Tilting at Windmills (5 page)

“Oh,” he replied, suddenly uncertain. “Look, Brian, I’m not sure where all this ‘more to life’ stuff is coming from, but if you’re not ready to return to work, I’ll give you a couple more weeks. Get the rest you need, and then come back. Maybe six weeks wasn’t long enough for you to recover and it’s the sickness that’s hampering your decision process. What do you say? We need you, Brian, more than ever since landing Voltaire. It’s going to be high pressure launching this new drug and we need the best creative mind in the business. And that mind happens to be yours. Hell, it’s how we landed the account in the first place, all your great ideas. So come on, take two weeks—go somewhere and lay in the sun—and then come back refreshed and ready to work. Hell, I’ll even spring for the airfare. You can’t pass that up, can you? Consider it a bonus for helping us land Voltaire.”

“That’s a generous offer, and anyone would jump at the chance. You’re being very accommodating, Justin, like you have been during these past six weeks. But I just can’t accept. I realize this is unexpected, but I’ve already made my plans and they don’t include the Beckford Group—pardon, the Beckford Warfield Group.”

I didn’t mean for it to sound snotty, but that’s how it came out, and suddenly Justin’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared in anger. “Aha. Pieces are falling into place.” He stood up, placing his hands on my desk and leaning in close. “Listen, Duncan, I’ve got no room at this agency for petty jealousy. So your girlfriend just got a major promotion. So what? Are you afraid of Maddie’s success? Jealous that she beat you to the top? Pissed off that I didn’t give the job to you because you’ve worked here longer?”

“No, no, Justin. You’ve got it wrong; that’s not it at all. Maddie has nothing to do with my leaving . . . well, her promotion doesn’t have anything to do . . .” I stopped, realizing it was futile. This was why I wanted to talk with him earlier, but how was I to know the morning would unfold with such drama? Clearly Justin thought my decision to quit was related to this morning’s shakeup, that I was leaving out of jealousy and anger and some petty, childish revenge motive. Which I wasn’t. I was quitting because the boss had screwed my girlfriend and I didn’t feel like dealing with it. Wasn’t it easier to just remove yourself from the situation?

“Well, Duncan? I’m right.”

I shook my head. “No, Justin, you’re not. Except you’re going to think what you think and there’s nothing I can do to change that.”

“You know, Duncan, I’m disappointed in you. When you first came to work for this company, you brought a sense of freshness, determination, the idea that nothing would stop you, nothing would bring you down. Now look at you, quitting because you got passed over for a job you weren’t ready for, maybe wouldn’t ever be. Some people are born to play the corporate game, driven people like myself and Maddie. Then there are those who are afraid to roll the dice. They fail. You, Brian—you failed.”

Any number of replies came to me, none of them suitable. I just remained quiet and let Justin head for the door. He opened it, then turned back for one last moment of melodrama. “Don’t think you’re getting off easy, Brian. After your living off my goodwill for the past six weeks, I’m expecting two weeks’ notice.”

“Expect what you want, Justin. Just don’t actually count on my being here.”

“Get the hell out of this office.”

Maybe his words were meant to hurt me or intimidate me. Instead, I smiled, a great big shit-eating grin that pissed him off even more. He stormed away, and I began the process of packing my personal items.

For the moment, I felt great personal satisfaction. Forgetting, of course, that I’d just thrown away everything I’d worked for. My job, my security, the woman I’d once loved.

But what I had in return had no price tag. I had my self-respect, and if that’s not something to build a new life on, I don’t know what is.

O
f course, escaping the confines of the Beckford Warfield Group with my newfound self-esteem intact was quite another matter. First I had to get to the elevators, and that entailed sneaking past Maddie’s office. And really, can you still call it self-esteem if you’re using the word
sneaking?

Not ten minutes had elapsed since Justin had stormed out of my office, and I’d managed to gather up my few belongings. I began to make my escape to freedom. Hopefully the word wasn’t yet out and people would not stop me to express whatever they felt. As I walked down the corridor, past cubicles and busy workers, no one looked up, no one bothered.

As I approached Maddie’s office, my feet kept walking, but my eyes couldn’t avoid a peek inside. My mind filled with all sorts of excuses about what I was doing and why I was leaving. My tongue, though, felt thick and unable to form words, and that was just as well, since Maddie’s office was empty. I’d been holding my breath, and I let it out in a rush of air.

