Mahesh Sharma leans back in his leather chair. He tosses my sales report on his desk, sliding through Manila folders, pens, a bottle of Rolaids, and topples the Starbucks I had stupidly placed on the edge of this desk when I sat down. Coffee slowly drips onto the expensive Persian rug.
I stare out the window at tendrils of gray scud building in the West Texas sky. Storm clouds on the way. Bad weather soon.
He stares at me. “Is this something you’re proud of, Grant?”
It’s my first year-end performance review before the CEO. “I…uhhh…”
He interrupts, pulls the report back, runs a finger over my numbers, murmuring to himself. “This isn’t good, Grant. Not good at all.”
A smothering sensation comes over me. An assault on my breathing. Irrational words come out in a whisper. Under my breath. “I worked my ass off, mister.”
Mahesh looks up, frowning. “What?”
I shrug. “Nothing.”
He nods and looks over at the VP of sales, Ingrid, for her reaction.
All of a sudden, I feel it coming on.
Panic Attack. Oh, Christ. Oh shit.
The familiar tingling. The numbness in my fingers. Sharp vision. Acute hearing. Quick, erratic thinking. I’m detached from reality. Looking down on them from above. Seeing Mahesh scolding me. Ingrid, with her long legs slanting perfectly from the low leather sofa, nodding at him while he’s telling me off. They’re smiling at each other, saying something I can’t understand.
Look at her with her black, glossy hair pulled tight like her attitude. She’s throwing you under the bus. Why can’t she just make some attempt to support you for the hard work you’ve done? And also knowing what we did the day she hired you. Oh, she damn well remembers. How we spent the night together in room 310 of the Lazy-J Motel.
I grab my head to squeeze out the anger, making me shake.
“Grant. Hey, Grant. Are you okay?” It’s Mahesh. “What’s the matter. Are you all right?”
I snap out of it. Back to reality, sitting in front of him and Ingrid. She frowns like she doesn’t understand why I’m glaring at her. But she’s not going to fall on her sword for you. Is she?
Take a deep breath, Grant. Calm down. You’re getting fired. That’s all this is. Nothing to lose now.
I stand up and point-blank ask her, “Should we let him in on our little indiscretion, honey?”
Mahesh leaps up nervously. Shoves hands in his pockets. “Thanks for coming in, Grant.”
I leave the office with reality claws dug deep inside my head. Can’t go home, so I drive around wondering how my wife is going to take the news. Sarah isn’t the forgiving kind.
You’re done for, Grant. The new house purchase is set to close on Friday. And what about the new Mercedes? And how will you explain that the Hawaii vacation is off? She married you for what you brought to the relationship. Security. Good income. The good life.
Divorce papers should arrive within a week.
I stop at a neighborhood park and find a bench to think when a big jovial man in tattered clothes comes strolling along. He’s playing haunting, soulful sounds on a little harmonica. Soft and melancholic. He stops at the bench. Sees the desolation in my eyes. Stops playing, tilts back a yellow and green ball cap over gray, greasy hair and sits next to me. “Why the long face?”
The angst I’m suffering longs to tell someone how I feel. Even in this man, slovenly, and no doubt unintelligent, he’ll do.
So, he listens to my grief. Sees the tears and whispers, “Don’t brood over your loss. It’ll only fill you with agony, regret, and self-destruction. We make mistakes, Grant. Learn from them. Acceptance is the tonic of forgiveness.”
“And you know this how?”
“People call me Big Billy, the know-it-all. My heart is all my own. I’m free. And freedom takes courage. All the knowledge I possess, everyone else can acquire.
“That’s profound, Billy.”
“That’s Goethe, Grant.” He gives me this eerie stare. Lethal and scary.
Rain begins to fall. I give him sixty-two bucks. “All I have on me. Gotta go.”
He takes it. “Homelessness ain’t so bad. You’ll like it, Grant.”
“I’d rather be dead.”
“Death ain’t so bad. “You’ll see.”
At 3:10, there’s a crack and flash straight out of the gray clouds overhead. The ground shakes; a tree explodes into flames.
Driving home, I can’t dismiss the strange man’s omen. Death ain’t so bad. You’ll see.
Ten minutes down the road, I pass a bar, The Jackass Saloon. It shares a parking lot with the Lazy-J Motel.
After a clumsy U-turn, I pull into the parking lot and sit tapping on the steering wheel to the rhythm of rain drumming on the roof. Is this where you belong, Grant? No more country clubs or mahogany boardrooms.
I kill the engine.
Just one drink. That’s all. Just one for the courage to face your wife.
The Jackass is larger than it appears from the street. It’s like walking into a low-ceiling cave, dark and cold, smelling stale of cigarettes, beer, with a more than slight aroma of urine. Neon beer signs and sports banners clutter the walls. Everyone’s in jeans, boots and work shirts. Lots of ballcaps and cowboy hats. An old couple embrace cheek-to-cheek gracefully arm-in-arm on the dance floor.
