A Straight Punch

Most people have come across someone or the other they would like to throw a punch at. But even in the heat of the moment, they realise punching the other is neither the most courteous approach, nor a viable solution to the problem at hand. As a college student, Walter Brickhill too knew about the impracticality of physical violence, especially when committed in an academic setting. Yet, by the time his third semester had concluded, he was infamous around the campus for knocking out three teeth of his peer Walter Robertson.

His namesake was a complete contrast to the aggressive demeanour of Brickhill. He seldom engaged in debates, let alone fistfights. He preferred talking out things in a more amicable discussion, with people not going at each other’s throats to score a point in front of a panel. In his life experience, he had found better ways to score points when he needed to.

One of the central tactics he relied on was sarcasm, much to the ire of Brickhill, who preferred talking straight to one’s face, and talking without taking a subtle dig at the other. But when brawns failed, the brains usually succeeded, something which the lanky Robertson had come to realise sooner than the ones around him.

It had been a sarcastic comment from the latter’s side about Brickhill’s boyfriend which set off the entire scuffle. They had been assigned to the same group to work on a project, which was why they found themselves in the company of each other in the first place. A few jokes about them sharing the same Christian name had become staple whenever they were around each other. Unlike Robertson, however, Brickhill did not treat the comparison with a smile of slight disapproval. He treated it with a frown, because he did not appreciate being likened to a man he thought he was nothing like.

“We aren’t the same”, Robertson had retorted that day. “I don’t hit people in the face anytime they say something I don’t like. Also, I’m the one who’s straight.” Suffice to say, Brickhill had not liked what he said. He punched Robertson in the face.

They had not really talked since then. It was one of those incidents neither found worthy enough to mention to someone in a position of authority at the university, for the simple reason that both knew they would not be treated kindly for what had gone down. It was a norm for the other witnesses of an event to stay shut unless someone approached them. Many did approach these witnesses, however, for these were two semi-popular people on the campus. They were the kind who were relevant enough to be interesting, and approachable enough to be at the centre of gossip.

By the time their batch passed out later that year, Brickhill’s punches had achieved a cult status, further fuelled by rumours of the three teeth which had been knocked out and fell on the floor as soon as he had done so. It was only one which had been broken, which Robertson had soon surgically replaced, but rumours were seldom true. He never attempted to change the narrative either, for he knew it was not wise for a naked man to clarify he was wearing transparent trousers.

As fate would have it, they went their separate ways soon after. Robertson had the grades and charm to get a placement at a corporate firm where rising to middle level management was easy, but progressing beyond it near impossible, as it often is at corporations. Brickhill took a more adventurous root, which was only appropriate considering his personality. He joined a start-up, but in a few years, he had matured enough to be one of its most important members.

When the two Walters went their separate ways, they also went to different parts of the country. Robertson earned more money in his job, which provided him the comfort of being with his family in his initial years, but his passion about career soon lost the lustre, receding akin to his hairline. His wife too divorced him in his late thirties and took custody of their children. Ever since then, his existence had been a tad bit morose.

Brickhill, on the other hand, never earned as much as consistently, but he remained a bachelor who travelled around the country on business trips. When his company received a notification which updated them about the proposal they had sent out to an established firm on the other side of the coast, there was an air of impending celebration around the office. They had landed a partnership with a prominent company based on the other coast after many months. It was only now that they could expand like they wanted to. Their company was already a household name when it came to electronic accessories in the regions they operate in. Soon, they hoped it would be the case throughout the country.

As usual, Brickhill was sent as the man to close the deal. Earlier, he was sent to be an imposing yet politically correct representative of the company. This would help the small business he had become a part of to get better deals with the big players in the market, which often tend to bully firms like his. But over the years, his reputation had grown and his temperament had improved alongside the reputation of his company. His demeanour was much more reserved now, with his aggression channelled in a positive manner into his work rather than into his words. At the same time, he had retained his skill of persuasion despite cutting back on the emphasis he gave to the wrong words.

On this morning, he found himself walking up the stairs of the branch office which housed the employees of the company he had come to make a deal with. He looked at his watch. He hoped to be done by the end of the hour. There was a shop on the other side of town he wanted to visit to buy something his friend had asked him to.

