Lacking in Death

My name is Aubrey Winston and I am not a big fan of hospitals, but I find myself at this particular one as a result of a job I am meant to do. I am in the employ of an elite group of individuals that call themselves The Pantheon, but more on them and the nature of my business a bit later. They have expressed some interest in a man by the name of Charles Jameson who is due to be discharged any moment now. I look at my watch and see that only 5 minutes have passed since I arrived so I run to the convenience store across the street and buy a soda. I normally don’t drink soda but I was feeling uneasy. Perhaps I was feeling anxiety over the fact that this would be my last job working directly for The Pantheon.

Walking out I see a panhandler asking for change in the street. He looks to be around 65 years old and he holds out his hand towards me, not even looking me in the eyes. But I recognize him even if he doesn’t. I run back in the store and ask for a paper bag. I hand the beggar the paper bag with a few hundred dollar bills inside and run back across the street and sit on the hood of my taxi. Well, technically it’s only mine for this particular fare. The automatic doors of the emergency room outpatient doors swing open and a whoosh of that sterile hospital smell greets me. A nurse rolls out a wheelchair carrying an old man who seems to be in his 90’s but I know to be a bit older than that. This is Charles Jameson.

“You call for the taxi?” I ask the nurse.

“I’m perfectly capable of taking it from here, nurse.” Mr. Jameson said, smiling. “Thank you, though.”

“Hospital policy, Mr. Jameson,” the nurse responded to him. She looked up at me and said, “He’s nearly 100 years old so please drive extra carefully.”

“Will do, miss,” I answer. I remember when it was difficult for me to act younger than people I knew to be older than. But I eventually grew used to it. I had to. People looked at me weird when I spoke like their grandfather.

Mr. Jameson got up out of the wheelchair of his own accord before the nurse could secure the brakes to both wheels. She smiles at me and nods her head dismissively at the old man who put on his coat and tipped his hat to the nurse before putting it on his head.

“You be careful now, Mr. Jameson,” the nurse said as she went back through the automatic doors. I opened the door for the man and he got inside the cab but not without looking at me suspiciously for a split second. Hopping into the driver’s seat I drove off.

It was silent for perhaps only two minutes before anything was said but that silence spoke volumes. I could feel his stare burning through the partition but paid it no mind until he knocked loudly on it. I looked at him, annoyed, through the rearview mirror. He raised his eyebrows at me as if I was the one who had knocked on the partition. I didn’t respond. I didn’t feel obligated to at least not until he slid the partition open as if to invite me to speak first.

“Well,” he said.

“Sir?” I asked.

“Who are you? And what do you want from me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Cabbies don’t open the doors for me. Hell, they don’t even get out of their taxi to greet the nurse. We’ve been driving for almost 10 minutes. You never asked me where I was going and I never told you what direction to drive so I’m going to ask you again. Who are you?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Son, you don’t know what kind of life I’ve led so don’t presume to know what I would and wouldn’t believe. Now, don’t insult me. Who are you? And what do you want from me?”

There was nothing I could say. This guy was pretty sharp. It’s not surprising as he did used to be a detective until he retired several years ago.

“The truth is, Mr. Jameson,” I finally answered, “I don’t want anything from you. But my employers would like to extend a welcome to our tight knit society. And I know exactly what kind of life you have led, Mr. Jameson.”

“What does that mean?”

“A long one, an unusually long life; is that right, Mr. Jameson? You’re papers at the hospital say you’re 88 years old but we both know you weren’t a little boy during the war. We both know you fought in it. A commanding officer if I remember properly.”

There was only silence coming from behind the partition.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Quite the contrary, Mr. Jameson. I--”

“Chuck.”

“I’m sorry?”

“If you’re not going to kill me, then at least you can call me Chuck.”

“Of course, and you may call me Aubrey. Or Winston if you so desire but since we’re on a first name basis Aubrey will do nicely, Chuck. Now where was I? Oh yes, I’ve been asked to tell you about the rest of us. There are 7 billion people on this planet and only 50,000 known that are like you and I.”

“What do you mean?”

“How old would you think I am?”

“I don’t know. About the same age as my great grandson, maybe? He’s about 38.”

