Top Floor

Top Floor

A short story in two voices
 

This is a great building. The kind that’s an office building built over the historic façade that used to be here before progress, you know, made its big move. I smile about the metaphor this drops for me on the day of my interview here. My mother is walking through the business people, navigating their briefcases and lattes, like she does it all the time. She doesn’t. She works at the hospital. Middle management. Billing people for appendectomies and Botox.

She joins me at the table. I have a small latte in front of me. I don’t want to be all bloaty for the interview, so I sized down. “Hi mom,” I say. She hates when I don’t address her. My best friend in the world could come and sit with me and all’s he’d get would be chin raise. But mom needs words. Complete words. Today of all days, I’m going to remember to speak in complete sentences made of complete words, ’cause that’s how they like it. And I want them to like me.

“Hi Jeremy,” she says. “Are you ready?”

“Sure,” I say.

“Why is it important to you that you work at Hasken Pilter?” She is quizzing me, making sure I’m in the right frame of mind for the interview. Shit, you’d swear she thinks I got faded for this.

“Because Hasken Pilter is the number one commodities firm in the western hemisphere, and I’m a perfect fit.”

“You can’t just say you’re a perfect fit, you have to demonstrate it.”

“Mom.”

“Jeremy.”

“Mom, it’ll be fine.”

“Even if it isn’t, an interview at a company like this is great experience. It’ll help you if there’s a next interview.”

“Way to keep it positive,” I say, and hold my latte cup up like I’m toasting her wisdom.

~~~~~

Can you believe he would come to this interview wearing a green dress shirt? I swear, if he didn’t live in my basement all the time, I wouldn’t be able to pick my son out of a police lineup. A blue suit and a green shirt and tie. And that ridiculous red beard. It wouldn’t be so bad if he could actually grow one, but he’s only 23, so you know, it’s patchy.

He’s drinking a coffee too. The last thing he needs is to need to go pee and end up all fidgety. I wish you were here with us today. You’d be so proud. Patchy beard or not, our son has grown up smart and handsome and kind. He reminds me of you, even though he looks like my side of the family. Days like this make me miss you even more than usual.

I look at my watch and say to Jeremy, “We should get going up.” He stands and smiles at me. Big teeth behind a moustache that needs a trim. I reach over and pick a fuzzy off his suit collar.

We walk across the throng of passersby. They are walking along the corridor. We need to walk across it to get to the elevators. I’m doing it like I’m playing Frogger. “Excuse me, sorry,” and so on. Jeremy is tall and confident and just glides through. I end up following him. In the elevator, I say, “Remember, don’t talk over me in there. I have more experience with this.”

“Sure mom,” he says. It sounds a little like a question.

~~~~~

These elevators are awesome. I want this job even more now. They are real wood with a slat of mirror down each side of the back. I check my teeth for iggies, but I’m good. The wood panels tell the world that Hasken Pilter doesn’t give a fuck whether someone carves their name in them. They’ll just get replaced the next day. Ad infinitum.

It’s a long ride up. My ears pop a little, so I fake a yawn to bring my hearing back to above-water mode.

“Didn’t you get enough sleep last night?” mom asks.

“My ears were popping.”

“Oh. Okay then.” She checks her hair in the slat on her side. Quick, like I’m not supposed to notice.

The elevator doors open and it’s not the usual hallway. They open directly into the offices of Hasken Pilter. Well, the reception area of Hasken Pilter. It says so, in their dramatic font above the beautiful woman in the telephone headset. She says, “Hasken Pilter, please hold.” And then says the same thing. Another three times. She smiles at me and holds up a finger to show she’ll be right with us.

“Hi, welcome to Hasken Pilter,” she says. She’s talking to me. Mom answers.

“We’re here to see Ms. Davidson. We’re Jeremy Peters.”

“Sure, I’ll let Ms. Davidson’s assistant know you’re here. Please have a seat.”

~~~~~

Did you see her roll her eyes? It was slight but it was there. I don’t care what the receptionist thinks. Right? This interview is too important to Jeremy to let him do it by himself. A company like Hasken Pilter would see him coming a mile away and would lock him into indentured servitude. He’s 178th in his graduating class. That’s pretty high praise from a top school.

A young lady in a blue power suit with a baby blue blouse joins us. “Jeremy?” she asks. He’s the only man in the waiting area. He stands, and I stand with him. He shakes her hand. His firmness looks fine. I shake her hand too and say, “Felicity Peters,” I’m Jeremy’s mom.

“Nice to meet you,” the assistant in the power suit and the Walter Steiger shoes says. She doesn’t say her name. “Right this way.” She leads we follow.

We reach Ms. Davidson’s office. She’s just finishing a call. She smiles and tells whomever that she’ll call them back. “Please come in.” The three of us go in.

