“I need more coffee. I swear that guy just said my name,” Ernie muttered. But instead of getting up and refilling his cup, Ernie found himself scribbling the address on the back of a week-old TV Guide.
Then he got up and stumbled to the bathroom. The dawn streaked the sky with pink and purple bands of light. He flipped the light switch, and the harsh fluorescent bulbs popped and hummed before they flared with their greenish white light. A thirtyish, balding man with a nondescript face stared back at him from the mirror. His skin was gray and his eyes ringed with shadows—a side effect of stress-induced insomnia. His body was soft and paunchy. He saw a corporate drone that worked twelve-hour days for a soulless conglomerate that barely knew he existed, and did slave labor for a supervisor who chewed on his ass just for fun. He hadn’t had a date in eight months, and the woman of his dreams barely acknowledged his existence.
“What the hell have I got to lose?” he said to himself, frowning at his reflection. “Man, I am fucking sick and tired of waking up at three in the goddamn a.m. I am sick of chewing antacids like they’re breath mints. I’m sick of that asswipe Witkowski. And most of all I want Beth to...” He sighed. “I just want Beth.”
He wandered out into his dreary apartment and rummaged around until he found a pen and a legal pad. He put them on the kitchen table, poured himself a bowl of cornflakes, and began to write.
“Okay, Mr. Preacher Man, let’s see what you can do.” He wrote down everything he wanted—from the material to the carnal—and wrote out a check to Paul Swann, Inc. for a thousand dollars. Then, before he could think too much about it, he showered, shaved and dressed, and dropped the letter and the check into the mailbox on his way to work.
“Well, Davis, there goes your hard-earned money. Might as well have bought beer with it—then you’d have at least enjoyed pissing it away.” He shook his head at his own idiocy. Still, a sense of expectation filled him. He got into his ten-year-old Honda Civic and turned up the radio. “Hotel California” was playing, and Ernie sang along with Don Henley:
“You can check out anytime you like
But you can never leave.”
In spite of his early start, the morning’s commute was even worse than usual. Along with the roads choked with trucks and school buses picking up kids, there was the added attraction of an accident on the expressway. Ernie was ten minutes late for work by the time he pulled into the parking lot of Bardwell Foods Corporation. He had to park at the far end of the lot and sprint through the rows and rows of cars toward the employees’ entrance. The security guard didn’t even look at him as he threw the door open and ran, gasping as he took the stairs up to the Customer Service Department.
He pushed open the door, hoping to slide unnoticed into his cubicle. But Witkowski was waiting for him.
“Glad you could join us, Davis,” he said with a sneer.
The Reverend’s voice echoed in Ernie’s head. You can have it all, right now, Ernie...
Two weeks passed, and nothing much changed. Witkowski was still an asshole, and Ernie still went home alone every night to his ugly little apartment. He searched for the Reverend Swann on early morning TV once or twice when he couldn’t sleep but never found the program again. He told himself he’d been monumentally stupid and tried to forget the whole thing. Yet, the feeling that something was about to change persisted.
One morning, late again, he tiptoed through the maze of beige cloth cubicles that made up the Customer Service Department, expecting to hear Witkowski bellowing for him at any moment. As he approached his own cramped cube, he saw the CEO of Bardwell Foods—Walter E. Bardwell himself—standing by his cubicle. Ernie had never seen Bardwell and recognized him only by photos he’d seen in the glossy business magazines. Witkowski stood next to Bardwell. Ernie noticed that Witkowski looked very unhappy. His face was pasty, nearly green, and he was sweating profusely.
Oh God, I’m fired, Ernie thought. I must have screwed up totally and now I’m roadkill.
“Can I help you with something, sirs?” he asked, his voice trembling.
“Ernest Davis? Walt Bardwell.” Walter extended his hand, and a dumbfounded Ernie shook it. “I’ve been hearing about what a great job you’ve been doing for the company, so I decided to come and congratulate you personally.”
“Thank you, sir. Congratulate me for what, sir?”
Bardwell grinned, his teeth large and white. He reminded Ernie of a shark, pitiless and cold-blooded. “Why, Ernie, we’ve decided to offer you the position of Customer Service Manager for the Northeast.” Bardwell gave Witkowski a look that could have withered a saguaro. “It was brought to my attention that Witkowski here has been taking credit for your hard work and brilliant ideas, Ernie—may I call you Ernie?”
Witkowski’s face crumpled like a baby’s. Ernie nodded, too stunned to speak. Bardwell handed him an envelope.
“Here’s my letter spelling out the terms of Bardwell Foods’ offer to you. But I was sure that you, with your devotion to the company, would accept the position. So I’ve taken the liberty of having your things moved into the corner office over there.”
Ernie made a conscious effort to close his gaping jaw. Faces began peering out of cubicles. Bardwell turned on Witkowski.
“Now get out of here, you damned idiot, before I call security.”
“Please don’t fire me,” blubbered Witkowski. “Ernie—Mr. Davis—I’m really sorry. Let me have your old job. I’ll make it up to you, I swear...”
“Well, Ernie, what do you say? Your first executive decision...Do you keep Witkowski on, or do you fire him?” Bardwell gazed intently at Ernie. This is happening...This is really happening to me, Ernie thought. “Security!” he barked.
In an instant, two security guards were dragging Witkowski down the hall.
“Pleeeease, Ernieeee...” The voice echoed and faded as the guards took him away.
“Let me show you to your new office, Ernie. We’ll discuss some of your brilliant ideas.”
“Yes, sir—I mean, Walt.”
He settled back into the buttery soft leather chair. His head was still spinning as he stared at the letter. Walter Bardwell—oops, it was Walt now—had tripled his salary and given him a company car. An Acura, no less. Leather and a sunroof.
Jesus, now I can move out of that crummy shithole apartment. Take a real vacation. Start building a portfolio.
How the fuck did this happen?
The words he’d written a couple of weeks ago rose in his memory. His hopes and dreams that he’d sent to the Reverend Swann. I want a promotion. I want a decent raise. I want to see my boss get his ass fired.
“Holy shit,” he said to himself.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” came a feminine voice. Beth Arnold, Witkowski’s secretary, came into his office.
Wait, no, she’s my secretary now—not to mention the woman of my dreams.
She closed the door and smiled at him. She was a beauty, with red hair and blue eyes and fine pale skin just the way he liked it.
She’s never smiled at me before. She’s never even acknowledged my existence before. Now, here she is. Smiling. At me. And all I can do is stare at her like a moron.
Her smile widened.
“I hear you’re my boss now, Mr. Davis.” She came around the desk and stood behind him. He could smell her perfume, warm and musky.
“Call me Ernest. Please.” His voice was thick.