Holding Fire
by George Fluharty

As you are aware, market changes have necessitated a re-evaluation of our strategic objectives and vision. Although we are currently experiencing negative momentum vis-à-vis the perceived impact on both internal and external customers and publics, we are confident that a comprehensively interwoven approach to formulating future strategies will swiftly rebound and once again gain a pinnacle of synergy. With both qualitative and quantitative input from the TQM committee, incorporating situation audits and stakeholder interviews regarding each potential scenario, you have been selected as a recipient of an opportunity for right sizing. Security will assist you in desk cleanage. Our wishes are extended toward your future endeavors.

Simon thought about the memo, which a dozen subordinates would read tomorrow in their e-mail. His boss, before leaving on vacation, had told Simon what had to be done. The lay-offs were working their way up the corporate ladder. Once Simon had done his share of the dirty work, he would be next.

“I’m losing it. My stress level is so high; I’m driving around in circles.” Simon muttered to himself as, on his way home, he drove past the Dino’s for the third time. There was a parking space in front of the bar. Hoping a drink would calm his nerves; Simon parked his Suburban and went in.

The place was a dive but it at least he didn’t have to worry about meeting any of his colleagues. No one else in a suit would ever come here; in fact, Simon was the only customer in the place.

The bar had pool tables and a bowling machine, the old kind, where you slid a puck across wood-grain Formica to knock up the spring loaded pins. He had gotten a heavy nickel puck from the bartender. She seemed friendly; she even showed him how to sprinkle resin onto the alley to keep it slippery. After a few games with the obligatory beer frame, Simon returned to the bar.

The girl serving drinks was blonde and pretty. The top of her blouse was unbuttoned. Simon could see the lacey top of her bra. She was, Simon knew, out of his league. Age and nature were playing dirty tricks on Simon, like stealing hairs from his head and hiding them in his ears and nostrils.

At the bar, Simon had a whiskey with a “black velvet” chaser - Guinness mixed with champagne. It didn’t work. Simon was still nervous. He was drunk and nervous- not a good combination.

The blonde seemed to take pity on him. She put her hand on his and said, “What you need is the house special.” She brought out a dusty bottle from behind the bar and filled Simon’s shot glass. The creamy liquid was sweet and smooth going down, but had a kick to it. Simon fell asleep, his head warming a wet bar towel while he dreamed of tracing the cartilage of the bartender's delicate ear with his tongue.

When he awoke, the slim blonde had been replaced by a guy with green metallic tipped hair. The bar was different too; all chrome and silver Naugahyde. Framed photographs of people dotted the walls. The faces seemed blurred, though, like finger-painted portraits. Through the newly appeared skylight, the moon bled through cloud-fog like cream on a blotter.

Was the bartender wearing contact lenses? The iris of each eye was red with a black spiral circling down to the pupil. Vertigo Eyes offered Simon a drink from a clear glass bottle filled with what looked like smoke. Light seemed to stick to rather than reflect off the misty liquid as the bartender poured it into a pewter goblet. It felt like paste in Simon's throat. As he forced it down, the room became hyper-clear, as if everything was outlined in black.

Simon looked around the room. A big screen TV to his right was showing the Wizard of Oz. Was that Peter Lorre cast as the Cowardly Lion? There were masks on the other walls, plastic Halloween faces of Superman and Mickey Mouse, wooden skink heads, Greek chorus masks made out of starched muslin. Pastel and fluorescent bottles lined the shelf behind the bar. Below the bottles, a skeleton of a reptile lounged in a brass Victorian birdcage. The former lizard was facing a glass case crowded next to the cage. The case held a gun.

"The price of a human soul is six magic bullets," explained the bartender, whose nametag identified as him as Jeff Stephanopolis. "The major obstacle to human happiness is, of course, other people. Think about it. If only we could get rid of our insane ex-spouse, or the jerk who gets the promotion we deserve, our lives would be better, perfect even."

Simon thought of his boss, vacationing in Europe. Would he wait until his return to rightsize Simon or would he have someone else do it? Simon imagined the fax coming to Human Resources from a chalet in the Swiss Alps.

"These bullets can travel across cities or continents, around walls or bodyguards, through keyholes. They've been fired from boardrooms and bedrooms, not to mention the Grassy Knoll. We've pinned photos of satisfied customers on our walls."

