Wil A. Emerson, author of “The Big Turkey”, has turned full time writer after leaving the health care field behind. A top five finalist for the Derringer Award in 2021, she has previously published short fiction in Thrill Ride Magazine and Black Cat Weekly, among others.
*****
Willard Rodman stood in the break room and watched the vendor fasten a low-density polyethylene bottle to its base. The clear jug had bright blue lettering on it and a black ring safety seal.
“Something new, huh?” He took a swig of water from his BPA-free bottle.
“That it is. But I’m not your routine delivery guy. I’m just the installer.”
“Installer,” Willard said. “So there’s a difference between the installer and the delivery guy, huh?”
“You bet’cha. Different pay grade. Set-up is a plum job, delivery guy works his way up the ladder.”
“Well, that’s the American way,” Willard said. “Start at the bottom, work your way to the top.”
“It’s a living. That’s about it.” A mass of blond spiked hair moved up and down as the animated installer talked. “Gotta pay the bills.”
“By the way, why are we getting a water cooler? Everyone brings their own liquids to work. Water bottles, jugs, toxin free containers. No one drinks from a tap. Water coolers went out of vogue twenty years ago.”
“Hey, you’re telling your age. This guarantees plastic out, water coolers in. Bring your own drinking container, sure, but no more throwing nasty bottles in the ocean.”
Willard laughed, “Well, fella, most here are pretty compliant about recycling.”
“Could be. All I do is install. Ain’t my problem anyway. I never go in the ocean.” He let go of a big laugh. “Get my water from the kitchen faucet.”
“Do you mind if I look at the work order? Just curious who ordered this.”
“Can tell you. Your boss lady.” He handed Willard the slip of paper.
Willard scanned it and then let out a sigh. “Damn that Helena. Making decisions by herself again.” He spun in a hurry. Heels clicked as he sped down the tiled floor.
He didn’t bother rapping on her door. A hard push. There she was, on the phone. He said, “What the hell, Helena. You could have asked me first.”
The woman at the desk put her hand over the phone and mouthed, “Not now. Go.”
Willard Rodman stood his ground. He wasn’t the kind of man to shoo away.
He didn’t bother rapping on her door. A hard push. There she was, on the phone.
She continued the conversation but repeatedly waved him off.
Willard took a side chair and settled his tall, husky body in the seat. He pulled a candy bar out of his jacket pocket, unwrapped it and started munching.
Helena’s eyes went wide. Again she covered the phone and mouthed, “Not in here.”
Willard didn’t shy away from an argument, but he did know what battles to pick. He kept right on munching the chocolate, nutty confection. It would be gone by the time Helena got off the phone but she wouldn’t waste time admonishing him about his nasty, unrefined chocolate habit. She obviously had bigger fish to fry than discussing cocoa butter verses cocoa powder and vegetable oil.
Her end of the discussion sounded rather heated as she struggled to pull someone in on her plan. “It’s a minor investment. What’s the big deal,” she shouted with not-a-nice-gal tone. “Remember, I’m Helena Jefferson.”
“Hell,” Willard muttered. “Moving money around again.” So soft spoken you’d think he was talking to a girlfriend.
“I’m calling in a favor. Let’s not quibble about ‘down the road’. Get it done.” After a few more seconds, Helena hung up.
“You’re still here? I’ve got work to do. Don’t you?”
“Sure, Darlin’. Thought maybe we’d go to lunch.”
“Not in the mood. A lot on my plate. Don’t you?”
“Ah shucks, I can put mine off until tomorrow.”
“That’s your mantra. Listen, if we’re going ahead with this plan, you’ve got to look industrious. Take a client to lunch. At least, look like you’re working.” She brought up her hand and back-waved her fingers, “Go, I’ve got work to do.”
“If you insist.” Willard chuckled. Some things worked out his way without a lot of planning or wiggling.
On the way to his car, he remembered why he gone to Helena’s office. Oh well, he’d ask her later. When he got in his black Chrysler sedan, he turned on a favorite station and pushed the volume to high. A medley of tunes, blue grass, strings and guitars, filled the air. Willard smile and then reached for the cell phone he kept in the glove compartment.
“How about a long lunch and some afternoon delight over in Hillsborough?”
He sped down the highway, a smile so wide a double hamburger would have fit in nicely.
Later that evening, he met up with Helena again.
“Your suit’s on the bed. Shoes shined. Twenty minutes until our Uber pick up. I’ve put notes in your pocket as to who is who at our table. Do your magic and memorize it on the ride over. Don’t take it out while we’re seated at the table.”
“That I will not do again, Darlin’. Big mistake last time. But everyone laughed.”
“Sometimes you win, sometimes you don’t. This deal is too big to blow.”
After the dinner and a round of drinks, the men went to the host’s library. Willard was pulled aside by one of the attendees. A man he didn’t know but heard a lot about. A stout fellow, barrel chest, broad shoulders and a southern twang that couldn’t be mistaken for anything but the real thing.
“Ya’all have what it takes. I got the money. Don’t want to mislead you but if you’re in for the win, you gotta play my way.”
“A win’s a win in my book,” Willard said. “I never think about losing.”
