Fiction

By Jay Scott Kanes

BEAUTIFUL numbers, mused Gilbert Cash, the president of Cash Galore Toys Ltd, thumbing through a sales report. Despite the global recession, attractive figures flowed before his eyes, more pleasing than any pornography.

“Not bad at all,” Gilbert murmured. Gripping the stapled pages with one hand, he used the other to straighten his silk necktie. Then he pushed his spectacles higher on his beak-like nose and smoothed the remains of his thinning blonde hair.

For the last quarter, domestic sales showed a 12-per-cent spurt. No matter what, children always pleaded for their parents to buy toys, and Gilbert planned to pressure every employee to sell more.

Leaning across an expansive desk, he jabbed a buzzer to summon his personal assistant. “Francine, come here,” he said a tad too loudly. When addressing underlings, he believed in using stern brevity.

Gently, the office door opened, and his newest assistant stepped inside. “Yes, sir,” she said in a near-whisper. Fearful to look directly at him, she stared at the floor.

Older and less curvaceous than Gilbert liked, Francine had taken the job on short notice. Last week, her predecessor had responded to some typical criticisms from Gilbert by bursting into tears, prompting him to yell, “You're fired, bimbo.”

Forty-eight-year-old Gilbert loved to wield power. Sure, he saw himself as a “fat cat”, but not in the sense of being overweight. He took too much pride in his looks for that. But his wallet and bank accounts bulged. Even national magazines called him one of Philadelphia's leading movers and shakers.

As a business big-shot, Gilbert knew the need for tough, decisive actions. He pointed to a chair near his desk. “Sit,” he said, and Francine obeyed.

“Draft a memo to our sales people,” he told her. We're hiking their sales targets by another 10 per cent.”

Nodding, Francine scribbled on a notepad.

“Have it ready for my signature this afternoon.”

Francine scribbled more.

“Now scram,” he ordered.

The assistant sprang up and returned to her desk outside the “big man's” office. Moments later, Gilbert followed her out the door and began a routine tour to each department. As always when passing the desks of his 210 office workers, all slaves to the dictator Cash, he found reasons to scold and scorn.

A newcomer in public relations had placed a photo of two children on her desk. “No personal items in the office,” Gilbert hissed at her. The mortified offender, her ears crimson in embarrassment, then dropped the framed image into a handbag.

“When you sit here, the company comes first,” Gilbert said through gritted teeth. He leaned so low that his dollar-sign-patterned necktie touched her desk. “In this building, forget those children. Understand?”

She gulped: “Yes, sir!”

In the logistics department, Gilbert spied a secretary snacking on a chocolate bar. Furiously, he rushed forward, grabbed the chocolate-covered wafer stick from her fingers and slam-dunked it into a rubbish bin. “How often must I say that food at desks is forbidden?” he yelled.

Staring wide-eyed, her gaping mouth still awaiting the sweet treat, the secretary stayed speechless as Gilbert rounded a corner into sales, the largest department. At a glance, he reckoned that fewer than half the sales people busily talked into telephones.

After momentarily glaring, he decided to remedy the situation. “Anyone not talking to a client within 20 seconds gets fired,” he proclaimed.

Hands grasped for phones. One burly guy jogged from the water cooler to his desk while groping into a breast pocket for his mobile phone.

“Keep making calls,” Gilbert ordered. “Never stop.”

Suddenly Gilbert remembered an imminent business meeting. From sales, he could rush downstairs to the parking garage and find his driver, presumably polishing the company limousine.

Pushing through a swinging door, he departed, quick-stepping to the stairs.  Suddenly an unfamiliar feeling hit him. Call it a weak spell.

Gilbert's vision wavered, narrowed and swirled. He saw the stairs, but had trouble to place his descending foot.

Whew! He tilted. The bulky wallet in his right-side thigh-pocket caught on a nail needlessly poking from the plastered wall. A tearing noise told of damage to his trousers, and the unexpected tug threw him off-balance.

Gilbert missed the first step, pitched forward and tumbled ass-over-teakettle downstairs. Pain filled his consciousness as he landed upside down on a cramped landing.

Ouch! What dismal luck! Damn! Gilbert squirmed, trying to turn upright, ready to stand. He couldn't do it. His left leg had twisted awkwardly. Something looked wrong. For an instant, he wondered what. Then he noticed the odd angle of his foot and a weird bulge at the ankle.

Grunting, reaching, he lifted his tailored pant-leg. Nausea engulfed him at the sight of an ankle bone poking through skin.

How could I be injured? Gilbert wondered indignantly. I'm too wealthy for such nonsense.

Peering back upstairs, he saw a face pressed to a window in the door there. Fleetingly visible, the face vanished too quickly for him to recognize anyone. Not that he knew every employee by name!

“Help,” he yelled feebly. “I've had an accident.”

The door stayed closed. No one else peered down.

“Hey, look here. On the staircase,” Gilbert screamed.

No one responded. “Help me,” he bellowed. “I'm the boss, ordering you. Call me an ambulance.”

His words echoed in the staircase. Someone up there had heard him. Gilbert felt sure of it.