Simon looked at the pictures more closely. He recognized a former mayor, several judges and a news anchor. There were sepia tinted photos of men in derbies and a kindly faced man wearing vestments and a miter. There was also a woman’s picture that he thought he recognized. Simon wondered where he had seen her before.

If his boss died, that would create a job opening. His breath quickened. Simon knew he could do that job. As a matter of fact, he imagined the work got easier the higher you rose in the corporate ranks: all you had to do was delegate.

"I don't need to tell you how women are attracted to a man who holds the power of life and death,” Jeff purred.

Simon thought of how he envied the muscle guys at the gym. Their brachial arteries popped like milk veins as they curled and pressed free weights. These guys could talk to beautiful women, the slim ones in two piece spandex, the women that intimidated Simon.

 

 

The conspicuous lack of other white briefs in the men’s locker room always made Simon feel like a loser. Simon imagined following the milque-toast, the one who stood shaving at the sink while Simon tried not to stare at the scratches on his back, to find out how he did it. What did he have that Simon didn’t? Simon scanned the wall, wondering if he would recognize the man’s face.

"Some people won't tell you what's in the fine print, but I believe in complete honesty. Something always goes wrong with the last bullet. It kills an ally or your lover or you use it on yourself when wealth, love, fame or power doesn’t turn out the way you planned. Basically, the deal sucks. But then again, so does life. Think about it, a long life of smoldering resentments or a flash of juice and sizzle. When you’re done, we'll burn your soul in a sulfur pit and mix the residue with charcoal and potassium nitrate. We'll use it as gunpowder for more bullets. The last thing you'll feel is a kiss of flame as the hammer strikes the flint."

That was certainly a dramatic presentation, Simon thought, but what should be done? Both the opportunities and risks overwhelm. He wondered if this was a trap or a last chance for success. He imagined himself writing a report outlining the pros and cons of each option:

Negative factors include the lack of warranty suggested by the vendor of the career development agency. The articulator of these potential scenarios, however, is not conveyed as a loyal employee. The radiated negativity experienced in his presentation may reflect non-process oriented teaming on his part. Thus, misrepresentations of his firm’s product might occur. Memo to self- amend dress code to prohibit provocative eyewear, including off-putting contact lenses, as well as related items such as holographic goggles with reptile eyes or human skulls or piranha teeth unless the aforementioned representations are adopted by or incorporated into the company logo.

Importantly, does the opportunity to secure an advantage in a competitive market not represent a moral imperative to do so? Will non-action create a void or vacuum, soon to be filled by others?

Jeff grabbed Simon’s loosened tie and pulled Simon’s face close to his. “This is a limited time offer. We need you to make a commitment one way or the other.” Simon noticed that, as Jeff spoke, tongues of flame flickered around the corners of his mouth.

What choice will be made, Simon wondered? Will a step be taken into the abyss, with no chance to turn back or change one’s mind during the fall to the bottom? Will there be a lack of nerve to facilitate the necessary terminations or will each one become easier, the way that wearing away the sharp edges of a key makes the tumblers fall more smoothly with each turn?

The first thing Simon noticed as he awoke was how soggy his ear felt. The taste in his mouth reminded him of the smell that came out of the sauna at his health club, fungus marinated in steam and sweat, but he knew that would go away when he had another drink. Looking through the empty glasses he saw the bartender, the blonde again, smiling at him. The glasses on the bar distorted her face and figure. She reminded him of Rita Hayworth in the house of mirrors scene in Lady from Shanghai.

Rita, actually her nametag said her name was Helen, asked Simon, “Are you all right?”

“I think so. I had a nightmare, however, that was unbelievable.”

“I might believe it. Did it involve a guy with green hair and a gun?”

“How do you know this?”

“Tell me more about your dream.”

“An offer was made of certain privileges or services in return for, how shall I say it?”

Helen took a firm hold of his shoulder and pulled his face close to hers. Simon noticed her perfume- it smelled expensive. Her lips brushed against his ear.

“Your soul,” she whispered. Her fingertips seemed to linger at his chest as they slid back down to the bar. Simon’s gaze followed her hand as she reached in the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a cartridge. “The same price I paid for this.”

