by Andrew Koop

“Good Afternoon, you’ve reached The Bridge, your innovative decor solution, how can I be of assistance today?”

“Yes… I’m calling to speak with Mr. Marcus.”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“I’m calling on behalf of…”

“You know…I just realized Mr. Marcus is in a meeting. May I put you through to his voicemail?”

“Uhmm…”

“Great. Just one sec…”

Israel Sandine knew all the protocol. In fact, he was on what central HR liked to refer to as “The Bridge Fast Track.” He smiled for a moment thinking of the bewildered salesperson listening to James Marcus’s voicemail greeting — rethinking his pitch. He rubbed his lightly creased forehead and chuckle slipped from this throat as the phone rang again.

“Good Afternoon, you’ve…”

“This is James Marcus.” He sounded like a sleepy Anthony Hopkins — deprived of a hotel room. “I’m having a problem… with my sliding…desk…drawer.”

“Sir…Mr. Marcus. The phones…”

“Call me James Marcus, young man.”

“It’s that I am the only one…”

“Forward the phones. I find this drawer…unsatisfactory.”

“Yes, sir. I”ll be…”

“And bring lubricants.”

Israel hung up the phone, simultaneously pressing the FORWARD key — blinking lights traversed the sleek switchboard. His eyes stretched wide with more disbelief than usual.

He climbed out of his large leather chair with an extended squeak and walked along a long row of designer cubicles. The big lobby clock struck three and the rustling of paper and swiveling of chairs drowned out his footsteps. The walls of the spiral staircase up to the the fifth floor were decorated by framed awards and plaques — increasingly polished testaments to arrival and Fortune 500 status.

The fifth and top floor smelled like vanilla frosting and rich coffee. Beautiful women bustled by clutching file folders to their bountiful, near bare bosoms. They catwalked rapidly down the long accent-lit hallway — each aiming to outdo the other, needing desperately to impress the big guy, James Marcus.

Marcus’s office contained surround sound speakers and flat screen surveillance monitors. He sat surrounded by more regalia: bronzed customer testimonials, free conference merchandise, and multi-colored jars of salt water taffy.

“Sit down, lad.”

Israel nodded and took a seat in front of the large titanium desk. Marcus pulled out a drawer with his right hand; it squeaked like a tiny mouse. His face contorted in a skunk sniffing sneer.

“We can’t have that now can we?”

“No sir.”

Israel pulled out a can of WD40 from his designer jeans. He was seldom unprepared for even the most idiosyncratic of requests. One squirt and the drawer slid back without incident.

“I’ve got something else for you today,” said Marcus. “It’s off-site…might take you awhile”

A sizable lump surfaced in his throat and he scratched his ear. Looking away from Marcus, he gently banished the frog from his larynx.

“I have secured some investment…property. Slight problem — some trees block a…lovely lake view.”

A five second pause chilled the air.

“You need me…”

“I’ll need those taken…care of.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kelly Clarkson’s voice burst into the air.