“You’re too kind. In truth I’m actually older than you.” I pull over into a parking lot and look back at Chuck in the eyes. I turn on the light in the car so he can get a better look at me. “You know me from somewhere, don’t you?”

“Oh my, God! That’s impossible! I fought alongside you at Pelelieu . You were in that other battalion! How? How?!”

“We’re Immortals, Chuck. You and I are Immortals.”

I get out of the cab and light a cigarette. I take the smoke in my lungs and breathe it out feeling the fire shoot out of my throat as I wait for Chuck to get out of the car.

“You must be hungry.” I say as he looked at me wide eyed and slack jawed. We walk into a diner where we continue our conversation while waiting for our food to arrive.

“What do you mean by immortal? I can’t die?”

“You’re 113 years old, aren’t you? And yet you’re as spry as 65 year old and perhaps still as clever as you were when you were in your 30’s. We have people in hospitals everywhere investigating the possibility of new immortals. We take blood samples and perform tests on them, grueling tests. Normal humans’ blood cells would be destroyed with our tests. Their bodies simply replace them with new cells. Our cells regenerate from the particulate matter, reforming back into itself. That healing factor is what makes us immortal, so to speak.”

“But how are you still young? And how come I’m old?”

“Some immortals have stronger healing factors than others. Take my employers for example: a group of immortals who call themselves The Pantheon. The oldest actually has the appearance of a 12 year old girl. But she’s been around longer than any of us. I prefer the mystery but she claims to be the only one who knows how or why Stonehenge was built. The Pantheon pull the strings of this crazy world, practically run every government in the planet. Because none of them can be killed by any traditional methods, they have often been mistaken as gods. Hence their group’s moniker which, to be honest, is more tongue-in-cheek than anything.”

“This is unbelievable,” Chuck said as the food arrived.

“Immortality sneaks up on you like old age, ironically. Your blood was slow to regenerate but it did eventually. That’s why you stopped aging at a later date than I did. And when they (The Pantheon) found that out they sent me to ask you seeing as how we know each other. Slow healers like you used to be called low immortals but that sounded insulting so we call your lot ‘The Aged’ for obvious reasons. In fact many of us envy you.”

“Why’s that?”

“You lived an entire life without knowing what you are. You never had to hide. Those who loved you didn’t leave you when you didn’t age the way they did. Others never called you a freak.” The enthusiasm in my voice escaped me when I uttered those words. We sat in silence eating the rest of our respective meals.

“If I’m immortal, I can live forever?”

“Not technically. You can still be killed. If I remember back in the war you nearly were. The wounds that would instantly kill other men left you with a scar.”

“On my thigh, yeah. So if that one grenade hadn’t been a dud…?”

“Then we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Your wife would have gotten those medals instead of you and she’d tell stories of her husband’s heroic dive to save his men from not one but two live grenades.”

I paid the check, despite Chuck’s protestations. After all, we were war buddies doing some catching up and he just got out of the hospital.

“What are you then, Aubrey? If I’m one of ‘The Aged’ and there is ‘The Pantheon’ then where does that put you?”

“I was offered a seat in The Pantheon but turned it down. I was never a managerial type. But to answer your question, they call me a ‘Demi.’”

“A ‘Demi?’”

“As in Demigod. My healing abilities are nowhere near that of anyone in The Pantheon and obviously I didn’t age as much as you did. But I had done some jobs for them that earned me their favor. And I respectfully declined. I’m somewhere in between the gods and the mortals: a demigod.”

I took the wrapped up leftovers and we headed out of the diner.  We walked down two blocks to a dark alley that was dimly lit by a humming floodlight that barely lit an unassuming spot behind a large dumpster.

“Wait here,” I said to Chuck as I walked towards the dumpster. The tall brick walls seemed to insulate the sounds of the city from this narrow pathway. There was a pile of clothe lumped lifelessly by the dumpster and I stooped down to reveal a woman in her 40’s underneath them. She was breathing shallowly and was obviously tired so I just left the food beside her where she could find it when she woke up.

“Who was that?” Chuck asked.

“Just paying old debts,” I respond. I stop at a flower shop on the way back to the taxi and buy two bouquets of flowers.