Simon recognized her: Her picture was on the wall of that other bar. He said, “This re-swizzles the entire proposition.”

“These things work, I can tell you that,” she said, slapping the bullet onto the bar. “They brought us, my husband and me, everything we dreamed of. What I didn’t count on was Tom being a two-timing weasel. The bastard made me sign a pre-nup and now, just when he’s inheriting millions, he decides to leave. It’s so unfair. If it weren’t for me, and my bullets, he wouldn’t be getting a dime. I make him wealthy and get rid of his dysfunctional family and what thanks do I get?

You talked to twirly-eyes: you know I can’t use the last bullet. Besides, I couldn’t bring myself to pull the trigger. Tom and I, we’ve been through so much together, I’m just not that strong. That’s why I came back here and took this job. I hoped I might meet someone who was powerful and trustworthy,” she smiled, “someone like you.” Helen caressed Simon’s tie as she looked into his eyes.

Being pursued by a woman was a new experience for Simon. He blamed his upbringing for this. Simon’s parents had named each of their children after one of the seven virtues- he was Simon Chastity Smith. If Helen and he had kids, he would name them after the vices- sloth or concupiscence.

What would happen if he said “no” to Helen? He imagined himself becoming whatever you call male spinsters - he would grow old in a house full of cats and become a religious nut like his mother, looking for images of Saint Josephat in the dust bunnies and the hairballs that would fill his dingy apartment.

“It must be difficult, to approach one’s objective and have it elude one’s grasp.”

 

Helen took Simon’s head in her hands and kissed him, hard and long. When she was through, she held his face inches from hers. “Tom is sleeping with ... Her, right now. They’re at her house. If you do it tonight, the police will think she shot him. The divorce hasn’t gone through yet. I ...we’ll get everything.” Her eyes were pale green, like cool fire, the most beautiful eyes Simon had ever seen.

Simon began to say something but Helen put her fingers over his lips. “No darling, save your energy. I’m about to become a grieving widow and I’ll need you to console me.”

Simon reached toward the counter but Helen picked up the bullet. She said, “I’ll keep this for now, lover.” She put it in her purse as she walked to Simon.

“Remember, we have to act quickly, before we lose our nerve.” She hooked her arm in his and leaned against him. “Let’s drive someplace where no one can see us. Once you’ve freed me from my husband, I’ll show you how grateful I can be.”

As they left the bar, Simon tried to remember what the sunrise had looked like this morning. The way the light oozed out underneath the bruised meringue clouds. This was the last day he would look at the world as an Innocent. He wondered how the world would look tomorrow.

They took Simon’s jeep. Simon told her, “Let’s go to my office. There’s no one there this time of night- not even a watchman. We’ll be completely alone. No one will bother us.”

Helen switched on the interior light and turned the rear view mirror toward her as she put on fresh lipstick. Simon noticed thin white lines on her arm. She saw him looking.

“It says Frank. He was Tom’s brother. I wrote his name on my arm with an eraser when we were going together. It was something the girls in my high school did when they really liked a boy. Leaving a scar, making his name part of you, proved you belonged together. I was a different person back then, young and naive. Frank left me and that’s when I hooked up with Tom. I don’t like to talk about it; I think it’s best to forget the past. Don’t you?”

As they pulled up to his office building, Simon let his mind wander to the future, when Helen would drive him to work, doing a kiss and drop at the front door. The building was only one story high. It looked like a bomb shelter. Simon unlocked the door. He switched on the lights as they went inside.

Cubicles filled the warehouse-sized room. The partitions between the cubicles were about six feet high and covered in panels of gray and white fabric.

Rather than having aisles between them, the cubicles opened onto one another. As Simon and Helen threaded their way through the warren of offices, their only guides were the concrete pillars rising to the ceiling. The pillars looked like they belonged in a parking structure. They had identifying letters and numbers on them, like G2 or R7.

As Simon and Helen worked their way in from the perimeter, conventional decorations (plants, photographs, Precious Moments Figurines, Dilbert and Farside paraphernalia) gave way to more idiosyncratic furnishings. They passed prints of Marilyn and paintings of poker playing dogs; an Elvis clock with a swinging pelvis pendulum hung beside a blue ribbon awarded for the “best ethnic Spam dish”, Grace hoops and catching sticks rested on a velvet fainting couch.

