her face, making her feel like the piece of worthless trash she is. But I swallow my antagonism, harboring it for when I can exact retribution for the way I feel when she’s around. When I go off then she’ll learn that her pedestal’s made of kindling that’s doused with kerosene as it ignites. The fire will rise and engulf her cries.
She’s scripted this meeting to break me down as a male, scorned by a dominant female.
“We’ve been lenient on your disdainful work ethic.” Pausing to belittle me I want to strangle her as she questions, “You do understand what I mean by disdain, don’t you, Shane? It means we recognized your contempt for our requirements.” Glancing at my evaluations she admits, “Your attitude of late has been workbook. But it’s become an increasing issue with your attendance. You’ll need to sign this document, recognizing due warning. Further disciplinary actions will result in temporary suspension.” She feeds on my discomfort, gorging without fill.
How many times can I stab this paper with this metal pen before someone barges in to subdue me? A wad of dignity sinks from my throat into my stomach from a dry swallow. Signing the document I blink hard to shift focus. Looking up I start to deceive with an apology.
“I’m so sorry I failed you, Brenda. I have trouble managing time, and realize it’s essential I work on it.” Tactfully I ease off embellishment, to avoid doubt or suspicion, pausing to let my words settle. My eyes tear up, submersed in the role I have taken on and play the part.
“I’m disappointed in myself, feeling I’ve let you down. My greatest concern is doing my best to make you proud for allowing me to work here.” She takes favor in having people to train.
“I believe in your efforts to improve, Shane. That said. I expect to have the standard quota from you by the end of the night. Otherwise this letter will be going into your file, along with the write-up we’ve discussed. Do you understand?”
“I know to stick to the script and get those confirmations. Thank you again.”
To put this day behind me I make every effort to exceed in my potential.
Nearing the end of the shift, a startling complication careens into my life.
I’m on break when Mom calls. She’s distant.
“Shane, your father is dead. He died in an accident while driving home tonight.”
I don’t understand. I was never close to him, but he’s the one that gave me life. Prior to now there’s never been mention of him having health issues. Mom alludes to complications with his physical wellbeing, leading to the crash. She finishes by stating, “If you’re too busy to come home for arrangements, I’ll send a correspondence.”
On notice, I can’t ask to leave early from work. They’ll terminate me then and there.
My focus is despondent. My lines lack enthusiasm. “Final Call!” is announced.
My tally is short. By convincing a “lead” listener to bring a friend will make up for it.
The phone’s picked up. A silent pause. I pull myself together, with utmost focus.
“Hello!” the elderly male recipient answers in a cranky manner. This isn’t starting off well. But they’re not gonna let me place another call, I have to turn this one around.
“Yes, Sir. I’m sorry to bother you.” Looking at the gentleman’s name on the qualification card he abrasively answers, “Get on with it. What do you want?”
“Well, Mr. Banner…I’m sorry, did I pronounce your name correctly?”
“Yes. Now what is it you want?”
“I’m calling from Tropic Travels--where we offer choice vacation getaways year round. I see you signed up for a vacation cruise?” pausing to feel out the party’s vibe.
“No. I wouldn’t have signed up for that.” Hurrying to the next line I confer,
“We’ll it is possible a friend or family member signed up, for you…” If provided another breather he’ll oppose more abrasively, prompting my quick continuance.
“Here at Tropic Travel we would like to extend an exclusive offer, in celebration of our 10th anniversary. We’ve prepared for you, and a guest, 4 days and 3 nights aboard the South Hampton Luxury Cruise Liner, to your choice of Alaska or the Bahamas.”
“I wouldn’t be interested in that,” Mr. Banner responds.
Final chance. Searching deep, knowing I have to go off script to hook him.
“If I may? I’d like to take a brief moment to share with you…”
“What part of the word NO didn’t you understand?” I’m shouted at. Hope is strangled.
The pitch that was coming...“how delicate life is. I just got word my father has died. There are so many emotions I’m stuck with, that I’ve held onto all my life. Here I’m giving you an opportunity to connect with a loved one whom you’ve longed to speak to and open up with.”