“Who are those for?” Chuck asked.

“One is for my one true love. I never married again after she died.”

“And the other bouquet?”

“She’s buried at Saint Richard’s.”

“In that case let me pay for those. And can I change them to the daisies?” Chuck said to the man behind the counter. We got our bouquets and headed to the taxi. I drove to the cemetery and we walked to see Chuck’s wife’s plot.

“She was beautiful. You only hear it in the movies but it’s no exaggeration when I tell you that as soon as I laid my eyes on her I knew I was going to marry her. She was already engaged when we met but I knew that that was just a minor setback.” Chuck sighed and looked at the bouquet of daisies before a single tear rolled down his cheek. “I couldn’t afford to buy her flowers back then so whenever I would visit her at the bank where she worked I would pick a flower from some random house and say I picked it just for her. Every day I did that! And that’s how I found out she liked daisies. So every day I’d go to that same house and pluck one daisy to give to her until later that week she was in a bad mood. Boy, you’ve never seen a young woman so angry.”

“What happened?”

“She found out that her fiancée had gotten her then best friend pregnant. She took it out on me at first, yelling and screaming. I gave her the daisy and said I hoped it cheered her up. She had a good cry and hugged me and said it was perfect, the daisy was just perfect.”

“Why’s that?”

“Turns out, she told me, that some jerk kid had been picking at the daisies at her aunt’s house who lives just down the street from where. I didn’t tell her that the daisies I was giving her were her aunt’s until our last anniversary. She just laughed. God, I’ve led a good life. Beautiful wife, wonderful children. Do you have children?”

“When you lived as long as I have, you have many children. But not many of them can I call family.”

“So what’s your guys’ deal? Why so secretive? Why even make this secret society to begin with?”

“At the turn of the 20^th century, more people began to view the world in a more pragmatic, scientific light. There was less need for gods and demigods and much more use for medicines; medicines that can be used, say, to increase a human’s longevity.”

“They did experiments on you?”

“We did it to our own kind in the hopes of extending the lives of those we loved and a select few thought they could develop treatments that would give them power and fortune. Half of us ignored the obvious ethical questions of testing on our own and the other half opposed testing vehemently.”

“What happened?”

“There was in-fighting and war.”

“Which side won?”

I didn’t answer because I wasn’t proud of the side I took.

“I see.”

“We have to live with what we’ve done, some of us feeling guiltier than others about having to kill our own kind. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to kill an Immortal? On the bloodied and battered corpses of my brethren, I helped The Pantheon recreate ourselves so that all of us Immortals had someone to turn to for help: If you needed money, or to get out of trouble with the mafia or government. Had we known about you then, you could have come to us about a liver transplant for your wife.”

He turned to me and punched me in the gut. I fell to my knees. No one has laid a punch on me that hard in long, long time.

“How dare you look through my wife’s records!”

“I was researching you.”

“I don’t care. You leave her out of this, even if she is dead. Knowing you could have saved her is not going to convince me to join you. Do I miss her? Yes. At the time, would I have given my own life to save hers? You’re goddamn right I would have! You said so yourself that none of you are gods! And here you are playing god. If you want to have a network where all of us ‘immortals’ can help each other that’s one thing. But to play favorites with who you can and cannot save is an abuse of power. If I was around I would have picked the losing side. Because at least they were on the right side of the argument.”

“I know that now. And I have to live with the blood of all those people I killed in the name of peace. Every time I say it, it makes less and less sense to me. This was my last job for The Pantheon then I’m on my own. I want to spend a few years repaying debts to those lives I’ve ruined.”

“That homeless woman in the alley?”

“She was the daughter of someone I killed. The trauma of witnessing such brutality at a young age has a lasting impression and I’ve found that my past sins have resulted in a lot of the homeless population in the city.”

“Can you kill me?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve lived an entire life not knowing what I was. And now I have to possibly live the hell of watching my great grandkids wither and die before I do. I’ve already lived. I don’t need to keep doing that, especially without my wife. My kids are all grown up with families of their own. I just want it to end, I’ve deserved that.”