Simon’s cubicle was close to the center. At first glance, his office seemed to have dark wood paneling. The walls were actually covered with pictures of much larger, nicer office- panoramic, overlapping, life-size photos circling 360 degrees around them.

“The replica of my supervisor’s office facilitates the visualization of my future promotion. Visualization, in as exact detail as possible, is the key to goal attainment.” Simon had gone to his desk and was leaning back in his chair.

“I believe that,” said Helen, sitting on Simon’s lap, “I’ve been imagining you and me and a million dollars. All you have to do now is visualize Tom with a bullet in his head. Tell me, stud, where are you keeping those bullets of yours?” Helen ran her hands inside Simon’s pockets and under his belt.

“I was just going to explain that.” Simon began, trying to concentrate on what he had to say. “My negotiations with Mr. Stephanopolis were never formally concluded. Technically, and this is only in the narrowest technical sense, I don’t have any bullets. They can certainly be obtained later, I am confident, with further discussion. One could say the bullets are virtually in my possession.”

During Simon’s description of his current circumstances, Helen had been unbuttoning his shirt. As he paused, Helen picked up a letter opener from the desk and pressed the point against Simon’s chest.

“What were you planning to do here? Did you think you could take advantage of me? I’m not as defenseless as I look. Don’t try to double-cross me.”

“No. It’s not that. I would never think of double-crossing you.” Simon said quickly. “I was hoping, that, and you can understand how this would be difficult to say, you might loan me your bullet.” Simon glanced down at Helen’s hand. Her knuckles were white and her hand was trembling. He added, “Only until mine are obtained, of course. Then you will be repaid with appropriate interest.” Simon wasn’t sure, but he thought Helen moved the opener a few centimeters away from his sternum. He went on.

 

 

“The last bullet might work if it’s fired by someone else- kind of like contracting out a difficult project. You’ve said yourself that the last bullet is useless to you. This is a win-win situation. If Plan A is successful, then kudos to us both. If not, my bullets will be expeditiously secured and we will proceed to plan B.”

Helen sighed and put down the blade. “You’re right about one thing. I don’t have many options.” She stood up and took the bullet out of her pocket. “I can’t use this myself.” Helen walked to her purse, which she had left leaning against the rosewood coffee table on the wall. She took out a .45. “I have to trust someone. It might as well be you.” Helen loaded the gun. She caressed the barrel before handing it to Simon.

Helen leaned over Simon, who was still sitting in the chair. Her eyes locked onto his. “I want to make sure we understand each other. If you betray me, it will be like ripping open my chest and tearing out my heart.” She was very close to him; her face filled his field of vision. “If you tear my heart out, I will do the same thing to you.”

Simon pointed the gun in the air in the general direction of the building’s entrance. He supposed that was as good place as any at which to aim it. Helen took off Simon’s tie and stood behind him, rubbing his shoulders. As he got ready to squeeze the trigger, Simon tried to imagine Tom’s face. The problem was he had never met Tom. From Helen’s description, he only had a vague idea of what Tom looked like and had no strong feelings about him, one way or the other.

Simon could imagine his boss’ face. In fact, Simon was looking at a picture of him right now. Simon had borrowed the photo, which included a trophy wife, from his boss’ office. The acquisition was part of Simon’s campaign to visualize his promotion and the lifestyle that would accompany it.

The question that remained in Simon’s mind was- who should he shoot? He knew that Helen was counting on him to eliminate her husband from the family entity, but was this the most pressing item in their strategic plan? Shouldn’t they first preserve Simon’s job, the eminent removal of which might place them without resources in the fight for Helen’s inheritance? Any plan dependent on the legal system carried the potential for delays and even uncertainty regarding the procurement of their nest egg.

Helen might be miffed by this unexpected turn in their plans, especially when told of the changes after the fact. He was certain, however, that with time she would come to realize the wisdom of his actions and respect the way he had taken charge. As they grew old together, they would look back on this incident and chuckle. Simon could hardly wait for their life-long journey to begin.

Simon squeezed the trigger and released the bullet. Muzzle flash and concussion filled the room. Helen tightened the fabric of his tie around Simon’s throat. As his arms flailed, she blew ashes onto his face.