~~~~~

The first thing I notice about Ms. Davidson is that she’s full on writing with a Mont Blanc. I think that’s the first thing I’m getting when I get a cheque. A fat black one with the big white snowflake on the top. I’ll get my signing on with that.

We stand for a bit while her assistant comes in with another chair for mom.

Then we sit. Ms. Davidson says, “Welcome to Hasken Pilter. Would you like anything, coffee, water?” Mom and I say that we don’t. The assistant leaves and closes us in.

“Thank you for inviting us today,” mom says. Ms. Davidson smiles and looks at me.

“So Jeremy, you did well in your first semester. How’s this one going?”

I take a slow deliberate breath. Mom will be rating it, so I make sure it’s there for at least my first answer. “It’s going well,” I say. “I’m currently 178 in the graduate class. That should come up after finals.”

“You’re expecting good finals?” She smiles and starts to note something with the Mont Blanc in a leather bound book. Leather, for interview notes. This place is awesome.

Mom says, “He is going to do great on his finals. The last time I spoke with his professors they assured me there was nothing to be concerned about.” Ms. Davidson smiles again. Writes nothing.

“Tell me Jeremy, why would you like the analyst position at Hasken Pilter?” I see mom smile. She’d predicted this one and she’s proud.

“Hasken Pilter is a top floor firm and I am 178 in my class and climbing. Together, we’ll be everything I need to learn and excel.” Ms. Davidson writes for a considerable amount of time. Nailed it.