Let’s go, Grant. You don’t belong here.
A ponytailed girl behind a large horseshoe-shaped bar waves me over. “Come on in.” Her smile does it.
I take a stool. She tosses a coaster down. Older than first thought, maybe in her late twenties. She’s boho-chic in tight Jeans, a black scoop-neck tank, and Converse high-tops. Rings on every finger, silver chains with glass trinkets, and wooden wodges dangling down her chest. Neck, shoulders, and arms tagged with inked mythos, satire, and suggestive art. Oh. And also a gun, not quite hidden in the back waistband of her jeans.
She leans over the bar, twisting a ring over a finger. “What’ll it be?”
“I’m not much of a drinker.”
“Rough day at the office?”
“You could say that.”
She studies me with a crooked grin like we’ve met somewhere before. “You’re late.”
“Late for what?”
“Bet you just got fired. Huh.”
“Do I know you? Have we met before?”
“I’ve met lots like you in here.” She pours a whiskey and pushes it over. “Ready to get started?”
“Get started? What do you mean?”
“Finding out who you really are.”
“This have something to do with me finding a new job?”
“You’re just in time for that, Grant.”
“In time for what?”
“Your interview.”
“Interview?”
“Yeah.”
“Interview for what?”
“You’ll see.”
“How do you know my name?”
“You are Grant Sutherland, Right?”
“Yes. But…”
“Okay, get ready. Better to have one or two shots in you before you sit down in front of her.”
“In front of who?”
“It’ll make sense soon enough.” Grinning, she starts pouring. The first. Then another. And another. And another.
Time speeds up with the warmth in my belly and lust growing out of control. The bar is full now. Drinking, wild jeering, dancing. A couple walks in the front door. You must be seeing things. They look like Mahesh and Ingrid.
The bartender girl pulls me away and jabs a thumb over her shoulder at a hallway. “Back there. Door 310. Let’s get going now. Don’t need to be any later than you already are.” She nods and pushes me. “Don’t look back. Just keep walking. You’ll find what you’re looking for.”
“Looking for what?”
“Your job, silly boy.”
The hallway is long. Dim yellow bulbs buzz overhead. Doors line both sides.
Room 310.
310 left.
310 right.
Every door the same.
I stagger down the hall. Whiskey washing through my veins, brave and confident shifting me from numbness to feeling a sense of self-assurance.
Room 310 on the left.
Locked.
Room 310 on the right.
Locked.
Further down—310
Locked. Locked. Locked
The walls begin to breathe, creature-like. In. Out. It smells of cheap disinfectant the further I go. Bar noise from behind is fading. All I hear is a heart beating.
Deeper I go, creeping along, uncertain of myself. No more bravery.
Soon, there’s the distinctive sound of a soft harmonica.
Is it just your imagination, or is this hallway getting longer?
Inching forward in the dark, past more doors until I’m on hands and knees crawling, groping along, ceiling lower, walls leaning in against my shoulders.
An overpowering fear grips me.
You have to turn back.
Hardly any room to move. I force a glance back. The entrance is gone. Sweat runs into my eyes. Head spinning, more doors. 310, 310, 310.
Harmonica melody closing in.
Behind me, the bar girl calls out, “Hurry. They’re waiting for you!”
“Where’s the exit, girl?”
No answer.
Terror. Panic. I’m trapped. Can’t breathe. “Hey, bar gir! I gotta get out a here?”
Her laughter bounces off the walls, floating from everywhere at once. “My name’s Alley. Like an alley cat hiding in dark places. I’m duplicitous, atrocious, with wild intentions. I live where things go clink in the night.”
“This isn’t funny, girl. God. Get me out of here. Now.”
The harmonica stops. Pure silence.
A wedge of light appears from a door that cracks open Inches in front of me. Door 310. I reach out. It opens. Alley reaches in with cold fingers, clamping around my wrist. “Come on, Grant. How’d you get in there, anyway?” She drags me out of a ventilator shaft. I fall onto my back in a darkened, candle-lit room.
I stagger up to grab her by the throat when my attention is drawn to movement on the floor. I squint. A big man sliding around on top of a woman. They’re swaying to the rhythm of a harmonica playing Rhapsody in Blue. My stomach drops. “Sarah. What….the ?”
The man looks up at me. “Howdy, Grant.” The woman squeals when she sees me.
I’m lost for words as I stand over Sarah. Grimacing, shaking.
She screams, “You quit your fucking job, Grant. That was stupid. Our daughter is off to College. Our house closing is Friday. What am I to do now but this? At least this guy’s got a job.”
Alley stands deadpan, twisting a ring around her finger, waiting for things to heat up. Sarah slumps into a seat at a small round table in the middle of the Jackass dance floor. The place is empty, quiet, and except for a single cone of light from a light bulb hanging over the table, it’s diabolically dark. Harmonica wailing, bending out its bluesy octaves from somewhere.
