Paul Kohler - The Borrowed Souls, A Novel

Alan fell in to stride with me as we walked back to our offices. Alan’s office was across the hall from mine.

“Why didn’t he just send Gwen?” Alan wondered. “You can’t tell me she was too busy typing memos or something.”

“No, she was swamped, according to Pearlman. Hell, he even had me get her lunch too.”

“Seriously? What did you do to piss that man off? Ever since he got Nelson’s job, he’s made you his personal bitch. Why don’t you stand up for yourself?” Alan asked as we paused outside our office doors.

“I know I should, but I just didn’t feel like getting fired today. Besides, he’s the department head, and he has his nose buried so far up the VP’s ass, he probably knows Snyder’s eating habits personally.”

“You know he’s going to keep doing it until you break.”

“Yeah, I think that’s what he wants. He’s been looking for a reason to get rid of me since day one. You know as well as I do that Pearlman does what Pearlman wants. Isn’t that obvious by the string of hot secretaries he’s had in the short time he’s been here?”

“You really think so?” he asked.

“How many other execs take their secretaries—I mean personal assistants—out to lunch four days a week and then are conveniently busy the rest of the afternoon?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

“But he’s married. I met his wife at the holiday party. They seemed happy together, and she wasn’t terrible to look at herself,” Alan stated.

“No need to tell me, I was there too,” I agreed. “But because you left early, you missed all the action.”

“Dammit! How am I just learning about this?” Alan asked.

“I meant to tell you afterward, but it must have slipped my mind.”

“Well? What happened?”

“After you left, the two slowly drifted apart, consuming more champagne than should have been possible. Near the end of the night, his wife was flirting with the head of advertising, and Pearlman was trying to fit his head through the neck of his secretary’s blouse. It would have fit, too, if it weren’t for her still being in it.”

Alan whistled quietly. “Seriously, how did none of this make it to the water cooler?”

“Don’t you remember that memo that went out after the party?”

“‘The dos and don’ts of sex jokes in the workplace’?”

“No, the other one. It came from Snyder himself.”

“Ah yes. ‘What happens at company parties stays at company parties.’“

“Yep. My guess is Pearlman persuaded Snyder to cover his ass with that one.”

“Pathetic.”

“I concur. I wholeheartedly concur.”

“Tell me, Jack, why didn’t you try for the position when Nelson left? You’ve got a master’s degree, and if you ask me, you’re the sharpest person on the floor.”

“When Nelson was run out of the company, I had no idea the position was open until Pearlman was announced as the new head. Trust me, buddy, I would have given it my best effort if I had been given the opportunity.” I shook my head, wondering just how long I would be Pearlman’s bitch. Hell, I was even Pearlman’s secretary’s bitch.

“Listen, Alan, I’ve got to get back to work. I’m about to crack this code, and I would like to leave here today having accomplished something,” I said as I turned in to my office.

“Sure thing. Grab a coffee tomorrow? My treat,” Alan offered generously. It was a pity offering, but it felt genuine just the same.

“Always take a freebie. Thanks.”

Alan returned to his office as I sat behind my desk.

Flipping on the monitor, I began to review the spreadsheets displayed on the screen. I spent the next fifteen minutes trying to reimmerse myself into my project. However, all I could think about was Pearlman and his bastard ways. As I tried to focus on the equations, my mind reviewed, word by word, the conversation with Alan. What he said made sense. I was the brightest man on the floor. And now that I thought about it, I was the only one around here with a master’s degree. I didn’t even think Pearlman had one. I began to wonder if that was his motivation to drive me from the company. Feeling my blood begin to boil, I scoured the thoughts from my mind.

I returned to the original document on my screen, reading the text and scanning the data for the hundredth time. Flipping from document to document, reading and scanning, I felt like my afternoon was going to be a lost cause. I tried my best to recreate my solution, but all I saw was scrambled gibberish. I sat reviewing the lines of data on the spreadsheet that I felt would produce the elusive solution, hands hovering over the keyboard, ready to input the key as soon as it blossomed in my mind.

On my third pass, something deep in my cerebral cortex twitched. I blinked and read the last line again. Could it be? Could I have stumbled across it again? I quickly jotted down the quadrant address on a piece of scratch paper and returned my hands to the keyboard. I blinked fast and felt my heart quicken. I was almost there. I scanned the passage once more, and just as I was about to identify the solution without running any computations, the phone rang.

Snapped back to reality, the solution fluttered away. The phone rang again, and as I contemplated picking it up to tell the caller to go to hell, I calmly pressed the do-not-disturb button on the phone’s base and shut down my computer. Had I known how shitty the rest of my day would be, I would have stayed at my desk.

With my office now silent, I grabbed my briefcase and headed for the door. I momentarily popped my head into Alan’s office.

“Hey, Alan. I’m heading out—taking the afternoon off as PTO.”

“Everything OK?” Alan inquired.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just need to clear my mind. I’ll see you in the morning. If Pinhead comes looking for me, tell him you haven’t seen me.”

“Will do,” Alan said, nodding in compliance.

As I stood waiting for the elevator, I reached into the side pocket of my briefcase to fish out my car keys and found Cyndi’s prescription.

“Damn,” I mumbled. I had completely forgotten that I promised to pick it up. I glanced at my watch, and as much as I wanted to just get home and forget about the day, it was only a hair past 1:00. I had plenty of time to swing by the pharmacy on the way home.

Minutes later, I was down in the parking garage. I slid the keys into the ignition and turned it over. Nothing happened. I switched it back to off and tried again. Nothing. No dash lights illuminated, no dome light came on. The car was completely dead.

“Shit!” I yelled. I felt like punching the dash. I tilted my head back and began to breathe slowly. It had been months since I last visited my therapist, but I recalled some of the tips he taught me to calm myself in moments of great anxiety. Seeing as my whole fucking day was the poster child for all things stress inducing, I practiced a few.

First, I slowed my breathing to better control my heart rate. Next, I focused on something pleasant: Cyndi, my happy place. I closed my eyes, envisioning her beautiful face in my mind. Finally, I counted backward from twenty, skipping every other number.

“Twenty, eighteen, sixteen, fourteen, twelve, ten, eight, six, four, two, zero,” I said aloud, breathing deeply in between each number. Surprisingly, I felt much calmer than the moment before. I no longer wanted to junk punch my car or light a match, toss it in the gas tank, and walk away.

I popped open the glove box, found my roadside assistance number, and dialed it on my cell phone. I explained the situation to the man on the other end of the call, who seemed to think it just needed a jump. He dispatched a driver and said it would be no more than thirty minutes.