Ben Greenman - The Slippage

The southbound platform was mostly in shadows and the digital sign announcing train times was covered, from William’s vantage, by a tall man in lean tweeds and a hat. William stood beside a three-person bench, the rightmost seat occupied by an older woman with headphones, the middle seat by her backpack. Closest to William was a young woman reading a magazine, a redhead with tiny perfect features wearing one of the worst outfits he had ever seen: an orange leather jacket that looked like it belonged to a crossing guard, a short gray skirt, gray tights with a floral pattern, and thick platform shoes. It was like five kinds of music were being played at once, none well, but truly beautiful girls weren’t undone by bad fashion. They triumphed over it. “Do you want me to have her move her bag?” she said, gesturing at the older woman.

“No,” William said. “I’m conducting an experiment to see how entitled and oblivious people are.” The young woman laughed. The older woman pinched the bulge on the cord of her headphones, to either change the volume or take a call.

“Off to the office,” said a man passing by, to no one, but William was not going to the office. He was headed into the city, to Hollister’s lawyers, to meet his maker. He moved off to a quiet spot to call Louisa. “Hi,” he said. “Busy day so far. Everyone wants to meet.”

“Don’t be too late tonight,” she said. “Tonight’s the night we’re supposed to meet Jim and his wife for a drink.”

“Right,” he said, though he had no recollection of making the plan.

“I said around eight,” she said. “So let’s leave here at quarter of. Though if you’re running late, tell me, and we can just meet there.”

“Right,” he said again.

When the train came, he packed on with the crowd and took a seat next to the young woman, careful to hide his Hollister employee handbook in his shoulder bag. He got her name, which was Georgina, and this little show: first, her driver’s license photograph, which she dismissed as terrible but which was far from it; then an expedition into the deeper reaches of her purse for the business card of the modeling agency she was visiting. William thought he saw a condom in there, next to a tube of lipstick. “This must be thrilling for you,” she said.

“It is,” he said, affecting a bored tone to cover his excitement. They talked about his work, and mostly he lied. “I’m going to see a guy from the office whose wife had a stroke,” he said. “Their son just went off to college. Good kid. Interned with us last year. He’s offered to skip a semester but none of us want that, so we’re pitching in. I figure that by helping out Al, I’m helping out the team.”

“That’s a nice idea,” she said.

“He’s been out of the office for two weeks,” he said. “I spoke to him on the phone and he’s going a little stir-crazy. His wife was that kind of person, even before the stroke: won’t let them have a television, doesn’t go out to eat very much. They had a dinner party once, and the conversation was all about whether we deserve the things we have in life, any of us. She said no.”

“Austere,” Georgina said. It wasn’t a word he expected. She told him about her boyfriend, who she wanted to marry her, but who she suspected would never ask. “He has to be scared into it,” she said. “That’s what my mother says, that he needs a wake-up call.” As the train pulled in, she jotted down her phone number on the back of the agency card. She had seen his wedding ring but had not remarked upon it. Did she figure him for a wake-up call?

The lawyer’s office, three blocks from the station, had a poorly lit waiting room with a quartet of round brown club chairs. William had been there once before, to secure advice on a threatened suit by a freelance editor; then, like now, he’d spent most of his time leafing through fitness magazines and counting the starbursts around the edge of the rug on the floor. Across a plastic partition, a woman with big hair and small glasses tapped violently on a keyboard.

A man came into the room. He was taller than any man William knew; though he was old and stooped, he was still nearly six and a half feet. “Mr. Day,” he said.

William stood. “Mr. Reeser,” he said.

“Call me Marshall,” the man said, as he had every time, never meaning it. Walking with practiced significance, Reeser ushered him into a room. “We have associates with bigger offices, but I started in an office this size and I will die in an office this size. Though hopefully not today.” It was the same line he had used during their last meeting, but William laughed charitably. Reeser squeezed in between the desk and the chair.

“Now, listen,” he said. He put his hands palms up in what seemed like supplication. “We’ve known each other for a long time, William.”

“We have.” Reeser was Hollister’s head counsel and had been the kingliest presence in the company for years.

“And in all that time, have you ever known me to be anything but a straight shooter?”

“I have not.”

“Well, then, let’s get down to cases. We have a problem here. You struck a man. Scratch that. You struck an upper-level executive, the nephew of the founders.”

William raised a palm to slow Reeser, or identify himself. “I don’t know if I can explain, really. It seems trivial. But he wasn’t telling the truth. It was unimportant, I realize. But doesn’t it matter that he was lying?”

“I can understand,” Reeser said. “I’ve met George. But you know: breaking a wheel for a spoke.” He placed both hands on the desk. On a credenza against the wall there was a picture of Reeser, younger, with Hollister’s uncle Leon, a tired old small-faced man of extreme competence. “The fact remains that the two of you can no longer work together, and another fact remains as well: he is in charge of your department.” He made a flourish with the pen: more sprezzatura. “So look. Listen. Specifics here don’t matter. The general picture, as painted, is bleak. He’s a made man at this company, and that means that you’re out.”

“Out of Domesta?”

Reeser’s eyes crinkled and it looked as though he might leap out from behind his desk and clap William on the back. “Can you believe it?” he said. “ Domesta . Thirty years as Leon’s lawyer and I’ve never heard anything so stupid. Yes, out of Domesta. But not just that. Out of the whole thing, I’m afraid. Gone from Hollister. Cashiered.” Reeser pressed a button on his telephone and a young woman in a white skirt appeared with a slim sheaf of papers clipped together at the corner. “Read to yourself as I read aloud,” Reeser said. “‘This letter will confirm our discussions to resign your present position with Hollister, effective June 1. In light of your many years of service to the company, Hollister is prepared to offer you a severance payment equivalent to one year’s salary, and to carry your full benefits for that same term. Confidential information, as defined below, shall not be disclosed for the term of two years, upon penalty of forfeit both of severance and benefits. In entering into this Agreement, the parties have intended that this be a full and final settlement of all matters, and that all related disputes be hereby dissolved. This letter will confirm our offer. Please take some time to review and consult with counsel or advisers of your choice.’” Reeser looked up. “Do you have counsel or advisers?”

“Let me understand,” William said. “You’re paying me because I hit George Hollister?”

“It’s not just that,” Reeser said. “There are matters that you might be privy to that we want to keep under wraps.”

“Like what?”