The Pursuit of Other Interests: A Novel (4 page)

It wasn’t until he reached his desk that he noticed his chair was gone.
His
chair. The one he sat in twelve, thirteen, fourteen hours a day. It was leather, swiveled, and was ergonomically designed by Swedish engineers to ensure maximum lower back comfort. He had discovered the chair in one of those odd little ads in the back of
The New Yorker.
In its place was his gumball machine, or what was left of it. It had been mounted on a clear plastic base, but now it sat detached and alone on the floor, its head, the bubble with the gumballs, decapitated. He picked up the head, anger and sadness sweeping over him, then gently put it back down. It had come to this. It had come to this.

He was allowing himself to slip back into shock when Georgia entered. “You doing okay in here?” she asked. She shut the door and resumed the wringing of her hands.

“They took my chair,” he said. “The Swedish chair. The one I used to sit in. The one from
The New Yorker
.”

“I know, Charlie. You used to love that chair. Made by the same engineers who made the Saturn.”

“Saab. They made the Saab.” Charlie’s voice cracked and he held up a finger. “I’ve been gone one day. One day.”

“Charlie, you can’t stay here. You got to go.”

“Did Marken send you in here?”

“No. Julie did. She knows you’re here. Everyone knows you’re here. What did you say to Patty? She’s coughing and acting crazy. She wants to go to the hospital.”

He leaned against the wall and slipped all the way down to the floor. “I said good morning.” He closed his eyes. A few seconds later, he felt Georgia’s hand on his shoulder, and heard her sniffle.

“Oh, Charlie,” she said. She sniffled some more and he grabbed for her hand. “How you feeling?”

“Like I died.” He opened his eyes and she let go of him.

“You know, maybe this is a blessing,” she said.

“What do you mean, blessing? What do you mean?”

“I mean, this job put a lot of stress on you. You were always sick and rushing off to the doctor and everything. You never used to be this way. Well, you were, but never like this. Maybe you needed to get out of here. Maybe this is for the best.”

“It’s not for the best, trust me, getting fired is never for the best, it’s just not, especially now. Do you know how many people are out there looking?” He sighed. “Did they name a replacement?”

“Not yet. But someone told me that Mr. Marken is going to be named head of the office.”

“Who told you that?”

“Mr. Marken.”

Charlie let this sink in. “He took the Swedish chair, didn’t he? Tell me the truth. It’s important I know.”

Georgia looked very sad. Her bottom lip trembled again and she looked down at the floor.

This piece of news, this final indignity, was a dagger in Charlie’s heart; he no longer had a seat at the table. He was fired. “The Smart Chair,” he whispered.

“I know, I know. I feel so bad for you, Charlie. So bad. I know you and Mr. Marken never got along. And now he’s got your chair. Your special magazine chair.”

“What’s the reaction? What’s everyone saying?”

She paused. “Oh, everyone feels real bad about what happened. Real bad. No one can believe you got fired for, you know, sleeping at your desk.”

“What? How did that get out? How do people know about that?”

“Well, I don’t know,” she said quickly. “I’m not sure.”

“That’s not the reason I got fired. Jesus Christ, Georgia! Come on!”

“I know, I know, that’s what I keep telling everyone. I keep telling everyone you got fired for lots of different reasons, lots of reasons.”

He stared into her eyes, then shook his head again.

She was quiet. “Where do you want me to send your things? Your telescope and your globe and everything? Your gumball machine. Your picture of President Lincoln. You love that picture. Do you want me to drive it out to your home? I can do that. I can do that myself.”

“I don’t care.”

“What about the telescope, then?”

Although he had never once used the telescope, he had a sudden desire to have it. It was white and sleek and stood impressively on a delicate wooden tripod. He had no idea how he had come to own it.

“Where is it?”

“Angelo has it. But I can get it back.”

“Angelo? Jesus, did these people storm my office? Were they holding torches?”

“He just said he wanted to borrow it and look at some things.”

“Send it to my house. Just ship it to me. Ship it out to Wilton. That’s mine.”

“What about the other things?”

“Keep what you want and throw everything else away. Shred it, I don’t care. Shred the globe.”