Several more questions have passed. I’m doing marvellously. Ms. Davidson is clearly feeling my vibe. The only thing I can’t figure is why mom hasn’t brought up my starting salary yet. I’m a little worried that she’s going to drop the ball on this one, and I’ll be starting way too low. We should have worked out a set of signals.

~~~~~

Holy Mother of God. Did he just tell her that he’ll be an even better fit at Hasken Pilter once marijuana is legalized because he’s used to working hard and delivering under the influence at school? He must have been stoned when he picked out his suit!

I have no idea why he keeps looking at me. It’s like he expects me to say something, but all I want to do is cry. This is my best poker face. I hope it’s holding. Luckily for me, Ms. Davidson doesn’t seem to notice, and she doesn’t have any questions for me. I’m hiding in plain sight.

Then Jeremy says, “Mom thinks I should be asking for a company car too. What do you think of that Elsa?”

I missed the part where they got on a first name basis. From the look on her face, I think Ms. Davidson did too.

Baseball

Baseball - A short story by P. Andrew Power

He hadn’t been taught that he needn’t slide into first base.  He was safe regardless.  Around me on the bleachers was clapping.  It was half-hearted, lugubrious applause as opposed to uproarious celebration.  An eight year-old being safe at first, moreover incorrectly, didn’t rank much more.  “Good job David,” decreed someone most likely with a close familial relationship to David.  David’s job had been reasonable, accidentally making contact through a terrible check-swing that dribbled the ball up the third baseline.  Once the third baseman and the short-stop had concluded their tussle over the ball, rolling around and forgetting at least momentarily that they were supposed to work together, David was already standing on the first base bag, dusting his canvas pants unnecessarily sullied by his foot-first slide.  He beamed proudly.  I wiped my forehead.  It was hot in the sunshine.

The pitcher was a tall kid with red hair and freckles.  The kind of kid a perfectly reasonable adult would be comfortable cheering against because an adult would know that a kid like this spent his spare time pushing other kids from their bicycles or some such.  He was heavier than the other boys too, an advantage he would certainly use on the playground, throwing elbows during a game of red-rover.  I formed an immediate dislike of the pitcher.  The ball made its way back to him, from the third baseman who’d won it.  The pitcher waited as the umpire tied a sneaker for the next batter, a skinny kid with glasses who apparently didn’t know how to tie shoes at the age of eight.  David shifted back and forth, from one foot to the other atop the bag, bored with the waiting.

The umpire finished his assistance and circled around to retake his position leaning over the catcher like a fat man pilfering french-fries from an unsuspecting toddler at the supper table.  “Play ball!” he said, as if there was another option.  The pitcher crinkled his nose and squinted his eyes in determination serving mostly to concentrate his freckles into menacing, orange cheek blotches.  He rolled the ball over a few times in his glove then reared back and chucked it forcefully into the top of the back-stop.  “Ball,” demurred the umpire.  I stretched my eyelids by opening my eyes widely and then returned them to their relaxed, yet open, position.  The catcher walked after the ball like he would a kitten that’s left its box.

Once retrieved, the ball was thrown back toward the pitcher landing bouncelessly four feet in front of him.  He sauntered to it, noticing without concern that David was considering stealing second.  The red-head squinted at him in a manner that made it known he’d better not.  David was doing his best to entice a throw to first, which most likely wouldn’t be caught and then stealing second would be an actual possibility.  David danced back and forth along the baseline nearest first but on its way to second, waving his hands randomly.  The pitcher shook his head slowly in a dismissive manner and took up his position with his right foot in the hole against the rubber.  I cannot explain why David did not steal second when the ball was crashing into the top third of the backstop, other than to theorize that he enjoyed tormenting the pitcher more than he did baseline advancement.  I resolved to cheer silently for David.  He wasn’t my grandson.  My grandson was the only boy in the game who would cause me to clap or call encouragement.  I was here for him.  The rest were scenery; extras.

I sipped four-dollar lemonade from a plastic bottle.  I wanted it to last all four innings.

Three more uncoordinated swings and the bespectacled batter was retired to his bench and bulk bag of sunflower seeds.  I watched as he took a generous swig from his water bottle, clearly parched from his three swings and his statuesque observance of the first pitch into the backstop.  David walked back and forth along his end of the first-to-second baseline.  “Over here!” the first basemen called holding his glove well forward.  The red-head ignored him and looked in at the next batter menacing his cheek blotches as he did. 

The next batter was a girl with a bright yellow ponytail hanging from the back of her oversized, shockingly fuchsia batting helmet.  She smiled happily to the pitcher; almost knowingly.  It was possible they went to school together, or lived on the same street, or were cousins.  It was clear that the red-head didn’t intend to return the happy-to-see-you sentiment.  He redoubled his squint.  David walked back to first base.  He was not permitted to take a lead.  Eight year olds do not take leads in this league.  The yellow haired girl kept smiling.

“Strike,” called the umpire as her first pitch breezed across the plate.  She didn’t move, the bat resting casually upon her shoulder, her smile unaffected.  The yellow haired girl was important to me.  If she were to strike out, it was less likely that my grandson would make it up to bat this inning.  He was currently on the bench with the bespectacled kid, sharing sunflower seeds and testing batting helmets by smacking each other’s with open palms.   The helmets were clearly effective as Peter giggled as the kid with the bulk bag of seeds smacked him.

The yellow-haired girl had amassed another strike and a ball.  With two strikes against, she was smiling less.  “Let’s go Shelly,” came a call from the bleachers.  I agreed, indeed, let’s go Shelly.  There were three more batters between Shelly and Peter.  The red-head stared in and reared back and plunked Shelly in the shoulder. I would have thought he did it on purpose but he wasn’t good enough to hit what he wanted, including the strike zone or a yellow-haired girl.  “Time,” called the umpire.  The game stopped for a bit as the coach made his way to the batter’s box to ask Shelly if she was okay.  Shelly was fighting back the tears that hadn’t already slipped down her cheeks waiting to be smeared by her baseball t-shirt sleeve.  She nodded, handed her bat to her coach, and walked joylessly to first base.  David was pushed to second base without drama or excitement.  He was now eying third base as a thievery prospect.

