Luke jogs up the subway steps and catches a glimpse of his reflection in a store window. His suit is freshly cleaned and pressed, his shoes polished, his shirt crisp despite the summer heat. The dimple in his necktie required three attempts to get the symmetry just right, but it was worth it. He thinks to himself that he looks and feels quite well for a man who doesn’t have long to live. The job interview is set for one o’clock, but he is kept waiting for twenty minutes until Shelly, the director of human resources, is able to see him. His suit seems to be as much a candidate for employment as he is, for he sees, at times, her glancing at the smooth roll of his lapels, his rectilinear white pocket square, the way his trousers drape when he crosses his legs, and the sliver of white sleeve that contrasts with his Glen plaid jacket, all intended effects that follow the law of angles. Shelly seems both puzzled and impressed. Puzzled in that she does not quite understand the sartorial fine points that have created the force of the suit’s gravitas, its crafted geometry, its arresting statement of order, its monochromatic subtlety. She will never be able to see that we are all on our way to becoming someone else and his suit is his vehicle, a discrete entity, a bulwark against chaos, a whole and not an array of disconnected accessories. She rudely answers the phone in the middle of their conversation as if he is not even in the room. Zaftig and curvy, her confident body language makes it clear that she finds her girth empowering, a useful substance over her trim and lithesome colleagues. Her black dress with white polka dots has a plunging neckline that shows off her plump breasts and an alabaster neck around which she wears a black beaded necklace with a gemstone pendant. She fixes her elbow on her desk so that her arm stands straight up like a phallus, showing off her sizeable wedding ring and gold wedding band encrusted with diamonds. She rotates the rings with her thumb, a habitual gesture that has an element of preening about it. Luke listens to her conversation because it is impossible not to listen. “Tampons! Exactly!” She giggles and glances at him as if suddenly remembering that he is present but present in some deeply insignificant way. It is a bright summer afternoon, the view panoramic from the fifty-first floor of this Midtown office building. The window blinds divide the abundant sunshine into shards as sharp as glass and they seem to cut rather than lightly shine on her. He has no plans for the afternoon, nowhere to go, no one to see, just back to the streets, back to the shelter. The job has no practical interest to him because he is not here for a job. He is here for another reason, the best opportunity he’s had since his breakdown, since the murder of his wife and the disappearance of his seven-year-old son, a first step toward finding the truth, the truth that is being kept hidden from him. White clouds scud across an arresting azure sky. They are soft and vaporous as if they have emanated from a genie’s lamp. Luke is comfortably seated in the plush chair across from Shelly’s desk, rolling his MetroCard over his fingers like a card 2 richard torregrossa shark. He does this carefully because he has sharpened one edge of the MetroCard with a razor blade. Shelly finally concludes her phone call and offers a halfhearted apology that is really no apology at all. “Oh, I’m sorry. Now, where were we?” “We were nowhere,” he says and gets up to leave. “That was discourteous and unprofessional, behavior that reflects badly on the company as well as on you. We are concluding this interview.” Flustered, her mouth falls open and forms a vacuous moue. Her lips are full and her red lipstick is as thick as cake icing. She is taken aback by his insolence, his flouting of her authority, until she sees the cold look in his eyes, the stalwart stance of the man in the smart suit before her. Clearly, she senses the imminence of danger, of something awful happening if she makes the wrong move. Her composure vanishes, her confident demeanor turns to nervousness and fear. No longer does she feel protected by her girth, her diamond ring, and the job title that makes candidates fawn and grovel before her. She puts her hand on the phone as if on the handle of a weapon. Her expression makes her thoughts easily readable. He might be loony, the kind who would do her harm. She must call security. “I’m sorry,” she says again, starting to pick up the phone. But it is too late. He slashes her neck with the sharpened edge of the Metro- Card. The gesture is so quick and surgical that it makes a perfect incision—so perfect that it seems not to cause pain nor even draw blood at first, just surprise, but when the blood rises to the surface, it comes fast and fluidly. She presses her hand to her neck, but the blood oozes through the interstices of her fingers. Droplets fall onto his résumé. terminal life 3 The blood is deceptively profuse, but she will be okay, for the compression of her hand on the incision will stave off the flow. But the look on her face is one of shock and fear and surprise and confusion and that was his intent. That was his assignment. Mission accomplished. WANT TO KEEP READING???? TERMINAL LIFE by Richard Torregrossa oceanviewpub/terminal-life
Posted on: Sat, 03 Jan 2015 22:08:53 +0000
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