While I didn’t agree to be the one who kills him, I give Chuck a name that will lead him to a formula that may eradicate his healing factor long enough for him to pass away as if he were just a mortal. He was right. He had lived a full life and deserved to see it that book close for not only his own sake but the sake of his family who he would have to hide from to keep immortality a secret. I, however, still have my debts to pay. I place the roses on my wife’s grave and head back to the taxi. After all, there are more people to visit today.

Familiar

The floor is cold. No. Wait. It’s my cheek that’s cold but why am I on the floor? I swirl my eyes behind the lids as my arms lethargically crawl to either side of me. When I push myself up off the floor I rub the sleep from my eyes. It’s not a normal kind of sleep. It’s different this time. I sit up and get my bearings. Ah yes, my apartment. But it looks different. The world seems to be draped in its own shadows and everything around me seems to be decaying in a wind I can neither feel nor hear. However I do see the edges of everything flickering about as if they were being eroded by the aforementioned ghost winds. I get to my feet and it’s difficult to stay balanced. The sky, for whatever reason, burns blood red and the clouds look to be running from the sun itself. As I walk begin to walk I feel my feet stick to the floor beneath them and I realize that while I know that this is my apartment I’m not entirely sure who I am.

My first instinct is to look at my hands. They seem familiar and unfamiliar and something seemed to bind to my wrists. I pull the sleeves of my sweater up but there’s nothing there. My hands start to tingle and go numb. My breathing quickens as does my heartbeat. Well that’s disconcerting as well. My lungs fill with breath but it doesn’t feel as if I’m breathing. I can feel my heart beating against my chest, the blood pulsating through my veins as my temples expand and contract in a panicked rhythm but I don’t feel as if it’s my own heart pumping. My fingertips grow cold and it feels as if the bones within my hand burn like coal smoldering in its own ashes. I curl my fingers into a tight fist but the invisible binding on my arms just dig in deeper and squeeze tighter. My mouth opens as my eyes shut and I hope to scream but before I can a whisper catches my attention.

“Return,” the voice says. I could have sworn it was a voice that whispered directly in my ear but as I turn there is no one there. My cheek, the one that lay flat on the ground, grows cold. A dull pressure scratches at the opposite cheek. I can feel my scalp itch as something scratches at it. I try to swipe but there is nothing to swipe at.

I see something shimmering on the coffee table and I walk towards it. The object is a picture frame and the photograph within has two people in it. One of them is me only I had much longer hair. And the other is a man. He’s quite handsome but I can’t quite place—ARGH! The binding on my wrists dig in deeper and a dull pain drills deep in my chest driving down to my gut. I feel claws begin to dig at my palms. My reflexes wave my hands in a vain attempt to shake whatever is scratching at me. But I’m not entirely sure if the scratching was entirely malicious which both scares and reassures me.

The tip of my index finger feels cold but not like before. It’s as if some object was barely being touched against it; a ring, perhaps? But I don’t see a ring. I can somehow hear it. Perhaps if I put my finger to my ear I can—now I can’t breathe! The pressure around my neck is tightening and my throat is near collapse. It’s as if I only have enough energy to either breath or fight against this force choking the life out of me. My temples begin to ache. My ears and the tip of my nose burn as the rest of my head starts to go numb. And my eyes feel as if they are about to pop out of their sockets when all of a sudden I hear the whisper again.

“Not time yet,” the voice whispers as I feel four cushioned but strong prongs jolt hard upon my chest. The impact of whatever that was released the hold from me neck. My throat was very tender as I tried to catch my breath.

“Who are you?” I ask the voice. There is no response. I start coughing violently, my lungs still recuperating from whatever it was that was choking me. I walk to the kitchen and get some water. I know the liquid is pouring down my throat but I can barely feel it. It’s almost as if I’m in some sort of a dream. Am in a dream? “Is that what this is? If it’s a bad dream I want to wake up now!”

“Kara!” That voice calls out to me. I recognize the voice but just barely. Who is it? My friend? The man in the picture? A brother, perhaps? I can’t believe I’m forgetting so much of who I am. This is ridiculous. I want to cry but first I have to get out of here.

“Am I Kara?”

“If you can hear me Kara, I’m going to need you to return.”

“Return where? How?”

“I promise it won’t end like this!”

“Who is that? Hello?”

