Alexander Jacobs Writing - The Mad Chief (Part II)

The Mad Chief: Part II

The elevator Bastion rode up to his floor came to halt, and he tried to compose himself. His hands shook, so he clenched his fists, which only caused his arms to shake. He pressed himself into the corner of the elevator to hold himself steady just as the doors opened, revealing Maureen in a paisley gown that Bastion thought she must have picked up in the purgatory that sat between hospital dress and circus garb. He briefly considered jumping for the “close doors” button before Maureen had a chance to waddle on, but by the time the thought entered his head, it was too late.

“Good morning, Bastion,” Maureen purred nasally as the elevator perceptibly creaked under her weight.

“Morning.” Bastion took a deep breath, but he could feel the sweat dripping down his brow from the effort to remain calm. He wiped his forehead with a tissue from his pocket.

“You look a little sick. Maybe you should have stayed home.” Her makeup-caked face rolled back, and her swollen hand rushed to her mouth in an attempt to block the germs she likely imagined were swimming around Bastion.

“I'm fine.”

“Really, you—”

“Really, I'm fine. I just didn't sleep enough.”

“Well,” she sighed dramatically, waggling her finger, “you're still young and probably don't know when to call it a night.”

“I'm thirty,” Bastion said tersely, but Maureen just sighed noncommittally. The doors opened again—this time at Bastion's floor—and he leapt off the elevator, nearly bowling directly into a construction worker crouched down in the middle of the lobby. The man was lowering a new floor tile into an empty space where the horse had cracked the tile last night.

“Umm, excuse me,” Bastion said. He'd been hoping last night's romp through the hallways was part of his imagination, but the evidence spoke to the contrary. “What're you doing?”

The worker straightened up, torn jeans ripping a bit more as he leaned back to stretch. He gave Bastion a once-over before drawling, “My job. I'm replacing this here tile. Lucky there were extras in the basement.”

“Do you know how it broke?”

“Damned if I know. These things are more than an inch thick.”

“Yeah, it'd probably take quite a blow to break it,” Bastion said, watching the worker's broad face closely for any reaction. “Like from a horse smashing its hoof into the floor.”

“A...horse, did you say? Well, I wouldn't know much about that, but I'll tell you that a hammer wouldn't even make a scratch.”

“Yeah, it'd take a pretty angry horse,” Bastion mumbled, staring at the tile. “I bet that'd do the trick.”

“Err, if you say so,” the man said uncomfortably. Bastion continued to gaze at the tile, so the workman cleared his throat, saying, “Now, if you don't mind...”

“Oh, what? Of course,” Bastion said quickly. “Sorry, I'll get out of your way.” He walked quickly through the hall to his desk, trying his best to slide by his boss Janice's open door without being noticed. No such luck.

“Bastion!” Janice called from her chair, stopping him in his tracks. He reluctantly entered her lair, where she sat slouched over her oversized oak desk like a spider, spindly arms resting at odd angles on the arms of her chair.

“Good morning, Janice,” Bastion said nervously.

“Not yet it isn't. I asked you for those sketches first thing in the morning. It's now,” she said, pulling her watch up to her long nose, “ten after nine. I still don't have the sketches.”

“Right—the ones for the 'Preppy Boys Dressed in Bright Plaid Standing on a Canoe' concept. Can I get them to you later?”

“I'm not sure you can, if you haven't yet drawn them.”

“Later, I promise,” Bastion said in his firmest voice, backing out slowly. Janice said nothing, so he turned quickly and walked the rest of the way to his desk without looking back. He knew she'd make him pay for leaving before he was dismissed, but he didn't exactly feel cooperative.

At his desk, Bastion sat down heavily, the chair's mesh fabric groaning slightly under his weight. He placed his hands on his keyboard to log in as he did every morning, but he stopped himself. Last night, after icing his stomach where he'd been hit by Mr. Cohen, he'd held a fierce debate with himself: should he go to work or...or what? Common sense told him to quit immediately, but come morning, force of habit along with a niggling sense that he had imagined the whole event prompted him to board the train and begin his commute.

Now that he sat at his desk, he found that he didn't quite feel like working. How could he? The past ten years of his career paled in comparison to the few minutes last night when being trampled by a horse seemed like a real possibility. No matter how he tried, he couldn't force his fingers to strike the necessary keys to access his computer and begin the work day. Several minutes passed, and a strange feeling built up within Bastion. It felt like...like something from his childhood. Something he hadn't felt in years.

