The Best Laid Plans...
Now.
I am annoyed.
Sitting in this chair usually gives me a sense of peace, but today none comes. Jerrald’s becoming increasingly distant. There was a time when there wouldn’t be a thought he had that he wouldn’t want my opinion on. Now? The only things left to mark my standing in the hierarchy around here are our memories and this fucking chair. Old and useless all. He doesn’t hold them in such high esteem anymore.
I live in the moment. Always have. It’s a survival trait, really. Nobody was willing to teach me how to fish. So, I learned to barter for fish. Steal for fish. Fight for fish.
Is it a short-sighted approach? Maybe. But only if we went hungry. Thanks to me we rarely went hungry. I think of loyalty. I see none on display these days, because now?
Now ‘The Boss’ is obsessed with tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
Yesterday.
He calls me into his room. Says something about how we have to change the way a couple of things are working around here. Tells me I’m a bit too bullish for his future plans. Says I should settle into more of an advisory role and that he wants me behind the scenes more.
Me, behind the scenes!
As if I wasn’t the one front and center every time the world handed his ass to him. Seeking his vengeance. Taking his respect back from the troglodytes who’d left him standing around embarrassed, twiddling his thumbs. I am the Goddamn scene as far as I’m concerned.
I don’t say this to him, however. My words don’t carry the weight they used to. I’d just be wasting my breath.
I ask him instead what brought all this on. What spurred this newfound thought process. His response was simply, ‘The times, they are a-changin.’
I think, ‘Yeah, I’ve heard that song before.’ but don’t voice it aloud.
“Jackieboy, I’m bringing this guy in for an interview.” he says, holding up his hand to silence me. “Before you start, just listen. I’m bringing this guy in for an interview. His name’s Arthur.”
Arthur. Just what I need. Another pissant running around putting what we’ve built here at risk. I don’t bother trying to dissuade him. Instead, I ask a simple question.
“What’s this guy do?”
Jerrald hesitates for a second as if thinking of the perfect answer before he responds. “Well, I guess if I had to sum it up… He plans.”
“For?” I ask snippily.
“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Freddy’s going to pick him up, heh, tomorrow. I want you to escort him back here when he arrives. And fix your face, it’s not the end of the world.”
“I don’t have a face… Hell, I’m trying to figure out if I still have a voice at this point.” I respond defensively before turning and walking out of the room.
2 Hours Ago.
My cell rings. I look down at the screen to see Freddy’s obnoxious smiling face. I decide to let it ring.
And ring.
And ring.
Just before it’s sent to voicemail, I pick up.
“Jack, it’s me. We’re here…” He starts in his usual chipper tone.
I can’t stand chipper.
“What do you want pissant?” I ask, my usual salutation when dealing with this artsy little shit.
“Don’t call me ‘pissant.’” He replies dryly.
“So, sorry Fred. What do you want?” I counter.
“Don’t call me ‘Fred’ either.” He says growing increasingly annoyed.
This makes me laugh to myself. If I’m annoyed, he should be too. It’s not like he’s got prime real estate around here. The cheery way he’s taking the news bothers me. So bothering him helps. A little.
“You’re downstairs, huh Pissant, well-” I start before he cuts me off.
“Look, just come downstairs and get the guy, alright? I’ve got things to do.”
“Bring him up.” I say curtly.
“That’s not what The Boss said.”
“That’s not what ‘The Boss’ said” I repeat mockingly. “I said bring. Him. Up.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” He shoots back.
The fun is starting to wear off in this exchange now and I refuse to deal with this Prick’s insubordinance on top of Jerrald’s lack of respect.
“Federico, park your ugly ass car and bring the guy up here. Now.” I say icily. The chill in my voice freezes him for a moment before he responds.
“Alright.” He replies quietly.
“And be quick about it.” I say without shifting my tone of voice.
“I said alright.” he shoots back exasperatedly.
“Hey Fred, while I have you,” I begin, unable to resist, “how’s the hand doing?”
“Yeah, fuck you too Jack, bye.” He replies angrily before hanging up the phone.
I’d like to think he’ll thank me later for toughening him up now but I know he won’t. Nobody thanks me. History’s proving that fact as we speak. I get comfortable in my chair and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
‘Looks like the Kid’s not as hopeless as I thought.’ I think to myself quickly before getting out of my chair and heading out the door.
1 Hour Ago
I open the front door of our building to see a man in an ugly black Bowler hat sitting on the curb, his legs splayed out in front of him.
“You Artie?” I ask.
He pushes himself up from the ground, wipes his hands off on his jacket and removes his Bowler.
“I’d prefer Arthur.” He replies, extending his hand for me to shake. “You must be Jack.”
I ignore his hand.