Seconds later, I reached the bank of elevators and pressed the DOWN button. While I waited for the indicator button to light up and ping, I heard instead the click of heels against the marble floor. Distinctive, deliberate heels. Maddie’s heels. Coming my way.

Staring at her reflection in the glass of the elevator door, I waited for what she had to say. She didn’t look particularly pleased.

“Weren’t you even going to congratulate me?”

T
HREE

P
erhaps I was foolish to think I could escape confrontation for a second time. Standing before the bank of elevators with a box of my personal belongings—the box itself a beacon of retreat—I couldn’t delay this face-to-face with Madison Laurette Chasen. Well, nearly face-to-face, since I’d yet to turn around and face the obvious hurt that was in her voice. Already she had assumed the role of victim—a role I’d already claimed.

So I turned around, my shoes making a screeching noise against the hard floor. No one took notice. Everyone nearby had cleared the area, and if I were smart, I’d have done likewise. Maddie wore a stern expression on her otherwise lovely face and her arms were crossed; she was defensive and angry. She stood four feet from me. We were like two opponents ready for battle. A referee would have been a nice buffer—a down elevator even nicer.

“Well?” she asked me. I still hadn’t responded to her question, and wasn’t sure if I was going to.

Finally, in my best monotone, I said, “Congratulations.”

“Can you say it and mean it?”

I seriously considered her question before answering with a definitive “no.”

“So Justin’s right—you’re leaving because you’re jealous. Christ.” She let out a short, unattractive snort, accompanied by a flick of her lustrous golden hair. Aggression and beauty, wrapped in one conflicted package. “Were you even planning on telling me, the woman you’re supposed to love? Or were you waiting for Justin to distribute an ‘all concerned’ memo? God, Brian, I can’t believe that after everything we’ve been through, you’d pull a stunt like this.”

“A stunt? It’s anything but a stunt. And anyway, this isn’t really the place to get into this, okay? As for Justin, he’ll believe what he wants; he always does. What surprises me is the nearly biblical effect his words have on you. He says it, you believe it, like it’s some fucking eleventh commandment. Honor your boss. In some circles, they call them yes-men. Or yes-women.”

Her nostrils flared at the suggestion that she was incapable of making up her own mind. She fired back with equally stinging words. “Better than being a quitter. Jesus, Brian, we used to be a team.”

Just then, the elevator arrived and the doors opened. I made a move toward them. The box was getting heavier.

“Can we talk later?” Maddie asked.

I hesitated, reminding myself to be strong, to just get into the elevator and let the doors close on her. But I held the doors—glad no one else was inside the car—and stole a last glance at her, this amazingly beautiful creature who had shared my life for so long. Now, I saw a picture to admire but nothing beneath. “Later? That’s not a good idea, Maddie. It’s better here, better now.”

And I stepped into the empty elevator.

“Brian?”

The way she said my name, her soft voice suddenly shaky and betraying her lost Southern roots, made my knees waver. I knew this approach, usually so sultry and successful with me. Slowly I closed my eyes in an effort to resist Maddie’s persuasive powers. Her next words would dictate my next move.

“Brian, I love you.”

The words sank into the pores of my skin, and briefly my heart swelled, more out of regret for the past, for all we’d shared. Maybe she thought those words would melt my heart, make me reveal the truth behind my actions. I felt words flowing to my tongue, the wrong words, those that would tell all that my eyes had witnessed. I wanted to ask her how she could have slept with Justin, but then, as soon as the image of them came to me, the urge passed. My eyes opened and they were dry. “No,” I said. “No, you don’t.”

Timing is everything, and the elevator doors seemed to know this. They closed and the car fell quickly, as did my heart.

A minute later, back out on the streets of New York, I realized I’d done the unthinkable and was now free and clear of any and all responsibility. The next step in life would be anything I wanted. I grabbed a cab, headed uptown. Traffic was light and we jerked onward. Forward motion—that was good.

