CHAPTER 8
Cecil’s ‘birthday thing’ was everything I had hoped for, consisting of coloured paper party hats, the kind that came in packs of twenty and had the piece of elastic that snapped after an hour of wearing, soda served in paper cups, a pathetic looking chocolate cake, and, as crowning cherry, a sagging banner that boldly announced; “Happy 39th Cecil”.
When I arrived The Whisperer staff had already begun the awkward ritual of hovering around attempting to make small talk, unsure if they should be happy to not be working, or indignantly outraged at being forced to masquerade as friends.
Of the two dozen odd guests I recognised perhaps six people by sight, none of whom were on a level I would consider anything more than mild acquaintances. Among the faces I spotted Claudia, my favourite ice queen receptionist, and my boss Paul, the same man who had indicated punctuation for the word “handy” with his fingers.
Obediently I strapped a paper hat to my head, accepted a cup of orange soda, and proceeded to plaster the most convincing smile of which I was capable to my face.
Inside a small part of me shrivelled and died. I registered that, inevitably, this pathetic scene was my future at the Whisperer, if I failed to find an alternative. A 39th birthday highlighted by cheap paper party hats and cheaper soda, some horrific punch line to a life spent slaving away like a depressed pack-mule. I wondered how Linda would react to her 39th birthday at the Sushi Palace. I was willing to bet it would be with shrieks of delight among equally delighted co-workers.
After a few sentences of feeble small talk with a distracted, middle aged woman whose name may or may not have been Cinda, I spotted Brent signalling me from across the room. He had gone all out in promoting an atmosphere of merriment; daring to strap two cone-shaped party hats to his head in what must have been the “outrageous” highlight of the occasion. The effect created was that he had sprouted a pair of colourful horns.
“Excuse me a moment,” I said to (who may or may not have been) Cinda and approached Brent who was once again doing a sterling job of not appearing suspicious by acting as suspicious as possible.
“Training tomorrow,” he muttered to me conspiratorially, pushing a folded piece of paper into my palm, “Don’t be late.”
I unfolded the paper and read the address.
“Not here!” Brent hissed. He snatched the paper from my hand and glanced around frantically, attempting to spot the multitude of sleeper agents that were bountiful in number and keenly on the lookout for sneakily traded pieces of paper. “Are you insane?!”
“Brent, I really think you overestimate the capacity of the average person to spot illegal exchanges.”
“Just… you never can be too careful,” he snorted, stuffing the paper into my top pocket. “Don’t be late.”
“I won’t.”
“Good. Now listen, we need to have a talk, Jet, just you and me.”
“About what?”
“It’s about Benny.” He lowered his voice, though not a single person seemed to be paying the slightest bit of attention.
“What about him?”
“Look, he can get a little intense, you know? I’m sure you’ve probably noticed.”
“Not really.”
“Just know that I’m with you, buddy, alright? I got you into this, and we’re gonna stick together through the whole thing. Right?” He was giving me what was intended to be a supportive look, but the coloured party hats robbed him of credibility.
“Sure, I follow.”
“Good. I’m with you, bro. Whatever Benny does we’ll stick together, don’t you forget it. Partners, right?”
“Right, partners. I won’t forget it.”
“Good. Great.” He looked satisfied we had achieved a solid amount of bonding. “Now, let’s get this party over with, partner.”
With that he cleared his throat and addressed the crowd, “Ladies and gentleman, can I have your attention please?”
The general murmuring died down and the crowd took up positions to hear the customary speech. I spotted a short man who must have been Cecil, his expression reflecting a permanent taste of lemons in his mouth. The label on his shirt clearly identified him as the “Birthday Boy”. I felt a deep amount of sympathy for the man.
“Now, we all know and love Cecil,” Brent continued, adapting an affectionate tone, “and nobody can deny that he is quite the character. I mean, who can forget that little incident at last year’s Christmas party?” The crowd confirmed they remembered Cecil’s Christmas party shenanigans with a series of knowing chuckles. Cecil did his best to beam with pride, but succeeded only in a strangled grin. “But let’s leave the past in the past and focus on the here and now. It’s big Cecil’s 39th, his last year as a youngster, and I suggest we all do our best to make it a memorable year. Shall we?” Brent raised a cup of soda in a toasting fashion and got a smattering of applause. “Before we get all caught up with the praise, let’s spare a thought for that neglected plant we are all aware that Cecil-”
“Why don’t you shut up so that we can all have some cake already?” This interruption was from Paul. All heads turned towards him. His tone suggested it was meant as joke and the crowd laughed nervously.
