Spectrum #1

The sudden plodding of files on the glazed wooden surface of my table was almost like a earthquake, causing a seismic shift, where once peace and order had reigned. I snapped back in shock. Not too severely, but enough for the resultant sensation to last the better part of the next hour. The impact of the files knocked my folded glasses askew, and sent some of my meticulously arranged papers flying. The files at the top of the pile were sent tumbling to the floor in turn, spoiling the momentary perfection with which I’m sure they had been stacked for just this golden moment. Looking up to see who was responsible for such a brazen stroke, my face crumpled in disgust – Smuts.

A sinister smile etched across a pasty visage greeted me as my neck craned upward. For some reason, he seemed mighty pleased with himself – his default expression. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what it was this time, nor was I bothered. The gusto with which he had dumped a model high-rise of files on my table was the only thing that had brought our two estranged worlds into collision.

Moving slowly to restore my table to a semblance of its former pristine condition, I fumed, “What the hell are you doing?”
            “Sorry bro, these just came in,” said the nausea-inducing one called Smuts. “Boss wants these figures looked over by tomorrow.”

My jaw almost dropped at that, my ears, despite the softness of his tone, ringing like the great bell of the Notre-Dame at noon.

“Sorry? T-tomorrow?”

“Yeah bro, tomorrow. Clients don’t wait man, you know how it is. Boss says tomorrow, so it’s gotta be tomorrow. He’s meeting them in the afternoon. Make sure it’s done.”

I stared at him, not open-mouthed but definitely dumbfounded. If it wasn’t so horrible, it would have been hilarious. And that was exactly what was going on in my head – wasn’t sure whether it more apt to laugh or scream.

I wasn’t going down without a fight though. Several hours of onerous page-flipping and analyzing, answering calls, not to mention being deprived of my favourite salmon risotto (it’s amazing, trust me, has to be tasted to be believed) from across the street had soured my mood. At that point, I was probably the worst person to be around, and that was saying something in an office that would make a federal institution look positively cheerful.

“Why do I have to do it?” I demanded.

“Just came from the big man’s office, bro, he asked you in specific. What, you want me to go back in and tell him you refused?” he replied, with uncanny repose, as if my response was not unexpected. More disturbingly, it was as if he relished the idea of throwing it back in my face.

“Why not someone else? You’ve seen me, I’ve been here since the morning. What about Anders?

“Flatlined, bro. Submerged for the next few days, it’s crazy. Don’t think he’s gonna be free of that desk of his for a while,” he snickered, ridiculously lost in his own wit, running a hand through his black, slicked-back hair. “At least you get to go home.”

“So, yeah,” he said, flipping the top file page by page with his thumb and forefinger as he did. “Get it done.”

Having to suffer his smug face, not to mention his hand on my desk – my precious desk, my demesne which was now a congeries of loose papers, folders, CDs, stationery and whatnot – was enough to drive me up the wall. It was a feeling akin to a comet going off trajectory and then inexplicably exploding in mid-flight – a very violent explosion, right at the synapse of my entire being. Not exactly the best feeling to have.

Suddenly aware of the passage of time, I looked past Smuts’ shoulder to a clock hanging on the lacquered, white wall: 8 p.m.

Turning back to the repulsive creature still hovering over my desk, who stubbornly refused to deprive me of the privilege of being graced with his presence, I asked him, “Wait, so…how come you’re not doing it?”

“I’m done for the night, bro. Headed out,” he said gleefully, behind an insufferably fatuous grin. Before I had a chance to counter, a casual wave cut me off as he turned around to leave. “Later bro, take it easy.”

Of course he’s headed out. Martin wants to keep his pet happy. The boss treated Smuts like a proud owner would his prize stallion. Except that in this case, the stallion was more like an impetuous mare, reluctant to do anything, absolutely impossible in a team, knowing he was secure under the big man and not shying away from revelling in it. Ever since he joined, he had become something of a local kingpin, looking over others’ shoulders, instead of actually using his own for something.

Smuts. Bloody Smuts.