Henry found getting up the next day harder than usual on account of his aching arm and lack of sleep. The lack of a second functioning hand made simple tasks like buttering toast a right chore.
There were still no coffee pods in the container. He was still unshaven. Gingerly sliding his shirt sleeve over his arm and clumsily tying his shoe laces just took too long. By the time he left the house, he was already frustrated.
He had made a cursory check in the passenger side of the car for his teeth, but came up empty handed.
Traffic, in its sardonic way, revelled in his discomfort and refused to yield even slightly out of sympathy. Everything was just taking longer. Every motion was agonisingly complicated.
As a result, Henry was late. Genuinely late. By anyone's watch or clock or telephone.
It wasn't surprising, but it was concerning. With a bit of luck, Mister Miro would not see him come in. It had only happened on a few occasions before, only a few times. Henry crossed his fingers as he crossed the road, scuttling a little faster than he should to get past the great, stooped statue and through the doors.
Miss Fisher looked up, “Hi, Henry.”
“Hi, Miss Fisher. How're you?”
“Fine thanks. How're you?”
“Can't complain. No one listens.”
“That's good.”
He did a quick sweep with his head. No Big M in sight. He was short, though, and could be behind a cubicle on the opposite side, ready to spring out.
“You need something, Henry?” Miss Fisher asked, adjusting her spectacles.
“Just, ah, just looking for, ah,” he faltered.
“Mister Miro is currently on the second floor,” she said with a wink, “You're in the clear.”
“Uh, that's not –“
“You're welcome. But you'd better hurry.”
“Ah, thanks. Um, thanks Miss Fisher,” Henry said, scuttling away.
He skulked along the cubicle partitions, like a commando behind enemy lines, leaping across the gaps and whipping quickly around the corners.
The troglodytes in their cubicles hardly dared to watch him as he went, in case they should be implicated in whatever he was up to. It wasn't normal behaviour, not at all, and such actions were sure to draw the attention of Mister Miro. They burrowed their noses into their monitors, shuffled their chairs about a little, anything to appear deeply concentrated in their work.
He was almost to the point of reaching his sanctuary, only one more block to go, when the photocopier kicking up gave him a start. He turned sharply around. There was a crack and a pop, and his leg buckled.
“Shit!” he groaned, reaching out to put his coffee on the desk before he dropped it, “Geez, that hurts!”
Geoff, eyes almost wide enough to be called open, looked over the partition, “That sounded nasty, Hank. You bust your knee or what?”
“Knee, ankle, one of the joints. What's the difference?” Henry replied, hauling himself up to his chair and rubbing his leg, “Either way it's screwed. Aw, geez. Look at that!”
His foot was hanging out at right angles, limp. He grunted and groaned as he tried to get it to wiggle even a little bit.
“Good thing the car's an automatic, eh?” he laughed, rubbing his limb to get some sensation into it, “I wonder what else can go wrong?”
He clicked on his applications and watched as the familiar progress bar appeared.
“You're in the wars, then?”
“Yeah. Never rains, eh?”
Geoff pointed to his hand, “What happened there?”
“Fell off.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
Geoff whistled and raised his eyebrows appropriately. He was a good listener, was Geoff.
Henry went on, “Made a right mess. Couldn't get to put it back on straight away, but. Had to go out and get bread and milk.”
“Figures.”
“And when I came back, the cat had had a go at it!”
“It's a fine thing you've done there, Hank,” Geoff said, examining the gaffer tape, “Looks like a proper job. Is it holding?”
“It's good enough for now, but there's still a little give when you move it like this.”
“What did Loretta say?”
“About what?”
“Your hand.”
Henry sighed, “Not a lot. She got me a plastic bag to put over it in bed so it wouldn't leak on the sheets.”
Geoff shrugged, “Makes sense, I guess.”
“Yeah. But every time I moved the bag rustled. Had to sleep on the couch because I kept waking her up. And it was sticky and sweaty. Hardly got any sleep at all.”
“Well, hopefully that'll hold proper, you know.”
“Yeah, I hope so. You think it's getting pink yet? I can't tell. It's like everything is going ping these days. Lost my teeth...”
“Still haven't found them?”
“Nah. They're in the car somewhere. I'll find them when I get two seconds. But then my hand goes and falls off. Busted my toe yesterday. Won't stay put. And now my leg! Oof, that smarts!”
“Looks like it's starting to swell. You want I should get some ice or something?”
“Thanks, Geoff. You're a real mate. I'd better check on the merger status first, but,” Henry replied, stealing a glance at his monitor, “Hopefully I can't do too much damage doing that.”
“Sucks to be you - whoops,” Geoff said, quickly sitting back down at his partition.
