Quiet Desperation

    Eureka.

    He thought it without enthusiasm, but his hands were trembling anyway. He knew. He closed his eyes tightly momentarily and let out a deep, slow breath. He knew.

    He turned his car slowly into the same parking lot he'd been pulling into for the last ten years. He nosed the car carefully into the space with his name on a non-descript sign. MARTIN ELIAS.

    That was it.

    No title. No description. No here parks the man that has made us millions. No here is the man that has never called in sick. No here is the man that has trained every person above him. No here is the stepping stone to the top. No love. No thanks.

    He stepped out of the car, locked it, and walked to the front of it. He casually put his hand atop the sign and patted it gently. A slight smirk crossed his face as he stepped to the sidewalk and headed towards the front door.

    The building itself was one that boring non-descript mixture of concrete and glass that inhabited countless business parks across America. Six stories tall, it was layer built with four feet of concrete topped with six feet of glass topped with four feet of concrete topped with six feet of glass repeated until you reached the top. As with all such buildings its only distinction was a glass half-round portico that protected the front door from the elements.

    Elias walked with a bit more purpose to his step than he had felt in a while. Having parked a quarter-mile away, he took notice and grim satisfaction in the newness and expense of the gleaming autos that were parked in their assigned positions as he got closer to the entrance.

    A square block of polished marble jutted proudly above a well-tended bed of purple flowers. Elias didn't know what kind of flowers they were, he just knew they were purple and set off the red lettering on the obelisk perfectly. J R SMITH ACCOUNTING with WORLDWIDE HEADQUARTERS perfectly centered underneath. Old man Smith had been dead for ten years and never got to see this sign or this building. Elias wasn't sure if he would have been happy or sad to see his name in front of something so boring. But, he had always said that accounting was only as exciting as you made it. Well, Elias had determined that he was going to make it exciting today.

    He pushed his way through the self-important glass revolving door, grabbed the right-side handle of the double door two steps farther on and stepped into the foyer of Smith Accounting for the next to last time.

    "Good morning, Mr. Elias," the bright-eyed receptionist sweetly threw out. Her name was Marcie, or Mary, or Marie, or something like that. He smiled and nodded and headed toward the elevator to the right of her half-round welcoming post. The smile faded as he pushed the up button---just like he had done two thousand four hundred and thirty-seven times before. The annoying bell rang at the car's arrival.

    Grim-faced, he stepped inside and pushed the polished brass button marked six.




    Exactly ten miles away---in fact, only two neighborhoods down the street from where Martin Elias had left that morning---John Hill stepped tiredly out of his truck. A slightly scarred and dusty Ford F250, plain black lettering boldly but simply stated "Hill Frame and Trim". His telephone number was underneath. The last two digits were formed with electical tape because the paint had been scraped off by some idiot in a dump truck a couple of months ago.

    The owner of the dump had promised him that he would take care of it. Like usual in this business, he hadn't seen a penny yet. He looked at the taped three and four and closed the door with a sigh. He walked around the front of the truck and stepped onto the sidewalk.

    Some seriously weather-beaten and mud-encrusted four by eight sheets of plywood made an unappealing walkway leading to a well-used trailer plopped in this corner lot. It looked out of place next to the cul-de-sac brimming with freshly painted new houses. The only similarity was the cleanliness of the dirt that surrounded it. A lone pole stood silently to the left of the trailer with one bundle of braided wire leading from its top and drooping sadly to the ten feet to the trailer. It looked lonely standing there. John felt the same way.

    He shook his head slightly and stepped onto the plywood. Seven steps later his foot landed on the battered mat at the base of the iron treads that lead up to the trailer's door. John looked and noticed that it actually said WELCOME. The only problem was that the 'm' and 'e' were missing. The outline was there, but no me. He half-smiled at the thought. Everything was there but me. He'd felt that way for years.

    He reached, grabbed the knob, turned it, and stepped up on the first grate. He heard the deep growl of the man he sought. Great. He's on the phone. He opened the door and stepped up into the the unkown even though he had been in this trailer a thousand times in a hundred different neighborhoods. Same trailer to oversee so many different houses. He shook his head and gritted his teeth a bit. He was walking into something he had never faced before. Uncertainty.