Once he took his own name and the name of the person he had his appointment with, the expression of the receptionist he was speaking with changed from one of neutral indifference to a nervous burst of energy reflected on her features. She rung up the concerned desk. After a few words and even more nods, she said, “Michelle will be here soon.”

She indeed was within the minute. She led Brickhill down the cubicles and to the other side of the office floor, where they stopped in front of a door which wore the plaque of “Regional Sales Manager”. Brickhill entered the room, shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and took out his papers.

A few minutes into what had turned out to be an easier discussion than he had predicted, there was a knock on the door. Brickhill stopped in the middle of making a point, slightly irritated that his flow had been disturbed. He was courteous enough to smile at the man on the other end of the table to indicate he did not have a problem with someone else entering the room.

“Please come in,” the manager said, in a tone which carried courtesy but no warmth.

The door opened, and through it stepped a man carrying more files than his lanky frame could carry. It covered his face too, which was why Brickhill did not think of looking at him for as long as he would have otherwise.

“Here is the paperwork you asked for sir,” the man said.

“And you’ve cross-referenced the details for that shop’s address like I asked you to?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. You may leave.”

But by now, the man who carried in the files had detached himself from the conversation, because he was instead transfixed looking at the man seated on the other chair. Brickhill too could not help but look at him with disbelief, for in front of him stood Robertson – only now, he was a lankier man, one who had grown a moustache associated with middle-management, and his eyes seemed to have lost the sheen which were his defining features during his college days.

The manager read the energy between the two of them but could not decipher it. “Robertson, this is Mr Brickhill, a representative of the company you’ve been preparing this paperwork for.” After just a moment, he added to his statement with a smile of achievement which comes only once you make an obscure observation – “Both of your first names is Walter. Not something you see every day, I suppose!”

“Not for a long time, at the very least,” Brickhill said. He laughed as he did so, regaining the composure he thought he would carry throughout the morning when he had first stepped into the building. Neither man gave any hints that they had known each other in a previous life. Brickhill offered his hand to Robertson, who took it. The latter’s hand was feeble, and his posture still tense. But after nodding at his college batchmate, he turned around without saying a word and left.

As soon as Roberston closed the door behind him, the manager said – “Well, he’s just one of the cogs in the wheel here. Competent enough, so can’t complain.” The manager intended this to be an informal remark which would dissipate any odd energy he had felt. Brickhill smiled out of courtesy. Then, they moved on.

It took them another half hour to finalise the specifics of the deal which had been struck up with the company long before Brickhill even booked his flight. Once the manager finished penning down the specifics, he said – “I’ll write up a final report, and senior management will send it your company’s way by the end of the week.”

It took them a few more pleasantries before Brickhill could get up, shake the manager’s hand for a final time, and be on his way. Michelle had been called to wait for him at the door. She had held it open when Brickhill rose from his seat. She guided him amidst the cubicles once more, until they had reached the exit of the office building. “We hear you declined the offer to use our company car which would have taken you to the hotel. Would you like to reconsider our offer, sir?”

“That is quite kind of you ma’am, but I’m afraid I have made plans to be elsewhere.”

“The car could take you to any place you would like in the city.”

“I prefer hiring a cab. It’s just the way I am. Gives me a better chance to look at the cityscape too.”

“As you wish sir.” She shook his hand out of courtesy on behalf of the company before leaving. Thus, it was only him when he started walking back to the main road when he found a familiar face standing a few feet away from him, smoking a cigarette.

Brickhill went up to him. “Hello, Mr Roberston,” he said. “Enjoying a break with your old friend I see.”

“Oh well, hello there, Mr Brickhill,” the skinny man replied with an equal measure of sarcasm. “How have you been on the other side of the country?”

Whenever Brickhill thought of his reply in the days to come, he wished he had exercised better judgement like he had learnt to on other occasions as the years had gone by. But in the moment, he did not. “Well, I’ve been wondering if you still get laid now that you’ve become middle management.”

At that moment, something must have snapped, be it from the years of resentment, or frustration, or even heartbreak. But this time, Robertson threw a punch of his own. Despite his lanky frame, it landed hard.

Suffice to say, Brickhill had to put off his visit to the shop on the other side of town because he needed to ring up one of his contacts and meet a dentist who could replace a tooth for him. Brickhill had lost just one from his set. And while this could not be called justice, Robertson would now be able to tell his own story where he had knocked three teeth off the other Walter in his own time.