Chapter 3
My new boss wasn't exactly happy the following morning after I told him I would be gone for a few days.
“What?” he practically screamed. “You can’t go now! We have that murder trial and the president's coming to town!”
We were talking on the phone. I called Brewster Harris from my cell phone while packing. I pictured him standing in his office, dressed in his fancy new suit with a pair of suspenders that were definitely needed, not worn just for a fashion statement.
Brewster was a large man who bought everything too big, thinking that made him look skinnier. He was in his late 40’s with a head of hair that was the color of a new snow. Brewster tried everything possible to return the color of his hair to black but all of his experiments failed miserably and burned all the hairs beyond repair.
He had the gut of a man who had drank too much beer over a lifetime. Brewster had skinny arms and legs, but made up for it with the belly and a rear that seemed to grow bigger daily.
His face would be red, the way it always got when things didn't go his way. I knew he was probably running his hand with the pinky ring through his blistered hair, giving him an excuse to make one of his frequent trips to the john to look at himself in the mirror.
"Mirrormatic" is what a few of my coworkers call him, but not to his face. Brewster had to blow up once or twice a day, usually at somebody who wasn’t there or who would not stand up to him. If it was somebody with half a spine, he begged and pleaded instead of screaming.
“It looks like my father’s dying,” I reminded him for the second time.
“Hold on a sec,” Brewster replied. He liked to put his hand over the phone while talking and say something to whoever would listen, then roll his eyes. I knew he was doing that now to an editor or whoever was unlucky enough to be in that office that always smelled like bad breath and a body odor no amount of soap or cologne could erase.
I continued throwing some clothes in my travel bag, hoping I didn’t need half the stuff that was packed. I still figured my father would make a miracle comeback by the next church service or if one of his cronies wanted to go out to dinner, then I could slip back to Tulsa and deal with Brewster.
“Okay, where were we?”
For one of the few times as an adult, I wanted to scream at another person. Since it was my boss, I decided to let it pass and remind him what we were talking about.
“You just can’t go right now,” Brewster said. “Couldn’t they put him on life support or something until you can get there?”
If I cared more for my father, it would have hurt. I could imagine the reaction of somebody who really loved a dying parent getting told by a boss that it was as simple as putting the parent on life support until the employee wasn't needed, then he could go visit.
I usually do whatever is asked of me without arguing. This is training that came from my father. I always hate to argue, had only done so with my father and the three wives that had come and gone. But this time, I was getting ticked.
“Listen up, Brew,” I finally responded, calling him that name because he hated it. “I’ve missed work two days in ten years. I have two months of vacation built up and enough sick leave to be gone until the first frost. I’ve gotta go.”
I could picture Brewster’s face getting all contorted from being referred to as “Brew”, and also because he wasn’t getting what he wanted. Only the higher-ups and his chaps were supposed to call him “Brew”, not somebody lower on the food chain.
“Mike, I really need you, man.”
Now the goathead was trying to charm me. My father was supposedly off dying somewhere and my boss was trying all these techniques to get me to stay. He had hollered at me, suggested putting the old man on life support until it was convenient for Brewster to let me go and now was begging.
I couldn’t decide whether to laugh, cry or really get hacked. I didn’t like to cry, since I was a guy and told all my life that men don’t show tears. It also wasn’t all that funny. So I just got mad at him, one of the worst hires since I started working for the paper. It had been with quite a bit of fanfare when Brewster was hired from a paper some paper closing down in Denver three months ago. He was supposed to be the greatest editor our paper had ever been blessed with.
It didn’t take long to figure out that was not entirely true. Three people had already left, replaced by idiots who didn’t know the difference between a noun and a verb or ever seen an AP Stylebook.
“I don’t believe you,” I practically shouted on the phone. “Transfer me to Mister Bates.”
Ronald Bates was the big boss around the newsroom. He was above Brewster and spent half his time chewing out my new boss for being such an idiot.
“Hold on,” Brewster pleaded. “I can let you go but you’ll need to get back quick.”
“My father IS dying,” I reminded him. “If he goes soon, we would probably like to bury him and that would take a couple of days if it wouldn’t be too inconvenient to you.”
Brewster was pacing the hall now on his cordless phone. He was the only person in my department to have one, mainly so he could have the phone to his ear and walk around, looking important. I heard his footsteps going in a fast pace, then a door open.
“Hang on a sec,” he asked, then I heard what sounded like a zipper opening and what appeared to be a river flowing. It dawned on me that Brewster was taking a leak while talking to me. He let out a little moan and that was too much.
“I'll call once I find something out.”
The water finally stopped, followed by the sound of a flushing.
“Where were we?” he asked.
“I promised to call when I get there.”
“Good,” Brewster added. I knew he was looking at himself in the mirror now and anything I said would go in one ear and out the other.
“Hopefully it won’t take over a couple of weeks.”
“That’s nice.”
The comb was out by now, every hair being put in its exact place. This would take a good ten minutes. The building could be on fire and a nuclear warhead headed toward Tulsa, but he wouldn’t budge until that mane was finely tuned. I could tell Brewster anything right now and he wouldn’t have a clue.
“I hope a bird craps on your head today.”
“Thanks, you have a good day and I really hope, you know, your mother doesn’t die or anything.”