“Right, of course,” Brent stammered on, his flow broken, “As I was saying, we never did have a funeral for that poor plant, but I can assure you I will never forget the-”
“Sit down! I’m hungry over here!” Paul jumped in again, visibly relishing the crowd’s obedient chuckle.
Brent deflated, “Happy birthday, Cecil. Let’s get some cake.”
There was a general movement towards the cake. Cecil looked disorientated, as if he expected the parade of strippers were yet to be announced.
I let my eyes drift over to Paul and settle on his round spongy face, the features still reflecting perverse pleasure achieved publicly mocking Brent. It was apparently not an abnormal thing to happen, since no one seemed concerned about it, but the lingering aura of indignation still clung to Brent.
It was behaviour I did not understand. What Paul had gained from the display of domination was a mystery, and I guess the inner workings of a mind like Paul’s would always remain unknown.
Or would they?
Without realising what I intended, I found the childhood memory beneath the table, centred in on it and felt the wave of calm envelop me. My focus intensified on Paul’s face. Around me, the office began slipping deeper into the shadows. The sounds of casual chatter were muted.
The truth was that Paul was not so different from myself. As much as I preferred to think that I could never relate to a short, semi-bald, mid-forties man who got his jollies prodding those in positions of lesser authority, at the core we were ultimately very similar.
My surroundings became completely detached. Paul’s face, gazing into the crowd with a smirk, became ever more in-tune and precise.
What would I be thinking if I was Paul? What would I be feeling if I were a short overweight man whose hair had gone the way of the dodo?
I watched, taking in every detail. Things started to take shape. I recognised Paul, and he was no stranger.
As he gazed over the crowd, who were still clustering to get a piece of cake, the expression on his face took on a new level. He was attempting to catch someone’s eyes, eager to get a look of approval or an acknowledgment. He desperately wanted someone to reach out to him and register his superior position. But, much to his dismay, people chose to avoid him. People chose even to avoid his eye contact. This made him uneasy. More than uneasy, this made him anxious.
What was the need for mocking Brent?
People liked Brent. He made them laugh, he made them smile, and they enjoyed his company. This was something Paul had never experienced. He believed it was because he was generally unattractive. He had also believed that if he achieved a position of seniority people would show him more respect. He had, of course, been wrong on both counts.
Inexplicably, in his opinion, he had not received more respect after
becoming a manager. In fact he noticed people only tended to avoid him more. Annoyed by this phenomenon he looked around and saw Brent; a not especially remarkable man getting along with everyone. Why? How? It baffled him. And when thing’s baffled Paul, his response was to bring them down. Drag them down, force them onto his level and mock them.
I noticed the unnatural ruddiness that gave a shade of colour to Paul’s puffy cheeks, something which previously I had missed.
And he drank. His own little personal crutch. There was a bottle of liquor, most likely hidden in his top drawer, from which he would take a swig a few times every day. He believed it aided him, made him funnier, made him more approachable to others. In reality it made him louder and quicker with his mouth. Achieving nothing but the incident which I had just witnessed.
I released my focus. The room returned to its previous state with a small jolt and my stomach lurched.
I blinked, giving myself a moment to readjust to reality, and confirmed with a quick glance that no one had noticed my spell. All were now standing in little groups holding paper plates of cake.
No one, except for Brent. He stood a few meters away with an expression of stunned accusation on his face. “What the hell are you doing?” he mouthed at me.
I shrugged in response, not entirely sure myself, but fully aware of the exhilaration that made my head float. I was intoxicated and the sensation was threatening to run away from me.
The level of connection I had felt with Paul was a step up from what had occurred at the poker training. Deeper, more engrossing, on the verge of all consuming. I knew that from that deep connection there were many things I was capable of doing, or perhaps forcing others to do.
I knew Paul like I knew myself. And, there was no other way to put it, I found him to be pathetic. Pathetic in a way that was beyond even the standards set by Clinton. In fact, he made Clinton look downright legendary by comparison.
A need to lash out overwhelmed me, so deep it seemed to be ringing in my loins. Bring Paul down. Make him take a good look in the mirror and be disgusted at his own feeble reflection.
Before I could stop myself I was walking forward.
I passed by the cake table, took a plate and approached him as he stood apart from the others with hands shoved in pockets. I thrust forward the plate and he took it, looking up at me in mild surprise.
“The liquor doesn’t help,” I said, not sure where the words were coming from, “It makes it worse.”