“I know you can hear me. I can’t hear you but I know you can hear me!” There was another gentle scratch on my cheek. The other grew colder again. Finally, I’m getting some answers! “This is very important but you need to get up!”

“I don’t know how to! Tell me how to get out of here!”

Suddenly I lose grip of the glass of water in my hand. It slips and shatters on the linoleum floor of the kitchen. I lean back and close my eyes and remember seeing the man in the picture grabbing me by the arms and squeezing. I gasp and open my eyes gripping my fists tightly realizing that a knife had materialized in my hand. I fall to my knees as if being pulled by an unnatural swell in gravity right where I was standing and I can remember being thrown to the ground by that mysterious man. I remember his name is Peter.

Peter approaches me in what can only be described as a memory that I, for whatever reason, am being forced to recall. He wraps his hands around my throat and squeezes as hard as he can. Remembering the knife in my hand I swing as hard as I can at… my husband. Peter is my husband. I keep the knife between him and me but he raises a hand at me anyway and swings before I can swipe the blade at him. I fall to the ground, dropping the knife as my cheek, the one that kept growing cold, fell onto the ground.

“Get up! Now!” The voice implores. “Now! NOW! NOW! MMMEEEE-OOOWWWW!” The pokes and prods of my cat manage to finally wake me up. I can’t help but cry. I feel the hot tears streaming down the side of my face realizing that the man that was to be my husband nearly killed me.

I gasp and cough violently as the world of shadows and blood disappear like a nightmare. I taste blood in my mouth and my cheek, once cold, is now tender and bruised. My chest rises and falls as I breathe in slowly unsure if I should feel horrified or relieved. I look at my hand still on the floor. My wedding ring still dangles from the edge of it. I must have tried to unconsciously pick it up again and only managed to get it on to my fingertip.

My cat stares at me and places a paw on my leg as I sit up. It is the same cushioned paw that swiped at my hair and pushed against my cheek. Somehow she knew to jump on me to get my attention. She then curls up against my leg and she purrs as I stroke her fur. I pick up the ring with my free hand and look at the diamond with such disdain and disgust that I throw it back on the floor before finally getting up to call the police.

Out of the Mailroom

I remember loving hide and seek when I was little because I was so good at the hiding part. Whoever was “it,” it never mattered who, would always end up finding me last if at all. Even though it was never technically allowed, my best friend would always get all the other kids he had already found to look for me too. Even then, I was difficult to find. My secret was always my patience and my ability to find the darkest, most confined space to be patient in. So I know I wasn’t born claustrophobic and yet I still have a bit of a panic attack every morning when I go down to the mailroom.

The mailroom is in the basement where there are no windows for any natural light to come through. There’s only the droning buzz of the neon lights to keep the three—I mean two of us company. Roger is the oldest and isn’t much of a social butterfly which would explain why he is usually so comfortable in this steel and concrete cocoon. If there’s anyone in charge of the mail it would be him. I’m not entirely convinced that they had found him when they excavated the area and decided to construct this office building around him but he comes in and does his job. Whether or not he enjoys his job is another question entirely.

Mark is—was the intern here and worked in the mailroom all of two weeks. Neither Roger nor I were entirely sure that he was ever here in an official capacity or if he was just some other department’s responsibility they literally wanted to put underground. Whatever the case he was pulled up from this perdition called the mailroom and was given a job in advertising. I hated the kid to be quite honest. He was always talking and messing up the way we distributed the mail. He would take long breaks, even longer lunch breaks, and he was always the last to come in and first to leave. I deliver to advertising a lot and had only seen him that first week he got the job. Someone had mentioned that he had moved on to a better position at a rival company. It infuriates me when incompetence is rewarded.

The only thing I hated about Mark was the job itself. Sure, Roger is all right to get along with and it’s far from a stressful position. But the pay is really shitty with no real hope for any kind of promotion unless you’re a douche bag intern, apparently. Roger hated the job too but he was just six months from retirement so I guess he felt he owed it to himself. I’m not convinced that any gold watch is nice enough to warrant a lifetime in the mailroom. If I had anywhere else I could be, I would definitely be there because as nice a guy as Roger is, I’d hate to end up like him.