Chapter 4
“What?” he practically screamed. “You can’t go now! We have that murder trial and the president's coming to town!”
We were talking on the phone. I called Brewster Harris from my cell phone while packing. I pictured him standing in his office, dressed in his fancy new suit with a pair of suspenders that were definitely needed, not worn just for a fashion statement.
Brewster was a large man who bought everything too big, thinking that made him look skinnier. He was in his late 40’s with a head of hair that was the color of a new snow. Brewster tried everything possible to return the color of his hair to black but all of his experiments failed miserably and burned all the hairs beyond repair.
He had the gut of a man who had drank too much beer over a lifetime. Brewster had skinny arms and legs, but made up for it with the belly and a rear that seemed to grow bigger daily.
His face would be red, the way it always got when things didn't go his way. I knew he was probably running his hand with the pinky ring through his blistered hair, giving him an excuse to make one of his frequent trips to the john to look at himself in the mirror.
"Mirrormatic" is what a few of my coworkers call him, but not to his face. Brewster had to blow up once or twice a day, usually at somebody who wasn’t there or who would not stand up to him. If it was somebody with half a spine, he begged and pleaded instead of screaming.
“It looks like my father’s dying,” I reminded him for the second time.
“Hold on a sec,” Brewster replied. He liked to put his hand over the phone while talking and say something to whoever would listen, then roll his eyes. I knew he was doing that now to an editor or whoever was unlucky enough to be in that office that always smelled like bad breath and a body odor no amount of soap or cologne could erase.
I continued throwing some clothes in my travel bag, hoping I didn’t need half the stuff that was packed. I still figured my father would make a miracle comeback by the next church service or if one of his cronies wanted to go out to dinner, then I could slip back to Tulsa and deal with Brewster.
“Okay, where were we?”
For one of the few times as an adult, I wanted to scream at another person. Since it was my boss, I decided to let it pass and remind him what we were talking about.
“You just can’t go right now,” Brewster said. “Couldn’t they put him on life support or something until you can get there?”
If I cared more for my father, it would have hurt. I could imagine the reaction of somebody who really loved a dying parent getting told by a boss that it was as simple as putting the parent on life support until the employee wasn't needed, then he could go visit.
I usually do whatever is asked of me without arguing. This is training that came from my father. I always hate to argue, had only done so with my father and the three wives that had come and gone. But this time, I was getting ticked.
“Listen up, Brew,” I finally responded, calling him that name because he hated it. “I’ve missed work two days in ten years. I have two months of vacation built up and enough sick leave to be gone until the first frost. I’ve gotta go.”
I could picture Brewster’s face getting all contorted from being referred to as “Brew”, and also because he wasn’t getting what he wanted. Only the higher-ups and his chaps were supposed to call him “Brew”, not somebody lower on the food chain.
“Mike, I really need you, man.”
Now the goathead was trying to charm me. My father was supposedly off dying somewhere and my boss was trying all these techniques to get me to stay. He had hollered at me, suggested putting the old man on life support until it was convenient for Brewster to let me go and now was begging.
I couldn’t decide whether to laugh, cry or really get hacked. I didn’t like to cry, since I was a guy and told all my life that men don’t show tears. It also wasn’t all that funny. So I just got mad at him, one of the worst hires since I started working for the paper. It had been with quite a bit of fanfare when Brewster was hired from a paper some paper closing down in Denver three months ago. He was supposed to be the greatest editor our paper had ever been blessed with.
It didn’t take long to figure out that was not entirely true. Three people had already left, replaced by idiots who didn’t know the difference between a noun and a verb or ever seen an AP Stylebook.
“I don’t believe you,” I practically shouted on the phone. “Transfer me to Mister Bates.”
Ronald Bates was the big boss around the newsroom. He was above Brewster and spent half his time chewing out my new boss for being such an idiot.
“Hold on,” Brewster pleaded. “I can let you go but you’ll need to get back quick.”
“My father IS dying,” I reminded him. “If he goes soon, we would probably like to bury him and that would take a couple of days if it wouldn’t be too inconvenient to you.”
Brewster was pacing the hall now on his cordless phone. He was the only person in my department to have one, mainly so he could have the phone to his ear and walk around, looking important. I heard his footsteps going in a fast pace, then a door open.
“Hang on a sec,” he asked, then I heard what sounded like a zipper opening and what appeared to be a river flowing. It dawned on me that Brewster was taking a leak while talking to me. He let out a little moan and that was too much.
“I'll call once I find something out.”
The water finally stopped, followed by the sound of a flushing.
“Where were we?” he asked.
“I promised to call when I get there.”
“Good,” Brewster added. I knew he was looking at himself in the mirror now and anything I said would go in one ear and out the other.
“Hopefully it won’t take over a couple of weeks.”
“That’s nice.”
The comb was out by now, every hair being put in its exact place. This would take a good ten minutes. The building could be on fire and a nuclear warhead headed toward Tulsa, but he wouldn’t budge until that mane was finely tuned. I could tell Brewster anything right now and he wouldn’t have a clue.
“I hope a bird craps on your head today.”
“Thanks, you have a good day and I really hope, you know, your mother doesn’t die or anything.”
posted by Craig Hall at 6:00 AM
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