Mister Miro's corpulent face loomed through a gap in the partitions a way over. It was incredible. Geoff, after working at Atlas for so long, had the uncanny ability to sense when Big M would be wandering the cubicles, even if he didn't have a direct line of sight.
It was a super-power, it was. Some superheroes can lift cars, others can see through walls. Geoff had the power of prescience.
Henry snorted to himself as he thought about the other super-powers in the office. There was Janice. She had the power to stop conversations with her presence. It was like whenever she entered the room, the notion of talking about anything more significant than the weather just felt wrong. And Philbert could turn any joke around on the teller.
Perhaps everyone had a super-power. That was a pretty cool idea. Perhaps it was up to everyone to figure it out. Henry began to wonder what his super-power might be, but his thoughts were interrupted by Mister Miro's tapping foot. He looked up.
“Oh, hi Mister Miro.”
He replied coolly, “Hello, Ludlow.”
“How're you doing this morning?”
“I'm well, thank you, Henry.”
“Good to hear.”
“But I could be better.”
Henry did his best to hide the annoyance that was growing on his face. Not once had Mister Miro asked how he was doing. Not once did he ever show the slightest bit of concern for his well-being.
His hand had broken off, damn it! It was evident. It's not like he wandered around with blood stained gaffer tape as a fashion statement, or sported a buckled knee as a trend. Surely to goodness Big M could take two seconds to pull his head out from his rotund buttocks and take stock of how the people around him, those underneath him, were feeling.
“You know why I could be better?”
“I couldn't give a rat's arse, Big M, you pompous, fat wanker!”
That was what he desperately wanted to say. Instead, Henry only shook his head. He was an employee, and as an employee he had to be submissive and accept that Big M's title was higher than his.
Even if he was a pompous, fat wanker.
The only reason Miro and he even spoke, he had surmised, was because of the job. In any other setting, he and that balding, pale, flabby-faced cretin would never have had anything to do with each other. The job thrust them together, held them together like opposing magnets.
He shuddered. That was a terrible metaphor. That would imply that they were alike, he and Miro. And he was nothing like him.
“You know why?” Miro pressed.
Great. He wanted a verbal response. And he would not stop until he got it. He wanted that little piece of audible submission that reconfirmed what both of them knew, that Miro was his overlord and master so long as his tiny, black heart was beating.
“Why?” Henry managed.
Mister Miro paused, a little for effect and a little to let Henry's meek response stay in the air for just that bit longer. He licked his lips, leaned in and rested his arm on Henry's desk. Henry made a mental note to clean that spot afterwards.
“Because the merger hasn't gone through yet.”
Henry stopped himself from swearing, and he stopped himself from punching Mister Miro. He didn't, however, stop his eye from rolling in its socket, slowly turning with a soft, spongy sound until it stopped, looking at the inside of his temple.
“Ooh. Oh, wow!” Henry moaned.
Mister Miro continued unabated, “It's been a while, Ludlow, too long in my opinion. Mergers shouldn't take this long. It's not rocket science. Why, if I had taken control of it, I could have pushed it through a month ago.”
Henry held his hand up and clutched his eye, “We only began negotiations a month ago.”
“Nevertheless, I would have accelerated the process. I would have pushed! You know how to push, don't you, Henry? It requires effort. And I think that's why this is taking as long as it is,” he said, thrusting his finger at Henry, “You're not putting in any effort! I'm looking at you, and you know what I see?”
“Can you give me a minute with this?” Henry asked, scrounging for a tissue to sop up some of the juices that were spilling over his lid.
“No, Henry, you can deal with that later. Gosh, I'm imparting my wisdom to you and you're busy putting on your make-up.”
“Hell's bells! There's something wrong with my eye, sir!”
“There's something wrong with your whole attitude! If you had a different attitude, we wouldn't be having this discussion.”
“What? Mister Miro, the merger isn't going to magically go through if I hassle the client. That'll just piss them off.”
“See? You clearly don't understand what's required to get the job done. You haven't got the nous, the gumption, the instinct! And that's my fault.”
Henry, doing his best with a coffee stained napkin to hold his eye steady, looked back at Miro, “Your fault?”
“You're not a go-getter, Ludlow, you never were. And I knew this. I thought you could change, but you can't! I thought giving you responsibility might make you grow,” he seethed.
Henry stood up, “Mister Miro, my eye is really bugging me.”
“Sit! Sit down!”
Henry paused. His head was in pain. His hand throbbed. His leg was screaming at him. And Big M was just staring at him. He didn't care for Henry, that was obvious.
Just five minutes, Henry thought, five minutes of peace and quiet. Or five minutes alone in a room with Big M and a cricket bat. Either way would be good. Either way would yield satisfactory results.
He obediently plonked back down.
“Good boy. So, if you're listening... you are listening, aren't you?”
“Yes, Mister Miro.”