“What about the cape?” She pointed to the Bagel Man cape.

“What? Oh. Send that too. And the Lincoln picture. Be careful with that, though.”

“What about the drawing of the Cocoa Puffs Bird? The big one? The original Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs poster you bought at that auction? You paid a lot of money for it. You said it was a piece of history.”

“I don’t care about that Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs poster, okay? I don’t know what was on my mind when I bought that thing. I must have been drunk. Just throw it out or give it to charity or…or a museum.”

“Are you sure?”

Charlie sighed. He actually did like the poster. The Cuckoo Bird was colorful and happy, and it had, he remembered, a very expensive frame. “Where is it?”

Georgia pointed over to the door, where the picture sat propped up against the wall.

“I don’t know, maybe.” He sighed yet again. “Have they sent out a press release or something announcing the change yet?”

“They wrote one up,” she whispered.

“What did it say about me? That I resigned? I was fired?”

“They said you resigned to pursue other interests.”

Charlie actually laughed. “They always say that. You would think they could come up with something original. It’s an ad agency. Something a little more creative. No wonder we’re losing clients.”

“I was supposed to send it out yesterday. Mr. Marken asked me to do it. I work for him now. I was supposed to do it yesterday, right after it happened. But I didn’t do it.”

“Why not?”

Georgia shrugged.

“Why not?” he asked again.

“Do you remember that time, during my divorce, how you helped me out? You remember when I was late all the time? I was doing everything just to keep from going underwater. The kids and everything. I missed a lot of work. You remember that?” Then she said, “I do.”

Charlie swallowed. Her loyalty surprised him.

“Thank you, Georgia. But sooner or later, they’re going to want to know why nothing ran.”

“You being gone is your business, no one else’s. Besides, newspapers are big places. Press releases get lost sometimes, sent to the wrong people.”

“The papers, everyone is going to find out sooner or later.”

“They can find out later.” Georgia was quiet again and Charlie thought she might start crying.

“How did all this happen?” he asked. “You work all your life and you end up like this. I didn’t steal anything, I didn’t embezzle, I didn’t screw anyone, I didn’t break any laws. All I did was work hard. You know, that’s all I did. That was my crime.”

“I know, Charlie, I know.” Georgia reached out and helped him to his feet.

“Well, this was a big mistake. My coming here.”

“You going home now?”

“Someplace like that.”

He straightened his jacket while she smoothed the lapels.

“Is there a big crowd out there? A mob? Are they going to hurt me?”

“No. Everyone’s at a birthday party for Aiesha. They’re having cake in the conference room.”

“Cake in the morning. Perfect. All right. I’m out of here, I guess.”

Georgia was in the process of giving him one last hug when Marken and Julie walked in.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Marken asked.

Charlie buttoned his blazer, cleared his throat, and took Marken in. He was wearing a new dark Italian suit that Charlie didn’t recognize, though he did recognize its implication. Meet the new boss.

“Hey, Frank, glad you could stop by,” Charlie said. “Nice suit. I didn’t know Walmart had suits. Hey, I was hoping to ask you how my chair was doing. Enjoying it? Are you here for the light fixtures now? Maybe the air vents?” Charlie opened up his mouth and pointed to his teeth. “How about my fillings, huh? I got a gold crown in here. You can probably yank it out if you want to. Come on, come on, yank, yank. Go on, help yourself.” He opened his mouth again.

Marken snarled before turning to Julie. “Get him out of here.”

Julie looked helplessly at the floor. “Mr. Baker, you really shouldn’t be here,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it, Julie. I’m leaving, I’m leaving. It will be my pleasure to get out of this hellhole. This swamp. This fat farm.”

“Mr. Baker, please,” Julie said.

“He doesn’t care what he says,” Marken said. “He never has. He doesn’t care about anything or anyone but himself.” He took a step closer to Charlie and spoke in a low, even voice. “I’ve been here twenty-five years. I knew Mrs. DiSanto and Mr. Herr. I was here when they started this shop. This used to be a special place. You wrecked it. This is the worst shape we’ve ever been in. Ever. And it’s all your fault.”