But the phone slams. And I feel like the loneliest person in the entire world.
I crumple up the card with Banner’s information. Push it into my pocket. Grab my jacket. And exit before staff insists I have a sit down and sign the suspension sheet, which everyone knows is a termination slip. On the bus I simmer in vengeance. I need to know Banner personally. At my apartment I begin research, questioning what things offer him joy or comfort. I uncover his daily patterns and familiar goings. The harassment starts with scheduled phone calls. I intend for him to be my exclusive hobby while I am away, back home, tending to father’s arrangements. Judging by Mom’s demeanor, she seems reluctant to release dad’s journal to me.
It’s a time of abrupt spiritual turnaround. Reading his memoirs provokes a glorifying connection. It’s like coming across priceless pieces to life’s puzzle, which he spent years compiling, revealed in a uniquely crafted collection of notes. Prior ambitions involving Banner conflict with this new mentality. Old ways become overrun by a new vision of life.
Mom’s teachings insist I travel to Russell Banner’s place of residence and attack his livelihood. That beyond the phone calls I should send packages aimed at delivering grief. And eventually run him out of his home into a shelter with no assets. His life should be an extent of misery, longing to be ended. The valuable lessons obtained from Dad sway this thinking, believing that choices put to action will never benefit, if those motives conflict with God’s will.
Dragon Breath
Unemployed and living on the streets for the last 30 years, I meet many veterans. Hearing tons of conversations, I feel I’ve lived their service lives. One day it just comes out…
“Yes I’ve served in the military. Lieutenant James Fredrickson,” I introduce myself, confident I can carry on a conversation with retired military personnel.
“What branch were you in?” I’m asked (taken from a side city street to the inside of a dark social hall, where hopeless senior faces stare at beer-filled glasses). “Tanker, I reply.”
“No, what branch were you in?” the war captain’s stern eyes dissect my appearance. I’m out of place with my carefree smile. I recall that previous mentors never once had a light-hearted expression when describing their service days.
“Oh, the Army. A mechanic, on tanks.”
“I’ve never heard of that MOS before.” Later I discover is stands for Military Occupational Specialty. Then he inquires “Where did you say you were stationed at?”
These old guys look like they want to tear me to shreds. Franticly searching my memory, I promptly repeat a location. The hard look on their wrinkly mugs is unrelenting.
“Just out of curiosity, what was your MOS ?” another seasoned old-timer adds.
This is it! The pack has me cornered. I’ve no idea how to answer this question. I should’ve known better than to take up the old man’s offer to come in to the VFW and have a cold one with him on this Friday afternoon. My eagerness to fit in and find acceptance has steered me into a bind. I admit my bluff. I’m physically escorted out the back of the social hall.
In a dirty alley I’m pinned down and stripped of my garb. They take fro
m me the worn veteran cap and camouflage jacket. Then with a brand, which one of them fires up to a red glow, they keep me pinned down as an A is burned onto my face.
“You’re no better than a draft dodger” the brandisher growls. “An absentee.”
The metal sears my skin, extreme cold kisses my face, followed by an excruciating heat.
Stinking of men’s urine as I’m run off, it’s during such times that I won’t turn to booze, keeping my head straight so I can focus, and get my thoughts together.
A friendly face draws me close (as I’m walking through the busy downtown business area); the bright-eyed man picking me out from a crowd. Feelings of importance liven. His warm smile melts the coldness of my wounded pride and brittle emotions.
“Brother. You wander aimlessly. Let me reveal the hidden things in life which you seek. I was once lost just as you are now. The empty look about you tells of your search for guidance. Let me share the wonderful opportunity that waits for us…”
With his arm gently around my shoulder, he leads me to a building just down the street off of busy Main Street. The soft glowing windows have a silky frost coating that prevents viewing the inside. The door is made of what appears to be solid ivory. The handle is pure gold. Inside there’s marble flooring. Extravagant candles capped by crystal globes light the room with a magical iridescence. As wonderful as the ambiance is, a chilling presence taints the atmosphere. It pierces my chest to form heartfelt