I watched as his brain attempted to process the sentence. His first reaction was a defiant scoff, one that said; “What are you talking about?” But when I made no indication it was a joke his expression soon morphed into bewildered horror.
There was a long pause. Others heard the comment and were looking over.
Finally, as Paul’s confusion deepened and his mouth dropped open, I decided the mission was accomplished and turned away, ready to head for the exit.
Brent was staring at me with his eyes bulging, but the haunted grin suggested he approved of the occurrence; even if he couldn’t quite believe it.
I headed for the door and a random snippet of awed conversation floated after me; “What did he just say?”
In the reception area I came upon Claudia alone at her desk with a plate of cake. Apparently the little party had not been her scene.
“Hello, Claudia,” I said. She looked up and rolled her eyes dramatically. “Didn’t like the party?” I continued.
“No.”
“That’s too bad.”
She returned her attention to the computer, putting so much commitment into ignoring me it had to be admired for professionalism.
It took me less than a second to make the decision. I focused on her face, found my calm and performed the spell, quicker this time. The reception area seemed to contract around me, and already the process of mental invasion was becoming easier.
Attention craving… Low self esteem… fear of rejection… obsession with status…
… and in the blink of an eye I understood her as if she had been my twin.
Not surprisingly, Claudia turned out to be only marginally less pathetic than Paul. And also not surprisingly, her attitude was firmly rooted in a need to be perceived a certain way. Only, instead of liquor, Claudia settled for being a bitch.
She squirmed under my persistent gaze, pretending I wasn’t staring. But soon looked up with a scowl. “Is there something you wanted?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You’re staring at me.”
“Well I was just thinking,” I said, “have you ever considered wearing your hair up?”
She paused, taken aback that I had dared engage her. As if I considered myself an equal.
“You should try it,” I continued, striking while the iron was hot, “I think it’ll really look good on you.”
Her eyes glazed as she scrambled to find the correct response for the completely unexpected, and settled for a rather uncommitted; “I think I’ll be okay,” then turned back to the computer. My cue to shuffle off in belittled defeat. I did not take the cue. Instead I approached and leaned on the desk, imposing myself with a savage confidence hitherto unknown. I could almost hear the glassy shattering of her imagined personal bubble.
Seven minutes and thirty-six seconds later Claudia was shoving me into an empty office, her lips locked over mine in an eagerness that verged on desperation. I was not certain, but it was likely the first kind of physical contact she had had in a long time.
She pushed me backwards, sending me stumbling blindly until I nearly fell over a desk, then her eager hands tore open my shirt and began clawing at my chest. (It would be a blatant lie if I said I had experienced something even remotely similar up till that point.) I returned the favour, ripping open her blouse and finally getting a look at those perky, forbidden-fruit breasts.
She paused, staring at me with nostrils flaring and lips parted, then gripped the sides of my face and kissed me with brute force. I accepted her with unrestrained eagerness, hands groping and exploring.
Next she was forcing me onto the desk with an alarming amount of strength. A plastic cup of pens went clattering to the floor as I sprawled on its polished wooden surface. Then in a most unladylike fashion, she hiked up her skirt, kicked off her high heels, mounted the desk and straddled my body, leaving no doubt as to where this unexpected detour would be heading.
Unfortunately it was at that moment, mere seconds before I could have proudly declared myself as “the guy who did the hot receptionist”, Claudia raised herself up to get a more comfortable position. A shaft of light entering between the half closed blinds caught her face and illuminating her expression, revealing a deplorable reality.
Dilated pupils, sheen of sweat on her forehead, and the dead give-away, a maniacal grin on her lips. She was the splitting image of Linda.
I had her under my spell, and was about to have sex with a woman who would likely not understand what had happened five minutes after it occurred. I was about to, for lack of a better term, date rape a woman.
Oh no. Oh dear. How had we got here?
She leaned in again but I turned my head.
“Wait, get off me Claudia.”
She ignored the words, turned my head back with a firm hand and attempted to kiss me. I resisted.
“I said get off me!”
I sat up with more effort than intended and she went tumbling off the desk, landing on the floor with a jarring thump.
A moment before exiting the office I turned back, intending on saying something along the lines of “I’m late for an appointment”, but was struck speechless by the sight that met my eyes. There she sat on the floor, staring at me. The maniacal grin was gone, and in its place was an expression that spoke of bewilderment and shock. Most of all it was an expression that spoke of horror.
She slowly pulled her blouse closed and tucked her legs up to her chest, attempting to hide her exposed breasts.
“I’m so sorry Claudia,”
I managed. Then exited.