I did all the deliveries because Roger’s hip replacement two years ago prevented him from doing much walking and deliveries are nothing but. It was normally the best part of my day because I wasn’t stuck behind a desk thumbing my nose at a phone that rings so rarely I have to check every so often if it’s actually plugged into the phone jack. The novelty of visiting other floors and seeing people your age so much more successful than you wears thin. But because I was the only who could physically make the deliveries (and heaven forbid that any of them come down to the basement to get their mail) I still had to make my runs.

Normally I would never make runs to the graphic department except once in a while since most of what they do is digitally sent in and out. They seem like nice people, which is great because you never know what you get with creative sorts. Every once in a while you get the pompous sort of artist who, one would think, was born into the world with shorter muscles on the back of their neck so that they naturally walk around turning their nose up at everything. Usually you get the people who see the world in such a different light that they look at you strangely for not seeing the world in the same odd way they do. But from what I can tell it’s hardly either extreme but a healthy mix of both; a mix that I can deal with. One particular day, however, would have me hoping to have a package to bring to the graphics department for every day afterwards.

There are days that are so mundane that I nearly throw my back out from the constant leering over from my swivel chair to see if the clock on the wall read 5 o’clock yet. That particular day was actually one of those days. I would have left early, were it not for ever present eyes of Roger. It was 4:54pm and I was counting down the seconds before it was time to finally clock out until a package arrived for the graphics department. Roger called me up to make the delivery and I cursed under my breath before getting up and heading to the elevator. Each ding in the elevator whenever it would pass a floor very well could have been the ticking off the clock to quitting time. I approached the front desk and read the name on the package, asking for “Courtney.” The receptionist, Janet, phoned her up and when Courtney approached me I totally lost track of time.

“Hey,” Courtney said.

“Um,” I was very eloquent.

“Is that for me?”

“Um,” again very eloquent, “Yes… You’re Courtney, right? I mean, of course, you are. Why wouldn’t you be? That’s from me. I’m Jerry. I mean, that’s not FROM me that’s from whoever sent that package. I mean, obviously you can see that right there… on the package. I’m not from that company. I’m actually from this company. I came from the mail room.” I’m sure it was a charming first impression. After all, she smiled at me as she took the package.

“Thanks, Jerry from the mailroom,” she said as she smiled again and walked back to her desk.

“Smooth, Jerry,” I hear someone say.

“Shut up, Janet,” I said as I marched back into the elevator. But this time I was less eager to clock out than I had been just minutes before. I now had a reason to come into work each day. She wasn’t too tall, had jet black hair and these gray eyes that somehow managed to sparkle in an otherwise drably lit office. And then there was that smile. For all I knew that smile she flashed me (twice, mind you) was her “just being polite” smile but it was more than enough to win me over. I’ve never been one for fashion but I imagine the first person to come up with a design for professional women’s wear had someone like Courtney in mind. Before then, I thought business attire was frankly kind of boring.

The next day, I couldn’t fill my mail cart quick enough. I was looking for packages specifically to bring to graphics and nothing. It was the same the next day and the next. By the end of the month, I was beginning to wonder if the company had gotten rid of the graphics department.

“Why don’t you just go up there and talk to her?” Roger asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“I know you’re just looking for an excuse to see her again. And you know that department hardly ever gets mail through here.”

“What are you--?”

Roger just looked at me. I had to admit, he had me pegged.

“How’d you know?”

“When you get to be my age you realize that there are certain reasons for why certain people act the way they do. And the way you were practically clicking your heels after you made that last delivery to graphics a couple weeks ago was pretty obvious,” he said as he smirked that wise, old man smirk. And then he had to ruin the magic by saying, “Also Janet’s a pretty big gossip and she told me all about it when I bumped into her at lunch the other day.”

“That bitch!” I said sarcastically. Then something dawned on me. “You don’t think Courtney knows do you? That’d just make things awkward.”

“So Courtney’s her name? Pretty. Janet’s a big mouth but she’s not too keen on details so I doubt she’s ratted you out. If it’s any consolation, she said if you weren’t such a ‘spaz’ you’d look good with her.”

“Really? Janet said that?”