The truth was, he’d never thought about winning either. He took the opportunities that came his way and let other people manage outcomes. Why not? He had what he wanted. Did what he did because he could. Only a fool would do otherwise.
Of course, Willard knew Helena was on another course. That was her steam, not his. Always been like that. From college to marriage, to this very day. Didn’t she push for their first date? Not a popular gal, not a trouble maker, but had eyes on a bright future. Heck, one thing led to another. She kept hanging around. Then job applications, moves, the business deals. This office. She had a handle on the whole she-bang. Willard didn’t sweat over small stuff.
So here they were at a rich man’s house, eating fancy food, drinking brandy and talking about wins. But dang, there was something Willard wanted to talk to Helena about. Well, when it came back to him, he’d get right on it.
The next morning, Willard stayed in bed until nine and didn’t push to get to the office until ten-thirty. Helena, the type A gal, left at seven. Willard had a few things on his mind and somewhat of a hangover. Mid-morning, decent time in his book to start a workday what with the weather being hot and steamy. No sane reason to punch the ole time clock anyhow.
When he went to his desk, he studied the pile of briefs placed there yesterday, after he’d left for lunch. Strange, clerk must have made a mistake. Didn’t the important files go on Helena’s desk? He sat down and flipped through the first chart. Loan structure, default, bankruptcy. Boring. He closed the file.
He looked at a second one, recognized the name, a gal from Helena’s Women’s League. Not his business. The third was a court date notice. A check of his calendar confirmed it was the same day he planned on fishing with his B.B. Winter’s Band buddies. They always stopped at a great place that did barbeque all day. Delivered to your own fishing site along with cold beer and ‘shine’ if you were into it.
He pushed the receptionist button, “Hey, Sweetie, how about sending in a clerk and have her take these files to the boss’s office. These aren’t mine.”
With his day underway, he could concentrate on the afternoon. Golf? Awfully hot. The Marriott had a nice pool. Maybe he could book a room, have a nice lunch and then splash for a while. He could catch up on calls while lounging under a palm tree with a fancy fan blowing cool air on him. Remote work at its best. No reason to go it alone, though. He picked up the cell phone he kept locked in the bottom drawer and hit a speed number.
With his day underway, he could concentrate on the afternoon.
With plans confirmed, he went to Helena’s office. He didn’t knock, walked in and took the side chair. She waved him off and mouthed, “Not now.”
He took a pen out of his pocket, leaned on her desk, and wrote on a note pad, ‘LUNCH’. She grabbed his pen and wrote ‘BUSY’.
Not one to miss an opportunity or a meal, he blew her a kiss and backed out of the office. His day wouldn’t be interrupted.
When he returned home that evening, his face was all aglow. He’d fallen asleep about three, napped for nearly a half hour. The sun shifted position just enough to leave him exposed. He was tired, no excuses about that. Short night, light lunch, heavy activity with his lunch date. A man only had so much energy. But the half hour nap was enough fuel for a simple evening at home.
“We meet the Bradley’s for dinner at seven-thirty. Not formal. No jeans. No way.”
“Thought it might be a good evening to stay home.” He wanted to pop a frozen pizza in the oven. Helena’s day always left her too tired to cook. Store bought pizza worked fine for him.
“Not going to happen. And we don’t need a driver. The Bradley’s are teetotalers.”
“Too bad.” Willard sighed.
“It is a shame. I was looking forward to a couple of glasses of Chardonnay. Work overload,” Helena grunted.
Willard wouldn’t tell his wife he’d had his fill of Margarita’s at poolside that afternoon. What made him sad, though, was the fact he wouldn’t be eating pizza that evening.
The next few weeks ran in the same direction. Long days, increased hours for Willard to relax in the afternoon, evenings filled with dinners and new acquaintances. It worked well for him to have the briefs moved to another desk. An efficient process. Win-win situation.
Another month passed. Late morning, needing a snack, he went to the lunchroom. And there stood the water cooler installment man.
“So how’s the contraption working?” Willard asked.
“Not bad. Just an update for the stand. Fancy colors for the holidays.”
“The delivery guy doesn’t handle that?”
“Nope, union rules. My pay grade.” The guy smiled.
“More power to ya, Son. Gotta love America. Everyone gets a chance to climb the ladder.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said the guy. “Gotta elect folks who keep the unions going. They know how hard a man works.”
Willard patted him on the back. “You can count on that.”
When Thanksgiving week rolled around, three days from turkey day, Willard walked into Helena’s office. Still on the phone, she mouthed, “Leave.”
He said, “No.” Two things were on his mind. One he kept forgetting, and the other more pressing.
He stood his ground and waited for her to hang up. Then said “What are you up to? Don’t make plans for Thanksgiving. I want a real turkey dinner with stuffin’ and gravy.”
“Is that why you stormed in here?” she replied.
“Something else has been bothering me. Why in the hell did you put that dang water cooler in the break room? Everyone brings their own bottles to the office. Even me.”
“You just noticed it, Willard? For god’s sake. The Progressives hate cheap plastic bottles. The water cooler will be important on Thanksgiving. A work day for us. We’re announcing your candidacy here, in the break room, in front of the water cooler on Thursday. We’ll clinch those Progressives. A big turkey day for all. You’re going to win, Willard. Really big.”
*****
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