I glare at Alley. “What is this? Where am I? What’s going on?
“Your job interview, Grant. You want to please Sarah, don’t you? Remember all your expenses piling up? And Brittney, about to go off to college.”
The big man takes a seat next to Sarah while she hunches over, reading something. He leans back, tilts his green and yellow cap back on his head, and folds his arms over his chest. “Tell me why you want this job, Grant?”
I look again at Alley with disgust. “So, this is the job interview you promised?”
Sarah is reading something. I point at it and then to the slovenly big man. “Is that my sales report she’s reading?”
She looks up. This is your death certificate, Grant. You’re dead. You just haven’t come to grips with it yet.”
“No, I’m not dead. Look. This is me, your husband, talking to you. This isn’t death. How can this be death?”
Sarah smiles. You died in that ventilation shaft, Grant. Big Billy apologized to me for your death. Now we’re together. He bought me for sixty-two dollars. Now I’m in love with him.
My jaw drops. Alley leans into me, pawing, cooing.
The harmonica starts again. Big Billly sucking and blowing the tunes with wet, rubbery lips.
Alley gets up. “Enough of this.” She walks up to him. Pulls her gun.
“Oh my God, Alley. No, no, no, don’t. Don’t…”
Big Billy’s eyes bulge as the bullet rips through his head. Another shot. Sarah falls backward out of her chair, dead.
Alley is calm, self-contained, and relaxed. She gives her ring a couple twists, grabs my sobbing head, and cradles me to her chest. “Calm down. How bout another whiskey?”
“Alley, why the fuck….”
“Shut up, Grant.”
“You killed them, Alley. And that was my wife.”
“She was already dead, Grant. What you did with Ingrid, well, that killed her.” She grabs my hand. “Come on.”
In the parking lot, rain has turned to a light drizzle. The evening air is damp and cool. Alley’s strong for her size. She pulls me along to the Mercedes, mumbling, “We got some business to take care of before I drive you home.”
“Look, Alley. Probably not a good idea to take me home. Sarah will get the wrong idea if she sees you.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh my God, Grant. She’s dead. What can’t you understand about that?” She tweaks my nose. “So, don’t worry. I can do whatever I want with you. Your fire hasn’t gone out. We just cleared the smoke. This is Nirvana, Grant. Camelot. Get ready for this. It’s gonna feel so good.” She pushes me into the backseat. She smells like gunpowder and Skittles. A sultry moon appears low in the clearing sky. She’s magnificent, in time with the United Airlines theme song playing close by.
Nothing else matters now, Grant. Eternity is yours with your little barmaid. You don’t need any place to live. Cardboard boxes on the boardwalk will be fine with you and her. Homelessness won’t be so bad.”
Big Billy pokes his head in through the window. A trickle of blood drips from the gash between his eyes. He throws the harmonica at me. “And you believed that shit about Goethe?”
Alley’s sweaty body shakes my senses. My pillow is drenched.
“Dad, wake up. You’re gonna be late for work.”
On the nightstand, the radio clock— 6:45 AM. The traffic girl…expect heavy traffic on I-35 northbound, around the exits near downtown and the UT campus; delays at MLK/15th Street.”…
Weather guy in a good mood…rising pressure system bringing clearing skies, temperatures in the high eighties.
Brittney is shaking me. When did you get home? Look at you. My god. “
The time… “Oh, God. Oh, crap.”Where’s Alley?”
“Mom? She didn’t come home last night.”
Take a breath, Grant. Calm down.
After a mad-rushed shower and shave, the bathroom mirror doesn’t lie. Swollen red eyes, ashen skin, ghost-like. Hands shaking. My tie is a mess. I look bad. So I put on a good face with a pep talk. The face is terrible, the pep talk worse. Whatever you do, Grant, impress your boss. Give him a good rundown on your year. You did good. You’ll get a bonus.
I grab a handful of Tylenol and stumble out to meet Mahesh.
At the Starbucks in the building lobby, I get a tall Americano to wash down the painkillers. On the elevator ride up to floor 31, my headache is almost unbearable.
The only cure for this should be death. I sigh. A curious feeling hits me with my utterance of… death.
Mahesh and Ingrid look surprised when I walk into his office. They quickly separate after a cheek-to-cheek discussion. Mahesh returns to his desk. Ingrid twists the ring on her finger before going back to the low sofa . Both in a wide-eyed, open-mouthed stare like I’m some kind of ghost.
I set the coffee at the edge of his desk top and drop into the chair. Heart rate in a gallop. Head pounding. Nervous. Fidgeting while opening the briefcase. “I have my sales report here. Sorry, I’m late. “Bad traffic. Bad, bad.”
Gasp. My heart skips a beat when the .
It’s empty. Except for…
Mahesh looks confused. Ingrid speechless.
My jaw hangs open. The sales report is already lying on his desk. The briefcase slips from my lap to the floor. Something shiny beside it in the mushy brown stain on the exquisite Persian rug.
A harmonica.