“Yeah,” Roger said as a delivery man walked in. The old man signed for it as he continued. “I think you should just go up there and strike up a conversation and see where it goes.”

“I couldn’t possibly do that! What if I have nothing to say? What if I end up looking like some lovesick puppy dog? Or worse! What if I come off a bit too strong and stalker-ish?”

“Always with the questions and self-doubt,” Roger took the signed package and threw it to me, “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

I looked at the writing on the side of the package and it was for the graphics department but it wasn’t for anyone specifically.

“It might be urgent. You better deliver that now,” Roger said.

“I don’t see any ‘Urgent’ stamp--” I said but was interrupted when Roger smacked the side of the package with his own “Urgent” stamp.

“Now, get out of my sight,” he said as he waived me off. Reluctantly, I marched towards the elevator. When I reached the floor for graphics, Janet had a surprised look in her eyes.

“Back for more, Romeo?” she asked sarcastically.

“Actually, I’ve got this package for you guys.”

“I don’t remember expecting a package,” she leaned in and whispered, “Did you make up a package so you can see your girlfriend?”

“What? No! Roger gave this to me to bring up here!”

Janet got on the phone and dialed someone up to get the parcel. I wasn’t aware who it was she called.

“How is Roger, anyway? I owe him a brownie recipe.”

“Roger bakes? I didn’t know Roger bakes.”

“If you can call that baking. His brownies are more like pieces of charcoal with walnuts in them.”

“Hi,” Courtney said as she approached the desk. “You wanted me to pick something up?”

I scowled at Janet and she smirked victoriously back at me.

“Yes, honey,” Janet said to Courtney, “This gentleman brought it up from the mailroom and offered to buy me lunch. Do you want to come?”

“What?” I whispered to Janet.

“Sure, I’d love to!” Courtney answered. “Let me get my coat first. I’ll put the package in the conference room.”

“What are you doing?!” I asked.

“Doing what you can’t, Romeo,” she answered, “Fixing you up on a date with Courtney!”

“I didn’t ask you to do that!”

“You didn’t have to.”

“So she’s single?”

“Honestly, I don’t know too much about her. She’s kind of private, keeps to herself. I’m actually a little surprised she said yes to this little get together.”

“So am I! Especially with the free lunch part!”

“Relax, I’ll take care of lunch. A friend of my brother’s owns this place downtown. You can take the credit for paying though. I’m sure she’ll love that.”

“All right!” Courtney said as she returned, “Where are we going? I’m Courtney by the way.” She reached out her hand and I shook it. Admittedly a part of me shuttered when her fingertips touched the palm of my hand.

“Jerry. Pleased to meet you.”

“You two go on ahead and I’ll meet you there.”

“Sure,” Courtney answered as I scowled at Janet one more time. “So, Jerry, where are we headed?”

“Some place that Janet’s brother’s friend owns downtown.”

We got into the elevator and as we arrived to the restaurant Janet’s brother’s friend approached me with the all-too-convenient news that Janet would be unable to make it. I didn’t even know this guy and he was shooting me the wink-and-the-gun routine from afar. The good news was that lunch was indeed free. The better news is that I got along really well with Courtney and got to know her a little bit better. Inevitably when there’s good news and better news, there’s always a downside. And fortunately or unfortunately for me (depending on how you look at it) the bad news came pretty early on our lunch date. When she took the menu from our waiter I could plainly see a large diamond ring on her hand.

She really was pretty private. Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t like she was keeping a marriage secret this whole time she was working with Janet or anything. What Courtney explained was that that weekend, her longtime boyfriend proposed to her. I’ll give you a guess as to what her answer was. And she wasn’t the type of person to announce that type of news to her co-workers. Dejected was the closest word I could think to describe what I was feeling at that very moment she told me about it. Well, it’s the best word I could think of without making this part of the story too vulgar. We said our goodbyes and made our way to our respective departments; her to graphics and me to the deep dungeon basement of the mailroom.

“Are you all right?” Roger asked.

“She’s engaged,” I answered, slumping over my desk and banging my head on top of it.

“Is that right? I’m sorry.”

It was quiet in the mailroom for a few seconds save for the incessant hum of the neon lights overhead.