With the yellow-haired Shelly sobbing on first base, and only one out, there was an improved chance that Peter would get to bat.  The first base coach was talking to the yellow-haired girl, telling her that it was a good thing she was on first because the team needed base runners.  I agreed.  Shelly looked like she would prefer to eat sunflower seeds and not have a bruise tomorrow.  “That-a-girl Shelly,” the woman who I presumed to be her mother said.  I shifted.  The aluminum bleacher was hurting my keister.  When I did, the hot bleacher burnt the palms of my hands.  I clutched the four dollar lemonade to cool them.  I took another sip.  It was still the top of the first.

David bounced around between second and third, enticing an errant throw.  “David, back on second.  You can’t take a lead,” his coach said loudly from the bench.  The coach then smiled and said something to the third base coach and the smile was shared.  The dancing irritated the red headed pitcher.  When he turned with the ball in his glove he could see peripherally the spasmodic movements of David mocking him and daring him to throw the ball in his direction.  It was thus far my one source of entertainment, interrupted temporarily by the coach sending him back to second.

Three more batters until Peter.  One out, two on.  David and the sobbing, yellow-haired girl.  The pitcher looked in and the batter chewed gum in reply.  Squint.  Throw.  Crack.  The ball rolled into right field, with David being waved home and the yellow-haired girl running past second and on toward third with her arms flailing wildly as if bees were nesting in her fuchsia headdress.  Two more batters.  The pitcher stamped his foot and held his glove behind his neck with both hands.  His dismay brought a small flicker of joy to me.  I disliked his arrogance and his demeanour.  I knew how kids like him grew up to become border guards or cops or high school principals just so they could keep sticking their thumbs into the ribs of those who couldn’t fight back because of the system we’re stuck in.

Peter was in the hole.  Runners at first and third.  The yellow-haired girl was on third, and number 10 who’d had the nice RBI single was on first mostly because his first base coach made him keep it to a single.  A new batter was up, number 5.  He batted left, so his back was mostly to me.  David was standing in front of his bench, still dancing.  I celebrated his run with another sip of lemonade.  The sun was beginning to work at the exposed skin on my forearms.  I should have worn sunblock.

The kid on deck was swinging a wooden bat, because it was heavier than the aluminum one he’d be batting with.  The old bat was a suitable warm-up for a batter intending to use a new one.  In my time we’d put a lead donut around the bat and swing that to warm up our shoulders and hips.  I supposed they didn’t think children using lead was a good idea and they were probably right.  It wasn’t difficult to imagine David gnawing on the warm-up donut.  Especially if someone called it a donut.

Number 5 struck out.  Two outs.  Runners at first and third.  Peter on deck standing in the on-deck circle swinging the heavier wooden bat and watching his teammate facing the red headed pitcher.  The menacing look, the blotched freckles, a high inside pitch.  “Ball,” said the umpire.  There were few redeeming features to this red head kid.  High and inside again.  “Ball.”  Peter watched on, swinging, waiting, swinging.  “Ball three,” the umpire said.  The pitcher took a little walk around the mound to calm himself down.  He looked in, threw low and away, and walked Number 5 in four pitches. 

The bases were loaded and Peter was up.  I was terribly hot, but I’d stopped sweating.  I sipped a sip of lemonade and smiled at Peter, who waggled his fingers at me.  I nodded to him to impart my entire baseball prowess onto him with a single gesture, which of course isn’t possible.   He walked to the batter’s box and wiggled his feet into the sandy dirt like I’d shown him.  He bent his knees and pulled the bat back and waited.  The red-head threw, and Peter swung at the first pitch.  I’d taught him to swing at the first pitch.  It’s the one the pitcher would be most focussed on and therefore it would be most likely to cross the plate in a somewhat hittable manner.

He hit a solid grounder into centre field, the ball rolling to the left of the centre fielder who was out of position.  Peter ran to first and was on his way to second.  He’d knocked in two runs.  I stood on my bleacher and clapped, feeling some of the blood making its way back into my legs.  The centre fielder threw the ball in to second, where the pitcher caught it by stepping in front of his own second baseman.  He tagged Peter far too high.  “Hey!” I hollered.  “Out,” the umpire said.  Peter fell backward having been hit in the face by a larger boy.  One with red hair and freckles and belly fat.  I was angry.  I took up my lemonade and ambled down the bleachers intending to make my way to the bench to see if Peter was okay.  His head was hanging so I couldn’t tell if he was hurt or simply dismayed.  I scowled at the red head and the umpire and the world in general.

My chest tightened when I reached the ground.  I was finding it more difficult to breathe.  At once I knew I was in distress.  It had to be my heart.  I preferred it to be heat-stroke, so I took another sip of my lemonade.  It still had to last three and a half more innings.  I fell to the ground onto my backside, clutched my chest and sat there watching Peter walk to where David was waiting with a high-five.  I groaned.  The people on the bleachers were starting to notice my dying of something more than heat-stroke.  I couldn’t raise my lemonade to my mouth to convince them.  I needed to lie down.  “I’ll be okay,” I said to the random parenting faces around me.  “He’s having a heart attack,” one of them labeled it.

The pitcher started to yell.  He was having a conniption.  At first I thought he was angry with having given up the runs with two outs.  Then I determined he was angry that I’d disrupted his game with my death theatrics.  He yelled, “I know where it is!” and he ran off toward the school discarding his glove and his hat flew up driven off by the wind of running on its brim.  I fell back and the parenting faces were replaced by darkness and then light and then a backlit figured obscured. 

My dead wife looked at me first with compassion but then her face changed.  She squinted and pursed her lips and shook her head “no”.  Then she had freckles, which she never had in life.  They blended together into orange blotches that confirmed her disagreement with whatever I’d done to upset her.  I went through the list.  I took out the garbage.  I gave up smoking.  I stopped going to the bar after work – mostly because I’d stopped working twenty years ago.  Then she was gone and the white light was replaced by the cyan sky.  The coach of the other team was kneeling next to me, fiddling with a yellow box.

“Did it work?” the pitcher asked?

I looked around at the group of parents and mingled baseball teams, all faces staring at me.  “Grandpa!” Peter shouted.