Living Dead - Offer Reish (phonics books .TXT) 📗

fine man of Dutch origin), called me into his spacious corner office. It was an event which had created a great buzz in the office for weeks prior to that crucial day, and whose significance everyone knew: I was about to be made partner. And while it's not an entirely uncanny thing for a man my age to be promoted to partnership, it was certainly a cause for celebration and for ample murmuring behind my back everywhere I turned. It was no small token of recognition from my superiors and no small source of honor for a man who'd started his career at the firm just four years earlier. And so with a bloated chest and glossy eyes I made my way to the office, believing it was the last time I was crossing the halls as a senior consultant. I was still using my cane at the time to support my injured right leg, but I was walking more proudly with the cane than I'd seen any man in the office with healthy legs do. I relished every single one of the dozens of envious glances cast at me by my colleagues; it was such an uplifting sensation that I made an intentional detour to prolong these moments of glory. But my celebration was premature.

I realized that something was amiss as soon as I entered the room, at which point I saw another man in Mr. Croningen's office, sitting in one of the two chairs located across the table from him. He'd been there a while by the looks of it, and his poised demeanor and complacent eyes suggested that he knew something I didn't. This was no ordinary man. It was a colleague who'd joined the firm several weeks earlier and from the very start had been in very close terms with the boss. Nobody knew anything about him, and it almost seemed as though I was the only one who was curious, let alone disturbed, by his presence. He was a real mystery, and yet the boss took a special liking to him, insofar as I suspected they were somehow related. The new guy fawned on Mr. Croningen constantly and acted with such subservience around him that I was often sickened by the sight of the both of them interacting. I blame it on Mr. Croningen as well: it takes two to tango, and it takes two to sustain a pathetic relationship of kowtowing. And my colleagues blamed me for being a suck up! But what did they know?

I exchanged glances with the mystery man; mine, antagonistic yet apprehensive; his, smug and scornful. He was a fairly handsome man and now that I had the opportunity to scrutinize him from up close I realized that he somewhat resembled me. But if our resemblance would've been thought to put to rest some of the animosity and ill-will between us, then the contrary was the case: as our perception and acknowledgment of one another deepened, so did my realization that here was a man that could bring about my downfall. There was nothing particular about him that engendered this ominous feeling in me but merely his presence there, the mystery that wreathed him, and his smug, haughty, self-satisfied expression that on the one hand reminded me of myself and on the other was something I could never replicate. I hadn't the ability to stare at a virtual stranger with such authority and condescension.

It wasn't long before it became clear that his condescension was well-earned. For ten minutes Mr. Croningen went on and on about how big an asset I was at the firm and how bright a future awaited me if I only kept going the way I was. He was so profuse and emphatic in his flattery that I lost him early on, becoming aware of the pleasure the mystery man seemed to be deriving from these meaningless words. It was no longer a surprise when the boss adopted an entirely different, thoroughly apologetic tone and declared that he'd called me in so I could be the first to hear that my promotion to partner would have to wait in light of the mystery man's nomination to the current opening.

"But rest assured", Mr. Croningen added in the way by which employers commonly and vainly attempt to compose their employees after crushing their legitimate hopes due to the requirements of the system, personal favoritism, or any other unjust factor, "that you are next in line. I see great things in you, Clancy."