“I’ll be honest Roger. I’m thinking of quitting.”

“Kid, I know that finding out the girl you like is taken is a bit of a blow to the ego but I think quitting is a bit dramatic, even for you.”

“No, it’s not that—what do you mean ‘even for you’?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me in the morning. And yes, this isn’t a glamorous job. No one in their right minds would aspire to be in the position I’m in right now. But I had kids at an early age and never went to college. I got this job to feed my family and they kept adding to my paycheck until I realized I was damned near retirement. You got this job so you’ve got something to do until you get a better job. You have no family to take care of so why don’t you get a better job?”

“So what are you saying?”

“If you’re going to quit, you should know why you’re quitting. This isn’t about some girl though I expect that’s why you stayed. You’ve got a whole lifetime waiting to be lived, buddy. And I’d hate to see you waste it away in here.”

“So you think you’ve wasted your life in here?”

“I provided for my family. I did it with a mind numbing task that, let’s be honest, the company was just too cheap to buy a computer to do instead of me. But I’ve got a reason to be here. My son and two daughters, the youngest is about to finish college. College! They all got degrees even if their old man doesn’t.”

“That’s great, Roger. I didn’t know that. But my life to this point is pretty shitty.”

“Sometimes, life is shitty. A lot of times, in fact, it’s REALLY shitty and there’s nothing you can do about it. No matter how much you prepare or how hard you work, you’ll just find yourself hating where you are in life with no light at the end of the tunnel. And when you’re trapped like that you’ve got two choices: 1. Get out and put yourself in a position to be happier. Quit and start over somewhere else or 2. Find that one reason you should stay. And my one reason is my family. That’s the ONLY reason I’ve been here as long as I have.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“I couldn’t tell you either. Mark might have been an asshole who set us back a few months with the work he never did but he knew to get out of here. And I know you’re smarter than that jackass.”

“You’re okay with me quitting.”

“Don’t worry about me. I get a gold watch soon. If you do quit just do me and yourself a favor.”

“What’s that, Roger?”

“Quit because you’re headed somewhere better for you. And keep in touch. Now, let’s get the afternoon mail delivered.”

I stayed in the mailroom for another month before officially quitting. In that time I actually had a few more lunches with Courtney who had recently contacted me at my new job. She’s setting me up with a good friend of hers and we’re going on a first date this weekend. Roger retired and threw a large party to show off his new gold watch. It was nice to see him and Janet again.

“How long has it been?” Janet asked.

“Just over a year,” I answered.

“Wow, time flies. Roger says you’re doing well.”

“Um, yeah. Surprisingly, I am. I’m a junior copywriter at this ad agency just a few blocks from where you guys are.”

“Then it’s a good thing you left.”

“It’s a good thing I delivered that package.”

“What package?”

“The package I brought up when you blindsided me with a lunch date with Courtney?”

“Oh, right! I owed Roger a brownie recipe for that one!” Janet said as she laughed boisterously.

“I don’t get it.”

“We knew about your little crush on Courtney the moment you first laid eyes on her. I said you were never going to have the gumption to come up to our floor and just talk to her. He disagreed and said he could find a way to get you up there. I told him if he could get you up there then I’d fix you two up on a lunch date! And I said I’d finally give up my brownie recipe which I did. He still can’t bake to save his own life.”

“That cheeky bastard set me up!”

“He’s a clever old man. He turned a boring job into a beautiful family.”

“And a gold watch. So what was in that package if it wasn’t really from a client?”

“Let’s just say the head of the graphics department asked me to send a thank you not to whoever sent out the lovely box of walnut embedded charcoal.”

It’d be the easy way out to look at my time in the mailroom as a horrible slump in my professional and personal life. Sure the pay was shitty and there was no way in hell I was going to be moving up from that position in any foreseeable future. But the company I kept was pretty awesome. I did end up with a better job because of Roger’s little talk. He didn’t seem like a guy who would give out advice to people unless they were his own kids. Maybe he saw a little bit of his younger self in me and didn’t want me to make the mistakes he made. Or maybe he saw that what I was looking for wasn’t going to be found in the depths of the mailroom. Whatever it was, I’m sure glad he helped me find my way out.