincoat, his tan pants with sensible brown shoes. “Ah, I see, sorry no offense meant. Tell you what, to make up for your inconvenience, I can make you a deal on it. Five bucks.”
Stan is an accountant. Money is his comfort zone. “Two fifty,” he replies.
“Three.”
“Done,” and before he realizes it, Stan is outside, the little paper bag nested in his box, as he walks the rest of the way home.
— to be continued