Cock and Bull

“I quit!”

Morgan stared at his face in the angled mirrors of the bathroom. He had been practicing the line in his own thoughts for more than a week. It was the first time that he actually said it out loud, and he made sure to say it in their upstairs bathroom.

“I…”

“Darling?”

Tracy was in the kitchen with her coffee and some of that green blended mush that Morgan would be forced to wash down with his toast and poached egg (no caffeine for you, dear; very bad for your health). He really thought she would not be able to hear him over the blender and the morning news.

“Just in the bathroom, dear.”

“Did you say something?”

Morgan came out of the bathroom, walked down the stairs to the main hallway and found his wife in her housecoat and sleeping wrap. Always on a Monday, he thought. At least she was not in the curlers his mother would wear through his high school years; that was a relief. Instead, Tracy was concerned about leaving her curls in naturally and letting a good night’s sleep do what it will under the silk wrap she kept on at the beginning of the week. An attractive woman still, he thought. No real need for extra makeup or masks yet. Would she ever become his mother? Terrifying…almost as much as what he planned next.

“Nothing, just a little prep for something coming up later.”

“Hmm…” She was taking another large sip, staring at the radio as he took a seat and listened to a news report on traffic that would not affect him.

“And I think that today is going to be something special.”

“That’s nice, dear.” She pushed the tall glass of spinach, Spirulina, and other elements that he could never place as he knocked it back. “Finish your drink and you can have your toast.”

Morgan smelled the toast cooking – she never burnt it – and considered his poison for a moment before imbibing the “swamp mix” (a label for it he never shared with her).

“Do you ever think about a life…change?”

She was absorbed in the progress of his toast. “What was that, dear?”

“A life change.” He took a brave sip from the glass.

“Life change… A change in life? I thought only women had to go through such things…”

Morgan knew that he had opened a huge and ugly path for a speech.

“I suppose men go through such things, too. Male menopause is such an ugly term, but that is what it is and you fellows are so bad at it. No getting around it. You dye your hair, wear clothes you never even fit in as a teenager, and do a lot of silly things to recover some fleeting thing that was never there…”

Tracy saw the toast pop up. A perfect shade of brown for him. He knocked back the mix and let his gag reflex settle. “Just a thought.”

“And an interesting one. Just let me know when it starts and I can get the camera ready.”

She smiled and passed over the toast and one single pat of butter. “We should record this.”

She really did love him, he thought. Morgan scraped the knife carefully over both pieces of bread. She really did care.

There was a reason why he was going to do it today.

*

It had been an easy ride to the office. Green lights led him on into the city centre, the parking garage was not packed and no one was double-parked near his number, the elevator was empty and finally working, and the mezzanine was not busy with human traffic.

“Morning…”

“Morning, Lyla. What is it with today?”

She had already returned to her cellphone – against company policy at the front desk – by the time she heard the question. “What?”

“It just seems so quiet today.”

“You complaining?” Her thumb worked very quickly on her Android (maybe Tinder, he thought). “I like this on a Monday. And it didn’t start like that.”

“No?”

“Naah.” She finally put the phone face down, letting a vibration move it on the desk blotter. “The big boss and some of his boys went upstairs about two hours ago. Not sure what it was all about, but it looked like they were having a celebration.”

Morgan stared at his watch. 8:30 and that after a good traffic-free commute here. He was early but still missed something.

“Great.”

“What?” Lyla was back to the phone, staring through bifocals into a blue reflection.

“Nothing. I just wish they would tell us about these things.”

Lyla snorted a bit and caught her laugh. “Us? The low-hanging fruit? I am amazed they remember to pay us on time. Don’t press your luck, Mr. Mann. We don’t really count.”

She leaned back in her ergonomic chair and stared at her screen, ignoring the empty space around them and Morgan’s smile. He felt strangely happy about their chat.

“Thanks.”

He was at the second elevator without a response by the time she put down her phone, stood up and turned to see him go up.

Another very interesting sign…

*

A quiet Monday was not a surprise. Morgan knew that there would be a general meeting in the conference room discussing the upcoming plans for the week and all of the accomplishments achieved and desired. The only surprise in the hallway was that there were no trolleys passing him by with trays of food, coffee and papers for the office. And, as he turned and saw the glass-walled room, he saw how empty it was. Not a single person was inside the grey room. No lights were turned on and the computer system was not activated.

Not a soul.

Morgan walked down to his office.

And then he heard laughter.

This was not coming from the boardroom he just passed, or any of the smaller offices near his. No, no, Morgan thought, that was from the main auditorium. That was when he knew that this must have been an important day and that he was going to be in trouble. Not a single memo mentioned that there would be such a gathering of staff that day. The main doors were several hallways down from his spot, and he knew that there were doors set on this floor and at the bottom of auditorium leading out past Lyla and the front desk. So, with a quick double-step, he made it to one of the top doors, noting that it was ajar.

There was a speech being given. Morgan knew that it was probably Mr. Larry speaking (formerly, Mr. Balsam, but he was always a Mr. Larry to the drones, thought Morgan). He had been his boss for over a decade now and Morgan could barely stand to hear his voice when he was called into his office, called out during their weekly meetings, or attending one of their needed retreats and picnics every spring and summer (“for company morale” was the official reason; to keep track of all the gossip, the staff guessed).  Morgan stood in the dark of the vestibule and looked down. Most of the staff were in the first three rows and had already had their coffee and…was that cake? He could see a trolley with two large urns and a box from a local bakery that had been taken apart. There was also another trolley that was untouched with a box that was unopened. The staff was in a good mood that day. Morgan did not step inside.

“And yes, we tease him so, but nothing could really get done without our own Eminem…sorry, Morgan Mann – easy to make that error – running things from his department.”

Lame as lame jokester (Morgan wondered who wrote that one for him).

He was glad to be in the dark. He was glad he had practiced his line.

“And we do tease him, yes. Yes. That is true. But remember, folks: you only hurt the ones you love and I hope that this cake is perfect for the birthday boy who always shows up exactly when he’s needed, where he’s needed. 9 on the dot…”

They remembered…?

They remembered his birthday? They actually cared?

He heard all of them laughing and standing up as he retreated back to his office. And that was when he decided to change his plans.

*

Lyla barely saw him. She would tell Mr. Balsam later that he had been in early but had not stepped out that day (her job was over within the hour). Tracy would say that she thought he had been acting strange that morning. None of his coworkers could possibly imagine why that Monday had been any different for their favourite employee. The garage and the workspace clearly showed that he had been there and then left.

For his part, Morgan needed time to think through what the day had brought him. A long pull of Johnny Walker Dark helped, but the bar would not be open all night, especially on a Monday when the owner was wondering why this guy in a suit showed up around noon and cried to himself after the first drink. No, no, no…he had a lot to think about when he finished that first drink. Tears of joy or anger? Harder to say now. It was getting harder to say anything, especially the words he had planned for his day. There would be other times for it, perhaps. The line was still his.