It happens all the time, doesn't it? That one believes he is on the sure path to achieving his dream job, and in his heart knows that he deserves it more than anyone else, but some external factor suddenly derails his plans and frustrates his hopes. It's even not terribly rare that he loses out to his nemesis, who isn't half as deserving as he but has some underhanded, discreet and unfair advantage that tips the scales in his favor. Indeed, it's known to happen to many a misfortunate individual. And I scorn as much as you he who allows an individual blow such as this, painful and derogatory though it may be, to knock the wind of his sails. Just as you do, I see the many wonders of life and its many aspects from which we can derive happiness, and therefore that one aspect should go awry is no reason to soil the entire set. Indeed, suicide hadn't once crossed my mind as a solution in those days, even as days in the office became unbearable. But disappointment and frustration at the injustice done to me and animosity toward the mystery man who'd stolen my promotion consumed me, and I began to malinger at work. My passion for accomplishment and hunger for personal development disappeared, and I was left coming up with creative ways to hamper the firm's progress without risking my job. For a couple of weeks this went on, in which people seemed to be chattering liberally about the change in my performance but never offered a word of consolation or support against the wrong I'd been done. It's not that it would've comforted me if they had, but I would expect such superficial proffers of sympathy should be extended. In fact some of them, misinformed that they were, still congratulated me for the promotion. Though an honest mistake in all cases, this certainly did nothing to improve my state of mind or sweeten my bitterness. As for the mystery man, he was like a peacock, flaunting his feathers before anyone who cared to look. We still never exchanged a word, though on occasion he would burst into my office, shoot me a teasing glance that seemed to serve for nothing other than feed his bloated ego, and disappeared to God-knows-where. I sometimes uttered a word challenging his intrusions and bordering on insolence, but even then I would receive no response. Needless to say, in those rare occasions when I mustered the courage to pay him a visit in his plush office, at least twice the size of mine, I received a much more tolerant welcome. He was as thoroughly aware as I of the wave of frustration that washed over me every time we met, and he was greatly pleased to watch it. As before, nobody really knew him. He was never spoken of even following his surprising promotion (of course I never broached him as a topic of conversation, for to do so would only prove my preoccupation with him). It was almost as though he didn't really exist!

When Mr. Croningen called me into his office for what's known as a progress report meeting (though normally such meetings were held after an employee has had a change of position or of responsibilities), mystery man was already there, seated in his usual chair, in his usual self-assured air, and fully conscious of what was about to be said. My walk through the halls, still aided by my cane, wasn't done with my chin high and my step light as in the previous time I'd been called in, but with diffident shyness and not a single superfluous step.

What took place in the boss's office that afternoon wasn't a progress report but a warning of sorts. I was first confronted with the decline in my performance and my failure to live up to the high expectations of me. This was of course no news for me, and I wasn't surprised that the boss thought it wise to deal with it in a private but decisive manner. What did surprise me was his harsh, abrasive manner. He spoke as though there was no conceivable reason for my slackening and as if my weakening performance somehow reflected on his decision-making. It was almost as if he'd done me a favor and somehow placed great trust in me and was now questioning my worthiness of it. There was no sympathy for my frustration, no understanding of my disappointment. It was terribly unlike Mr. Croningen to be so obtuse and insensitive, but there was no two ways about it: he couldn't see his part in the deterioration of my work efficiency.

"Does this have anything to do with your accident?" He asked toward the end of his upbraiding; a question I couldn't bring myself to answer. The nerve of that man! First to give what was duly mine to another on invalid grounds, now to accuse me of taking it to heart and pinning it on some arbitrary impairment that I wasn't strong enough to cope with. I had half a mind to recriminate, call his unjust favoritism for what it was and quit on the spot, but it turned out that even in those moments of heated agitation I was bound by the same limits of reason and self-restraint that I never overstepped. I accepted Mr. Croningen's admonition and the mystery man's silent conceit and tottered back to my office with my head down and the signs of misery beginning to show. My life was still worth living and celebrating in those days- I would give anything to go back to that time if I could change what would happen later- but every day of the week for more than half my waking hours I was a miserable man.

 

 

Musings on the Living Dead

 

I believe I've thus summed up the brunt of my suffering and the injustices that have caused it. Perhaps, though, I haven't sufficiently emphasized its finality, so let's take a broader view of my condition before you, the jury, go out for deliberations.

My brother is dead. He was murdered in cold blood before my eyes, and I was the only one who could've saved him but was never really given an honest opportunity to do so. Forget saving him; I couldn't even get his murderer. If anything, I'd covered his tracks and facilitated his evasion of justice. This was my contribution to my little brother's death. In my parent's eyes I was always the second best child, and even now when he's gone I receive less attention that him.

My fiancée, the love of my life and the center of my existence, is disloyal to me. Her love for me is questionable, and any trace of fidelity is long gone. Whatever we may have one day- even if by some uncanny measure we could bury the deep cleft that has been forged between us- it will never match what we used to have. Our love may flower one day and outshine what most couples have, but it shall always stand in the dark shadow of her betrayal. One who's had a taste of perfection will never settle for something good. Scold me as much as you like for it; it is but human nature, and I'm no more- no less, I must insist against any evil thoughts that may have slithered into your mind- than a human being. Whatever our present holds, the devastation of our past will