The Promotion (A Short Story) Read online



  The Promotion

  Gabriel Beyers

  Copyright © 2014 by Gabriel Beyers.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

  I’ve heard it said that if you can do a job for joy, then you can do it forever. I believe this is true. I love my job. It’s not the money. In fact, I don’t receive a dime for my efforts. It’s not the excitement, because to be honest, the first years were banal and boring. It is a public service, but I’m not all that concerned with that, either.

  I love my job because it appeals to my nature. It’s what I was made to do. Some would call that slavery, but those people are idiots, bouncing from one cause to another without any real pleasure in life, other than making those around them miserable. Even if I didn’t have to, I would still do my job. As I said, I love it.

  Today I am in this out-of-the-way town that someday will grow into a small city. They have several fast food restaurants, a Wal-Mart, even a Starbucks. Despite all that, it’s a quaint little town.

  I skip the Starbucks and sit at a table outside of a pastry shop. A young waitress comes out and takes my order, offering me any number of fatty treats, but I restrain and stick with just coffee. I offer her my most charming smile. She bats her eyes at me, a bit stunned for a moment then teeters off to get my drink. She is by no means overweight, but I can see that she someday will be, unless she can fend off the treats she is trying to peddle.

  I find myself a bit attracted to her. She has crisp green eyes and soft hair that smells of mango and lilac. I reach into my shoulder bag hanging from the back of my chair, pull out my notebook, flip to the page I have marked as RANDOM WORK and jot her name down under a list of several others.

  I’m not allowed to do any Random Work, though. That’s for Level 3 and above. I’m only a Level 2 and must perform the jobs assigned to me. This is why I am sitting at a small metal table (painted black to hide the rust) at a mom-n-pop pastry shop in a derelict town few have ever heard of.

  I look over and nod to the man sitting at the table to my left. He is a heavyset man, bald with a bad comb-over. He is dressed in an ill-fitting suit with scuffed shoes that are the wrong style. His skin is pocked from a bad case of acne during his teen years, but his eyes are kind and his smile is contagious. His name is Lester Freedmont and he is the one I am here for.

  I don’t know what it is about Lester that requires my services, but that’s not for me to know anyhow. I don’t ask questions. I just do my job and do it well. I’ve been racking up some good numbers.

  “Nice weather we’re having,” Lester says.

  “Sure is,” I reply. “Couldn’t ask for a better day.”

  I turn my face up to the warm sunlight washing down out of the blue and drink it up as if it were ambrosia.

  The green eyed waitress brings me my coffee then refills Lester’s cup. He takes a sip, makes a happy little sigh then returns to reading his paper. All is right in Lester’s world.

  I sit with my legs crossed, drinking my coffee, biding my time, waiting to make my move. The wind gusts, knocking the sports section of Lester’s paper to the ground. He bends down to retrieve it and I see my opening.

  I already have the poison palmed in my left hand. Though my superiors are strict in many ways, they do allow us a certain degree of creativity in our work. I have been watching Lester for a week. Every day he stops in for coffee and to read the paper. I considered making it look like an accident. Perhaps Lester could slip on the curb and fall in front of the city transit. But he’s a large man and, to be honest, I just don’t feel like pushing him. So I settled on natural causes.

  With practiced speed I flick my hand out and drop the poison into Lester’s coffee. It fizzles for the briefest of moments, but settles before he notices.

  I am back in my seat, looking up at a squirrel skipping about the branches of a nearby tree. No one has seen what I’ve done. Not the waitress. Not the other customers. Not Lester. I have years of practice and I’m lightning fast. I told you, I was born for this work.

  I’m waiting for Lester to drink his coffee so that I can collect what I have come for and be on my way, when the door to the pastry shop opens with a jingle of bells. A man, his wife and their toddler son step outside, squinting at the golden sunlight, and in a moment of awe I forget all about why I am here.

  I won’t lie to you and tell you this family was angelic in beauty or of some celebrity fame. That’s not what catches my eye. They are an attractive group, but by that I mean they look so good together. The man and woman are husband and wife. The toddler is their two year old son. What draws my attention is their happiness. It radiates from them as if they are the sun itself, driving all shadows to the corners of the world. I know right then that I must have them. They are my Random Work. The one that will show my bosses I’m ready for that promotion.

  As they pass by I force my excitement into submission. Though I try not to, I gawk after them like some star-struck fan. They don’t notice me. No one ever does. That is another reason I’m so good at my job. Nobody ever sees me, unless I want them to.

  As they leave the pastry shop’s outdoor courtyard, I stand up and start to follow them. I make it to the little wrought-iron gate, my purpose here lost to the internal chattering of my mind, when a sudden calamity erupts behind me.

  The green-eyed waitress is shouting. Customers sitting in the courtyard begin to part, while the customers inside press their lack-witted faces against the glass. And in the middle of all the commotion, Lester Freedmont sits slouched in his chair, his head flopped back, eyes rolled to the whites, frothing at the mouth like an over-soaped washing machine.

  Sweat breaks on my brow and I’m thankful none of my superiors are here to see my lapse of professionalism.

  Lester falls from his chair and writhes on the ground. The pastry shop’s manager, a wire-thin woman with a shock of short gray hair, pushes through the repulsed crowd and kneels next to him. The manager does her best to settle Lester, but the poison I slipped him is making his insides feel as if they are on fire. He bucks like a wild bull and sends the tiny manager flying.

  “Help me hold him down,” the manager says.

  The crowd exchange nervous glances, daring one another to step up to the task. Two young men and a teenage girl break from the flock and latch onto Lester’s flailing limbs. With Lester secured to the ground, the manager climbs upon his flabby belly, like a trainer mounting an orca, scoops the foamy vomit from his mouth and begins CPR.

  The tiny family senses the trouble at the pastry shop, but despite the desire to feed their curiosity, the parents turn the corner in order to shield their young one from the panicked scene.

  I clench my teeth, my lip to curls back in a silent snarl. Of course it would be today that I meet the small family, while I’m collecting my prize. I’ve spent a week mulling around this town, and in five minutes I’ll be finished with my work.

  Sometimes I think the Fates laugh at me.

  I step back into the courtyard, a bit afraid that I won’t be able to track the tiny family down. It’s not unheard of. I’m an incredible huntsman, but on occasion higher powers intervene and muck up my plans. If they are out of my sight, anything could happen to them.

  I step up to Lester and kneel down near his head. His darting eyes lock onto mine, and they fill with dreadful understanding of my true ide
ntity. He looks at the others looming over him, but they misread the frightened look on his face. Everyone, the manager, those holding Lester down, even the crowd, do not see me. They only have eyes for Lester.

  I reach down as if to pat Lester on the shoulder and with practiced stealth slip my hand into his jacket. I feel around for a second, find what I’m looking for and pull it free.

  Lester has fought a good fight, but my poison is just too potent. He arches his back, knocks the manager off of his chest, and with a garbled groan expels his final breath.

  The two men and young woman that pinned Lester down fall away like the petals of a dead flower. The crowd is silent. The wind rustles the leaves in the trees, a dog barks from the window of a passing car, and somewhere in the distance an ambulance sings of its approach.

  I stand up clutching my prize, snatch my shoulder bag from my chair and leave the courtyard unmolested. No one has seen what I’ve taken. No one notices me leave. No one ever does.

  I move down the sidewalk, whistling an old tune from long ago. The ambulance roars past me and skids to a stop in front of the pastry shop. I pause for a moment and look back at the EMTs trying to revive poor Lester Freedmont. They won’t succeed. Neither will they trace the true cause of his death. My