“Listen Artie, we can stand here debating about what your name is all day or, and hear me out because the choice is totally up to you, you can be ‘Artie’ and make your interview. Choose.”
“A rose by any other name…” He says cheerily, clapping his hands together. “Lead the way.”
I don’t like Arthur.
We make our way into the building. As we climb the first landing he stumbles on the last step and I laugh harshly. ‘Good job, Jerrald.’ I think to myself, ‘You invite a klutz to take part in what we’re doing here.’
“So how many floors up is his office?” Arthur asks, embarrassed.
“Why, you winded already?” I reply.
“It’s impolite to answer questions with questions.” He says haughtily.
“And yet, here we are.” I respond indifferently. “We’ll get there when we get there, Artie.”
On the landing to the third floor, I watch as Arthur stops and stares at the walls as if entranced. They are covered in murals dedicated to Jerrald’s life. I show up in my fair share but truthfully? I don’t like any of them.
“Did Freddy paint all of these?” He asks, in awe.
“He did, but he didn’t live in any of ‘em.” I respond. “I thought you had a schedule to keep. Let’s go.”
We proceed up the next few landings in silence. I climb the stairs in the lead at a brisk pace, occasionally glancing backward to make sure I didn’t lose this current bane of my time. To his credit, he seems more than capable of keeping up.
I am unimpressed.
“So,” he begins after we’ve just cleared the sixth landing, “Freddy’s hand... He says you did that to him.”
“Fred says a lot of things.” I reply coldly.
“That, I wouldn’t know...” he starts anxiously, “Is it true?”
I stop short and turn to face him. I don’t like questions. I like them even less coming from a pompous stranger in an ugly Bowler hat but decide to answer anyway.
“The way I see it, Fred got off easy. If Jerrald had followed my advice, that pissant would be somewhere panhandling sans his painting arm.”
“It’s a good thing Jerrald didn’t see things your way then, huh?” He asks as if already knowing the answer.
I don’t respond but think of all the artwork Freddy’s put forth since our ‘lesson’ and have to say the Kid’s gotten a lot better. I don’t have to say this out loud, however.
“If you’re such a fan, buy his work. Otherwise, do me a favor? Lose the hard on for Freddy. I’d think you’d be more interested in finding out the types of questions you’ll have to answer on this interview.”
“Not really,” he says, “I know what I bring to any table I sit down at.”
“Yeah? And what’s that?” I ask annoyed.
“Plans. For tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.” He states confidently.
My vision goes red.
I don’t trust too many people. But I trust Jerrald. Until right now. Here’s the proof I’m being cast out. ‘An interview’ he says. You don’t quote a candidate’s cheap excuse for deep thought at me unless you’ve already decided. How could he decide without me. Betrayal is too weak a word here. I bolt up the remaining three flights of stairs without a backward glance.
I am waiting in the darkness of the 9th floor landing. My fists are clenched. My jawline is working steadily back and forth as my teeth grind themselves involuntarily in my head. I inhale sulfur; I breathe fire.
And I wait.
Shortly, I hear Arthur’s footsteps making their way up the stairs. I see him pause at the foot of the landing, place his Bowler hat on his head and begin to climb the stairs defiantly.
And I wait.
He has reached the 9th floor. I turn the lights on unexpectedly, forcing him to shield his eyes. I stare at him for a second, scowling. Then race towards him and kick him squarely in the chest, sending him tumbling back down the stairs.
I follow him. Grab his now unconscious frame by the scruff of his neck and drag him back up the stairs. Never letting go of his neck, I open the door to our sanctuary and toss him inside. I crouch down over him and tap him lightly on the face to rouse him.
“Hey Artie,” I say jeeringly, “Artieeeeeeeee, wake up.”
“What happened? He asks stupidly.
Blood trickles down his face before falling silently on the carpet.
“What happened?” I repeat after him. “Well Artie, you had a bit of a spill. You really gotta watch the top of that landing, it’s a doozie.”
“You did that!” He screams angrily trying to rise.
I place my left knee in his chest. We struggle a bit before I manage to pin his right arm with my right knee and hold down his left hand with my own. I can feel the smile creasing my lips now. There was a time once where there’d be a slight hesitation. That time is gone now.
I raise my right fist and strike him across the cheek. I raise it again before ramming it into his nose.
And again.
And again.
And again.
When I’ve satisfied my bloodlust, I stare down at him smiling before speaking. My voice comes out hoarse and ragged.
“Didn’t plan on that, did you?” I jeer.
I hoist him up and drag him towards Jerrald’s chambers. Without bothering to knock, I turn the knob and toss Arthur unceremoniously into the room.
Jerrald is incensed.
“Jackie, what the fuck man?” He screams.
“What? I gave the guy something to remember me by. For tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.” I reply.
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