“I've reassessed your position on the merger. I've spoken to the Board. This can't go on any longer. I'm putting Roger on the case with you.”
“Roger?” he gawped, “Roger? But he'll...”
“Get the job done, I know. You could learn a thing or two from him.”
“But the client will respond any day now! He's got no input! It's a finished affair. Sir, there's nothing he can do or say that could possibly alter the outcome. The ball is in the client's court.”
“And when the response comes through, I think you'll find that it will be a favourable one. Roger has done this kind of thing before, you know.”
“I don't believe this!” Henry began, but he was cut short by Big M's famous victory voice.
“Believe it, Henry!”
“If you put Roger on... that will split the commission!”
“Money? Is that what your motivation is?”
Henry was fuming, “But – but I've done all the work!”
“Really? I've seen you sitting on your butt and complaining a lot. Doesn't sound like work to me. I've had you coming in late every day for a month. That's not work,” Mister Miro said, “Roger, on the other hand, comes in early. Roger knows when to push the client and when to back off. Take notes, Henry, he's worth at least two of – oh. Oh, pick that up!”
Henry's eyeball had wiggled its way out from its socket and popped out, flying in an upward arc. Henry had snatched at it as it flew through the air, but he only succeeded in knocking it over the partition.
“Really, Henry! You're a disgrace to the firm. How do you expect to function without an eye? And what's that smell?”
“Probably my hand. You see...”
“Get yourself sorted, Henry. And the next time I see you, I want you to be shaved!” Miro ordered, storming off.
Geoff peeked over the partition and handed Henry his eye back.
“Thanks, Geoff,” he said, brushing his eye off and attempting to insert it into his socket.
“Don't mention it. No, really. I had to fish it out from behind my monitor.”
“Explains the dust.”
“You nearly got it in my coffee.”
“Sorry.”
“Pah. You should know better, Hank, answering back to Big M like that. Anyone would think you wanted to share your commission with Roger.”
“I didn't – I don't. I worked my butt off for this merger. It's consumed my bloody life! What's wrong with this world, Geoff? Why can't something just go right for once?”
Geoff nodded sagely, “Things go right all the time, Hank. Just not for the right people.”
Henry made a couple more goes at getting his eye back in. After the third attempt, with a push, a shove and a squeeze, it noisily sucked in, bringing his eyelids in with it. It was a few more minutes until he had it happily sitting still.
“You alright?” Geoff asked, handing him a fresh coffee-stained napkin.
“You know, I envy that damn statue out the front.”
“Really? Why's that, Hank? He's got to carry the world. That's a pretty tough ask.”
“Yeah, but everyone can see that he's carrying it, you know. It's pretty bloody obvious. You won't catch anyone asking him to drop the Earth and go get some sodding milk and bread, you know? And if he complains of a bad back, people would nod and say, 'Well of course!'” Henry explained.
“And it looks like he gets plenty of exercise and fresh air,” Geoff mused, “Still, I reckon having pigeons poop on you all the time wouldn't be all that great.”
“Ha ha. Yeah. Yeah, I reckon that'd be pissing him off.”
Henry looked at his hand. The gaffer tape was getting loose around the edges and had picked up some fluff and dust. He pulled a few of the looser bits off and tried to pat it down. The corners refused to stay and spitefully flipped back up.
“Still. I reckon I'd do a sight better if I wasn't stuck behind this stupid monitor all day. A man needs exercise, you know. He needs to throw spears and wrestle and stuff.”
“You reckon you could bring a deer down?” Geoff asked, “Or a kangaroo? How about a rabbit?”
“Dunno. I'd give it a try, but,” Henry said, smiling to himself, “It'd make a decent change from this.”
He pointed to the cubicle that surrounded him on three sides. Geoff nodded, shuffled his finger under his nose, and let Henry ruminate.
“You know, it's not carrying the World on your shoulders that does it, Geoff,” Henry said finally, “because that's what we were bloody well built for. It's the little things. It's the friggin' little things that wear you down and grind you to dust. Mark my words. That statue won't get squashed, it'll have little bits chipped off it. It'll have the rain wear it down. The acid in the bird poop will rough up the surface. It'll have a crack that forms up its butt that'll grow bigger and bigger until the bugger splits wide open.”
“I hear you, mate,” said Geoff, “I hear you. Say, do you want to head over to the pub after work?”
The thought of a quiet drink in a dark bar, with no other sounds but the clanking of glasses and the rambling cricket commentator to interrupt his thoughts, was quite possibly the closest thing to heaven that Henry could think of at that moment.
“Yeah, I would Geoff. I truly bloody would. More than anything,” he said, letting out a resigned sigh, “But I can't.”
“That's OK, mate,” Geoff said, sitting back down in his cubicle, “Neither can I.”