“My fault? My fault?” Charlie’s rage surged. He was not going to take this from this man, a man with a comb-over, a man who once suggested they meet at
Denny’s
for lunch. “You know, Frank, this place was a mess when I got here, a mess. And maybe, if I had a different CFO, someone who could add three-digit numbers and not miss our budget by seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars, someone who could occasionally, maybe, possibly, work past five o’clock, maybe things would have been different.”

Marken’s eyes went wide and his face flushed. “Julie, get him out of here!”

Julie looked like she was about to cry. “Mr. Baker, if you don’t leave, I’ll have to call security.”

“Security. Please. Just save the theatrics. I’m leaving. Security. I’m going to go home and celebrate my freedom, my liberation.” It was then that his eye caught the gumball bubble on the floor. He picked it up, tucking it under his arm like a football. He would be
damned
if he would leave it for Marken and the other barbarians to feast on.

He was about make his exit when he caught Marken smirking at Julie. Obviously, he thought the taking of the gumball machine cute. This was the last straw, the final insult. Under no circumstances would he be smirked at by this man. Without thinking, Charlie reared back and threw the bubble at Marken, who, at the last moment, ducked. The bubble shattered against the wall, gumballs spraying everywhere. Both Georgia and Julie screamed and covered their faces with their hands.

Marken remained in a crouched position, his mouth agape, his arms out in front of him. “Look at you now,” Charlie said. “Just look at you now.” He glanced around his office one last time, nodded a farewell to a shocked and shaken Georgia, then quickly walked over to the door, picked up the Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs poster, and briskly left.

The Wilton Public Library was a surprisingly small building located on the edge of town. It had two levels: an adult floor and a children’s floor, which, from what Charlie could see, was filled with broken toys and bulky, outdated computers. Considering what they paid in taxes, Charlie thought the library would be more spacious and modern, have several floors, possibly a coffee shop, or a cyber-café.

Most of the newspapers and publications in the periodicals section were weeks old and all of the librarians had an annoyed and lethargic Department of Motor Vehicles mentality about them. When he asked one of them, a short, stocky woman with uneven bangs, if they had any books on moles, she looked at him blankly and said she was on break.

After taking a quick tour, he found a cubicle tucked away in a corner, far from any window. He knew he was taking a chance on being seen by a neighbor, but he didn’t really know any of his neighbors, so the risk felt minimal.

Once situated, he decided to finally analyze his separation package. It was, as Helmut had said, bare bones: three months’ pay; six months’ use of the outplacement center; health insurance for a year. As the cover note from Helmut explained, the agency was struggling financially and was not prepared to offer “enhanced benefits.” He considered calling Sean, his sometime lawyer, to discuss it, but Sean was Donna’s brother and Charlie wasn’t ready to involve him just yet.

The pay was what concerned him the most. Three months was twelve weeks, which wasn’t long. The money would run out around the holidays. He imagined a Bob Cratchit Christmas: Charlie coming home with a thin and sickly-looking goose; Donna sitting by a weak fire, mending whatever people mend; Kyle standing by the window, leaning on a homemade crutch; all of them wearing baggy, stretched-out sweatpants.

Faced with this looming reality, he decided to table his mole research and review their finances. He called the bank, the brokerage, and the mortgage company on his cell phone, punching in account codes and PIN numbers and listening to automated responses, trying to reacquaint himself with their money. He had no idea of where they stood.

Unfortunately, his research revealed they weren’t doing very well.

Their situation was the result of a combination of poor management and bad luck. But mostly poor management. A few years earlier, Charlie had made an ill-advised and risky investment in real estate, entering into a limited partnership with some business acquaintances from the old agency. The proposed retirement community, El Rancho del Sol, was supposed to be based in a suburb of Houston. For reasons he never totally understood (something to do with the subprime mess), the proposed location was shifted to El Paso and later to Biloxi, Mississippi, before shifting into oblivion. It never got off the ground. While lawsuits were still pending, he wasn’t sanguine about his chances of recovering any of the losses his accountant categorized as “staggering.” In addition, he had lost big in the stock market bust, having bet heavily on financial companies.