“It's excitement!” he yelled out loud. Everyone in the room turned to look at him, a sea of bored, emotionless faces staring at the man who had broken the silence of the workplace. “I'm excited,” Bastion said again, as if it explained his outburst. He stood up and walked out of the room, not even pausing at Janice's office when she yelled his name.

Bastion felt a decision boiling to the surface of his mind, but before he did anything too rash, he needed to talk to someone he could trust. In the office, this meant only one person: John.

“John,” Bastion said quietly, arriving behind the balding man.

“Wha—“ John lurched forward in his chair. “God, don't sneak up on me like that. There's at least three X-acto knives and two pairs of scissors I can see near my desk. What if I put my hand on one of them?”

“Um, you'd likely cut yourself. But it'd be worth hearing what I've got to tell you,” Bastion said quickly. John smiled, the worn lines on his thin face deepening slightly.

“Right now? I just got to work on this sketch for the 'Half-Naked Men holding Guns on a Battlecruiser Wearing Plaid Shorts' concept,” John waved at his screen.

“That can wait.”

“Can it, though? Can it? Janice wants it done by noon.”

“Who cares?”

“Knowing you, you probably care. But alright, alright,” John said when he saw the look on Bastion's face. “Out with it.”

“No. I can't say it here. I don't want anyone else to hear,” Bastion said, looking around the room suspiciously. The other employees were studiously ignoring their conversation, but Bastion knew they could hear every word he said.

“Where do you propose we go?”

“The copy room.”

“Fine. The copy room it is. Lead the way! Well, right after I save this file.”

Bastion tapped his foot while the blue progress bar crawled across John's monitor. Finally, he and John walked through the brightly lit hallways to the small room holding the two copy machines. He was relieved to see the room was empty, and as soon as both he and John were inside, Bastion practically blurted: “Mr. Cohen attacked me last night.”

John's face didn't show any sign of a reaction. He merely asked, “Alf Cohen? The founder of the company?”

“Do you know any other Alfs?” Bastion asked impatiently.

“You mean you imagined some piece of clothing was attacking you again, and you thought it was Alf.”

“No, you’re not listening.

“I’m listening. I just think you’re crazy”

“Fine. Whatever. I’m crazy. But Alf was on a horse, and he hit me with a ruler. Look,” Bastion said, lifting up his shirt. A purple gash stood out clearly against his pale stomach.

“Pull your shirt down! God, what if somebody walked by just now?”

“I don’t care. Don’t you see? I was right. I thought the company was out to get me, but it’s really the CEO. He wants to kill me.”

“Calm down. Jesus,” John whispered. “You’re yelling.”

“Sorry, but what can I do? I should quit…or…or…something. What if he kills me tonight? I mean, you know Janice is going to make me stay late again.”

“Fine, then quit. But first, get your head checked out. You sound completely unhinged. You’re practically dripping with sweat, and if you crumple that tissue anymore, it’s likely to be absorbed into your skin.” Bastion looked down. The tissue he’d wiped his brow with earlier was now just a collection of shredded lumps, which he let fall to the ground.

“You shouldn’t litter,” came a voice from the hall. Both he and Jeff looked up to see Maureen standing, arms crossed, in the doorway. “It’s still flu season, you know, and I don’t want to get your germs.”

“Piss off, Maureen,” Bastion snapped.

“I’m sorry,” John said quickly, “he’s had a rough night.”

“Hrmmph. He may of mentioned that earlier in the elevator.”

“What are you, following me around?” Bastion asked.

“No. I need to make a copy of this expense request form,” she said, waving the piece of paper she held importantly through the air.”

“Do it later. This room is in use.”

“Fine,” she said, mumbling under her breath, “but you do realize I'm going to tell Janice about this little incident.”

“Yeah, go tell her, you old hag,” Bastion yelled after her down the hall.

“You really have lost it,” John gasped in wonder.

“Maybe,” Bastion said, turning back to him. “But let's assume for a moment that I am in fact not crazy and that Alf really did attack me last night.”

“Okay.”

“Well, what would you do?”

“You mean if it happened to me?” John asked.

Bastion nodded, “Sure, if it happened to you.”

“I'd call the police, I guess.”

“And you think the police would believe you?”

“No...”

“You don't even believe me, and we've know each other for seven years.”

“You obviously have something mind, Bastion. Spit it out.”

“Yes, I do,” Bastion paused dramatically. “I'm going to walk up to Mr. Cohen's office right now and ask him about last night.”