A
ll I’d avoided telling Maddie, I revealed instead to John. He deserved to know what I’d done and why and what my plans were, even if they were sketchy in my own mind. So that’s how, later that day, he came to stand in my foyer with an incredulous look on his face, his chin halfway to the floor. I’d called him just over twenty minutes earlier. He’d been at work, halfway across town. And now he was here.

“You did what?” he said as I opened the door and let him in.

“Like I said on the phone, I quit my job.”

“You quit your job.”

“Gee, do you notice an echo here? And I haven’t even moved out of my apartment yet.”

His eyes widened in further shock. “You’re moving out?”

“Away,” I said, correcting him. “Moving away.”

“You’re moving away?”

“What exactly do you call an echo that repeats itself? Isn’t that redundant?” I laughed a bit. “I think you need a drink—and since you finished the beer the other night, we need to go somewhere. I dumped all my booze weeks ago—wasn’t doing me any good.”

“You dumped your booze?” he said, about to explode from too many shocks. He backed up, double-checked the number on my apartment door, and said, “Brian, is that you? Are you in there? Where am I?”

Truth be known, it was the reaction I’d expected. Disbelief. My best friend couldn’t believe what I’d done, but then again, neither could I. However, the deed was done and there was no going back. All of me thinking,
Why should I, anyway?
I was absolutely thrilled, overcome with a sense of freedom that surely defined the concept. After thirteen years of continuous corporate culture, I’d cashed in my personal stock options to pursue God only knew what.

John gathered his wits and entered the apartment. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You marched into Justin’s office and announced you were quitting your job. Just like that, after six weeks of being on sick leave and, well, leaving them to deal with the pressures of this new client, one you were instrumental in getting?”

“Actually, I did it in my office.”

“And then you say, ‘That’s it; I’m outta here.’ No notice?”

I shook my head with nonchalance. “None. Oh, he asked for two weeks, but then things got ugly and he threw me out. Man, John, it was great, like a movie. I walked out, never to return. Even got the little trinkets off my desk.”

Overwhelmed, he dropped to the sofa. “Fuck me.”

I patted his shoulder and said, “Well, it’s probably words to that effect that brought about this whole situation.”

“But . . .”

“Yes?” I asked, an eyebrow arched.

“But . . . whoa, wait a second. This doesn’t compute—no way. You’re Brian Duncan. The most responsible man on the planet. The guy who finds a nickel on the sidewalk and then takes out a classified to track down its owner. The guy who helps little old ladies across the street . . . and waits until a telemarketer finishes the pitch before hanging up . . .”

“Hey, John?”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

He considered this a second, then offered up his usual solution for conundrums. “Come on, Bri, we’re going for a drink. I don’t know about you, but shit, I need one.”

Twenty minutes later, we were settled at the short oak bar of a place called the Gaf, located on East 85th Street, a few blocks from my apartment. We’d gone there often in years past because they had good scotch (which John liked) and good Irish stout (which never failed to thrill me). Today John ordered up his scotch, a double, and I had a cranberry and seltzer and tried to blot out the wonderfully rank smell of stale beer that tempted me toward medical truancy.

We spent a couple hours there, he happily drinking away, the alcohol lessening the shock value of all that I’d done as our conversation took many turns. The first drink calmed him; the second made him curious about what my plans were. Another drink brought about a near-drunken rant of enviousness, and the next prompted a lecture about my out-of-character gumption. To shut him up, I offered up my apartment as a sublet, and he quickly agreed to take it, since he was overdue for new digs anyway; he still played the roommates blues. Finally, the talk wound its way to Maddie, her betrayal, her attitude toward my impulsive action this morning. The fact that she hadn’t owned up to her part in these developments set off a heated debate between us.

“Are you ever gonna tell Maddie you saw her and Justin together?”

“Nope.”

“Shit, Brian, why not? It’s the best part of revenge, you know, the confrontation.”

“I’m not in this for revenge,” I said, trying to come up with the words that would best explain my actions. “Look, John, I’m taking this as an opportunity, and a golden one at that. For me and Maddie, it was either get married or end it, and I thought marriage wouldn’t be so bad, really. We were certainly talking about it—you know that. Who knows, though, maybe she was having second thoughts. Whatever the reasoning, her decision to sleep with Justin was a conscious one, something she wanted to do. So let her get the promotion and let her get on with her life. And in the meantime, let me get on with mine.”