As a result, in terms of net worth, the Baker family was at low tide. They had some cash, about $40,000, about $65,000 in mutual funds, and some, but not much, equity in their home. They also had a ton of worthless stock options in the agency.

These assets were no match for their monthly costs: a $5,000 mortgage; $2,000 in property taxes; $2,000 for the Wilton Country Club; $2,000 in car payments. There were other bills too, for things he was only vaguely aware of, like utilities, clothes, food, etc. Up until yesterday, none of this had mattered. Up until yesterday, he’d thought he was rich.

He stood up, did some stress-relieving deep knee bends, then walked quickly to the men’s room to wash his face with hot water. On the way back, he saw the librarian with the bad bangs standing by a Soviet-era photocopy machine. She was trying to hang a poster announcing an upcoming travelogue on Florence, Italy, on a wall. The poster featured a map of Italy so crude it looked like it had been drawn with the left hand of a right-handed person. A tiny smiley face denoted where Florence apparently was located.

“Excuse me,” he whispered, “but do you know where I can get a copy of today’s
New York Times
?”

The woman didn’t look his way. Instead, she continued to adjust the poster, which was nothing more than a large piece of blue construction paper. “Yeah,” she whispered back, “New York.”

Safely back in his cubicle, he considered risking a short walk down the street to Will’s, the local coffee shop, when his cell phone vibrated. He answered tentatively.

“Yes?”

“Are you coming home tonight?” It was Donna.

“Donna?”

“Are you coming home tonight?”

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

“You’re going to make it back? I thought you said you were going to be out of town tonight.”

Charlie paused, confused. “Yeah, I’m in New York. I probably won’t make it back. It’s pretty late. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

There was a pause. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, why, do you have something going on?”

“I just wanted to know. I’m going to bed.”

“Okay, well. I’m at a dinner here. Just finishing up.” They both fell quiet. Charlie closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He considered telling her, end the charade, then decided tomorrow might be better. This was something he would have to do in person. “Maybe we can go out to dinner tomorrow.”

“What?”

“Dinner, just you and me.”

There was a long, painful silence. “I have a dinner at Bright Day tomorrow. The benefit.”

Charlie quickly retreated. “That’s right, never mind.” There was another silence. “Oh, you know, I meant to tell you, you had one of your sleeping spells the other night,” he said. “You were sitting up in bed in a trance. I told you to go back to sleep. You were staring at me. Are you exercising? Remember, the doctor said if you exercised, you could cut down on those episodes.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Donna said.

“Yes, you were.”

“No, I wasn’t. I was watching you.” She hung up.

“Hello?” He stared at the phone, flipped it shut, opened it, then closed it again and sighed.

Donna. Wife of almost thirty years. Miss South Side Irish, 1978. Daughter of a bar owner. Five large, older, football-playing brothers. The love, he remembered, of his life.

Telling her was going to be a problem. A big problem. He couldn’t imagine it, couldn’t conceive of the conversation. She had never wanted him to take this job, never wanted them to leave their old home. She had been comfortable with her life on the South Side. In fact, she had loved it.

They were married on her twentieth birthday, one year after they met. Five years later they bought a small colonial with high ceilings less than a mile from her father’s home, and three blocks from two of her brothers, and for years life was fine. He kept her amused, made her laugh. She kept him grounded, balanced. He shopped on Saturday mornings, mowed the lawn on Sundays, cooked meals. The summer after Kyle was born, he actually built a swing set in the backyard, poring over the instructions like they were the invasion plans for D-day, fitting and pounding the joists together with his own hands. It took him close to a month to construct it and on the day he finished Donna hosted a neighborhood barbecue to celebrate. It remained the only thing he had ever built.

How he had gotten from that point to this point, he wasn’t exactly sure. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. What he was doing, what was going to happen next. It felt like just yesterday he was building that swing set. Just yesterday everything seemed fine. How does a life jump the tracks like that? He needed an explanation.

He was mulling things over when his phone went off again. He quickly answered, hoping it was Donna, but it wasn’t.

