Cari Pollack met Horace Dunderpill
in the hallway on her way to the status meeting.
“Can’t stand these meetings,” she
said. “We waste so much time.” She noticed that Horace wasn’t walking in the
right direction. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Yeah in a minute,” said Horace and
flashed her his signature crooked half smile. “I’ve got a mission first.”
He opened his hand to show her a
large spotted moth.
“Found him under my desk.”
Cari peered at the powdery wings,
the furry body, the filigreed fern-like antennae. There was a light in Horace’s
eyes as he loped toward the elevator. She continued to the meeting room
thinking he was just trying to get out of a little meeting time. That bug would
have been so squashed and tissued if she’d found it.
“We’ve got to sell more services,”
intoned Jed Smythe, Head Assistant Branch Manager. “It’s not enough just to
have a bank account. It doesn’t serve the bank. We need customers to invest!”
He scanned the less than enthused employees around the conference table.
“Therefore, everyone will have a quota of selling five bank services a month.”
No one was smiling as they filed out
the door. Except for Horace with his crooked grin. Jim Lorring rolled his eyes
and wondered what he was ‘on’.
Cari’s cubicle was catty-corner to
Horace. She entertained a fetish of sorts. She liked to watch his activities
whenever possible since she started to notice his odd practices. She would
catch him gazing feelingly at the photo of a woman on his desk several times a
day. His girlfriend? Daughter? Cari thought he looked kind of ageless and
nondescript. Maybe it’s a decoy, she thought.
Horace sat busily jotting something
down, in green ink Cari noted. He wrote with green ink in a small notebook kept
in his top desk drawer. Notes for his Bookie? A blackmail record? Food journal?
Was he a company snitch spying on them all?
At five the daily populace of
Sanborne Bank headed for cars and mass transit. Horace whistled his way to his
2005 Honda Civic. What’s he got to be so happy about wondered Lindy Moore as
she climbed into her Prius sport coupe. He wasn’t rich in the financial or
social sense as far as she could see. His obvious contentment irritated her.
The next morning fresh rolls and
bagels appeared in the lunch room. Cari knew it was Horace doing what came
naturally, spreading some kind of artificial cheer that no one else could
fathom. He was writing in his notebook again.
She couldn’t stand it a moment more.
“Horace, mind if I ask you
something?”
“Hmm? Sure Cari what’s up?”
“Something’s up with you. Now don’t
get me wrong but I can’t help noticing things you do since we’re in such close
proximity. There’s a rumor going round that you don’t hate your job, you know,
like the rest of us who’re just waiting till we find the next something better.
Why is that? Who are you?”
Horace let out a long full-throated
laugh. “My cover’s blown! And I thought that I was off the radar all this
time.”
“OK Horace, just tell me what you’re
doing here. Are they missing personnel at the North Pole?
Again Horace closed his eyes and
laughed.
“You wanna know what keeps me
afloat? I’m not that interesting, Cari, you need to get a hobby. I have a
little system in place that doesn’t let me forget why living is so desirable. I
got tired of reviewing all the ways that life does me wrong and started keeping
a log of benefits.”
“I have a notebook in my desk. It
was inspired by where I work. It’s a bank after all. I already sold myself my
first banking service that outweighs the brownie points I’ll get if I can sell
five every month.”
Horace took out the book and opened
to a random page. Green inked dates were in a column on the left and short
paragraphs were on the right.
“This is my emotional bank account.
I keep track of the little things that are too easily discarded from my
thoughts; things I didn’t used to think were important. I found that if I fill
my head with these things there’s no time or space for those useless ones that
have sharp edges. I use green ink because it’s the color of money, though if I
could I’d write in gold.”
He blinked languidly at Cari for a moment
then returned the book to the drawer. She backed away slowly keeping her eyes
on Horace, for any sudden moves.
“Thanks Horace for coming clean like that.
You didn’t have a worry that I might call the authorities to have you
evaluated.” He smiled at her with all of his teeth. “Gotta go.”
At her desk Cari retrieved a small
glittery notepad from her purse. She tore out several pages with reminders
about shopping and dinner dates. She fished out a blue pen with a silvery tinge
in the ink and wrote,
“November 7th : Horace
Dunderpill convinced me that cynical realism doesn’t’ pay. Now I know a better
way…to go on with things.”
(870 words)
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