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Title: Twelve Days to Kill,
Chapter 1 Jon Quits
Words: 1400
Draft/Editing: 4th Draft
Author: Steven Digre
Copyright: July 2004
Abstract:
Chapter one from my
unpublished fiction novel "Twelve Days to Kill." This chapter
highlights our character's ultimate frustration and resulting
super-ultimate life change.
Twelve Days to Kill,
Chapter 01
DAY 1 – OCTOBER 17
Jon closed the email, stood, and slammed his chair against the desk.
The desktop rocked from the blow and sent his pencil cup on end. Jon
spun and stormed out of the office slamming the door behind him. His
subordinates jumped in their cubicle seats as all eyes turned and
watched as he crossed the room. Jon didn’t notice, nor did he care,
his eyes were focused on the door at the end of the hall. His
clenched fists brushed against the material of his blue suit. Jon
wanted to run.
Doris, an attractive forty-year old brunette, rose from her desk and
leaned towards the phone and said, “Jon don’t go in there like
this.”
“Leave them out of this Doris,” Jon said pointing at the phone now
cradled on her shoulder.
“Jon wait,” Doris said, hesitated, then returned the phone to its
cradle.
“Two-years Doris, two years,” Jon said raising the back of his hand
to her, his teeth clenched, his eyes focused on the imitation-gold
nameplate in front of him. The door handle slid in his sweaty palms
as he kicked the door fluttering open. The door warbled causing him
to lose his step. Jon stumbled in.
“You’re giving the promotion to Jacobs?” Jon screamed at the sight
of Anderson’s thin face floating like a balloon over his red tie.
Rage and fury turned Jon’s stomach as the blood in his veins came to
a boil.
Anderson rushed to his feet, kicking his leather chair out behind
him.
“I’ve busted my ass for two years,” Jon yelled as took a step
towards his prey.
Anderson held his palms out towards Jon and said, “Let’s talk about
this.”
Jon stopped. Stared at his quarry. A vein pulsed in his neck feeling
like it was ready to burst. A moment of contemplation, and then…
Anderson motioned for Jon to take a seat.
“That’s my promotion!” Jon yelled as he kicked the chair in front of
him.
“What I told you last year,” Anderson said as he took a step
sideways, appearing as though he was ready to run, then glanced down
at the desk, his phone, his hand moved towards it. Jon took a quick
step around the corner of the desk. Anderson withdrew his hand and
stepped backwards.
“I
told Doris to stay out of this,” Jon said as he stepped forward and
leaned his weight against the desk, Anderson took a step backwards,
back towards the floor to ceiling windows. His body squared with
Jon’s.
“Why?” Jon howled.
Anderson drew a deep shuttered breath; “Your head seems to be,”
Anderson paused for a few beats then muttered, “in the clouds.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Jon said as he glanced over
Andersons shoulder at the Chicago skyline. “I’ve done everything
you’ve asked of me,” he said as he pushed the black-metal chair and
took a small step around the desk.
“I
re-wrote reports for you, I’ve been to endless-sales dinners, and
now you’re giving the promotion to that jerk… that I trained!” Jon
said feeling his neck pound.
“There’s more to it,” Anderson said stepping back, positioning the
last corner of the desk between the two of them. “You’ve been
difficult,” Anderson said as looked back at his phone, then to his
closed-office door. “There have been complaints.”
“How long have you known?” Jon said not believing a word.
Anderson looked down at his desk, his eyes darted left then right.
“You’ve led me on,” Jon said after seeing Anderson’s reaction. “If
you weren’t going to give me the promotion, why’d you send me to
that training seminar?” Jon’s volume increased with every word.
Awarding Jacob’s with the promotion didn’t make sense.
The light in the office shifted from a bright glow to the dull haze
of a fall afternoon as Jon stared, piercing Anderson’s flesh. Jon
took a final step around the desk, and felt one hundred feet tall
over Anderson’s cowering frame.
“I
planned on promoting you Jon, but your work has suffered,” Anderson
said straightening his posture. “Sometimes life doesn’t work out the
way we want. It’s how you deal with it that makes you—“
“A
better man,” Jon spat. “Don’t tell me about being a better man. You
live your life in this office, your children don’t even know your
face.”
The Chicago skyline darkened a shade as Jon imagined Anderson’s body
crashing through the office window and falling twenty-stories to the
concrete below.
“Look Jon,” Anderson said sounding strong, his posture strengthened
as he took an unexpected step towards Jon. “I am willing to look at
options here. I’ll give you a chance to get your focus back on work
and maybe next year---“
“Next year?” Jon yelled taking a step forward. “It’s been two years
already.”
Jon caught his reflection in the window, a distorted figure that he
wanted to see attacking Anderson. “You son of a bitch.”
#
The air was thick in Jon’s apartment. The place seemed foreign to
him. It didn’t feel like the place he had called home for the last
four years. The company-furnished apartment was as vile as
Anderson’s words.
“Anderson was wrong,” Jon said out loud, knowing his words were
true, but feeling little relief from the weight of regret that was
pooling inside of him. Remorse was winning this internal battle. The
shame and embarrassment over his explosion sent his mind reeling.
Anderson lied to me, he said again.
How did it get so complicated? Life was so simple ten years ago.
There weren’t promotions to worry about. Asshole bosses didn’t
exist. The small-town life was easy, even simple. But no, he had to
come to Chicago; the draw of the bright lights, the career
opportunities, the big city. This reality, so far from what he had
imagined. Anderson lied.
Jon felt his body begin to tremble. His mind raced over the
afternoon and his eyes slammed shut when he realized just how close
he came to sending Anderson twenty flights below. Dear god,
he thought, knowing himself too well.
Jon laid his head back onto the couch, wrapped his arms around his
chest, then rolled onto his side, slowly closed his eyes, and then,
closed his mind.
#
Jon opened
his eyes and blinked. His apartment came back into focus. Reality
too, came back into focus. His peaceful slumber pierced by reality.
The setting
sun caught the exposed-red-brick wall. It glowed red for a moment,
then shifted to orange. The brilliance of the bricks lifted his
spirits, but soon faded as the sun disappeared behind a skyscraper.
The bricks turned gray.
The sun finished setting.
The brick went black.
His mind began reeling over his failure to win the promotion.
Anderson’s behavior disgusted him – he had been betrayed. There was
no way he was going to slog through another year of pointless
meetings and machinery sales, hoping to ‘get it next year’ as the
moron Anderson had offered. What an insult.
Still, even worse, was Jon’s behavior; the humiliation of his
outburst in front of the entire office shamed him. There was no way
he could go back and face them anyways. He knew, deep inside, that
quitting today was a necessity. His explosion of rage, especially
for a manager, was inexcusable - that he couldn’t defend - but the
end result of quitting was justified.
Anderson never recognized his talents. He had been leading him on
for over four years. The promotion was never his. Someone else they
will recognize his skills and hard work, and he will be rewarded
appropriately. Besides, why would he want to spend the rest of his
life as the manager of machinery sales? What good does machinery
sales do anyone? Talk about pointless work.
Jon knew it was time for change, both personal and professional. It
was time to control his emotions, time to pursue a meaningful career
and give something back to the world. It sounded right as he said
the words aloud. Whether by desire or penance, it was time. The
couch-meditation felt right in the pit of his stomach. He always
trusted his gut.
The phone rang, as if on cue, pausing his life affirmation at its
peak.
“Nine-o’clock, see you then,” Jon said and hung up the phone.
He
could use a drink, maybe a few.
Copyright Steve Digre.
Contact:
E-mail:
Steve: steve@stevedigre.com
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