“Mr. Baker? Hello? This is Ned Meyers.”

“Who?”

“Ned Meyers. From Rogers & Newman. The outplacement firm. I’m your transition consultant.”

“Who?”

“We met very briefly yesterday. I knocked at your door. In the office. I had the wrong time. I came too early and I apologize for that. That was completely unprofessional. Completely. There’s no excuse for that. None.”

“What? Oh.” Charlie remembered him now. The man in the short-sleeve shirt and tie. “How did you get this number?”

“Your assistant. I meant to come back and meet with you, but I had another appointment. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay. Everything was a bit of a mess.”

Charlie checked his watch and wondered how long the library stayed open.

Ned Meyers cleared his throat. “I know it’s a bit unorthodox, me calling you this late, but I wanted to see how you were doing. How you were carrying on.”

“Carrying on,” Charlie repeated. “I’m fine. Terrific. I am carrying on splendidly.”

Ned Meyers nervously chuckled. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Positive.”

“Well, I heard some reports.”

Charlie sat up and glanced over his shoulder. “What do you mean? Reports about what?”

“Nothing. Only that you seemed a bit…upset.”

Charlie assumed he was referring to his stunt with the gumball bubble. “I don’t know what you heard, but I’m fine.”

There was a pause before Ned Meyers said, “Yes, well, I was wondering if you planned on coming in soon. We should really get together. I’d like to show you our offices, our resources. We’re part of your separation package and I want to make sure you know what is available to help you.”

“I don’t think I’m going to need to come in,” Charlie said. “But thank you.”

“Well, I really think you should.”

“I’m fine. I have my own office at home and I’ll be fine. I won’t be out long.”

Ned Meyers paused again. “I really think you should come by.”

“I’m fine,” Charlie repeated. He flipped the phone shut.

He decided to take a break from the finances, so spent the next hour reading back issues of health magazines. One article—“Are You One Day Away from a Heart Attack?”—had him particularly alarmed. At first he decided he didn’t have any of the symptoms listed, but after a second, more thorough reading, he was pretty sure he had all of them. He beat back an urge to make another appearance in the ER, however, and continued to browse magazines until they turned the lights off. Then, since he had nowhere else to go, he walked down Main Street to Will’s.

It was dark and the street was deserted, so he felt it was safe to move around. Though he really wasn’t hungry, he thought he should eat something. Afterward, he would probably go to a hotel and spend the night, since he apparently was supposed to be out of town. He thought this probably was for the best. Though he would have liked to have been in his own room and in his own bed with his own humidifier, he decided he needed a night to himself to figure things out and determine the best approach to telling Donna.

As he was crossing the street, he realized he might not have much time. For there, sitting by the window at the restaurant, was Donna. He stopped in the middle of the street, then quickly backtracked to the other side. Even from this greater distance, he was sure it was her. She was talking on her cell phone and there was no mistaking her curly mane of hair.

He stood frozen. He had spoken with her not much more than an hour before “from New York” how could he explain his presence? When he decided he couldn’t, he beat a fast retreat to the library parking lot and jumped into the Navigator. He sat there for a full ten minutes considering the situation. He wondered if she had seen him, wondered what she would think he was doing in Wilton when he should have been in New York City. Then he began to wonder what
she
was doing out at this hour when she should have been at home. It was after nine and she had said she was going to bed early. Her presence in the restaurant seemed strange. Suddenly her calling to see when he was coming home seemed even stranger.

He left the Navigator and slowly walked back toward the restaurant for another look. He had some questions of his own.

When he turned the corner, he could immediately see that she was gone. The table by the window was empty. He quickly glanced up and down the quiet street, and then stepped into the shadows of the Wilton Penny Theater to wait for her to emerge from the front doors. When, after a few minutes, she didn’t, he decided to take a chance and strode across the street and pressed his face close to the window, shielding his eyes against the streetlight’s glare. He saw a man washing table-tops, a woman drinking a cup of coffee in a booth, and the cashier counting money at the register. He saw all these people, as well as his own sad reflection, in the low, wide mirror behind the counter, but as hard as he looked, he saw no sign of his wife.