Hamburger

Before becoming a millionaire, Mr. Typical worked as a broker in Wall Street. Not quite as the ‘wolf’ but a broker nonetheless. And no, he didn’t make a fortune by bilking or milking his maybe-customers.

On a typical day, he would sit by his desk patiently when the bell rang for the day. Beside him his colleague, who always came in wearing some form of corduroy would do the same for the time being. On his other side however, the guy who didn’t have a single hair out of place on his head – all shiny, glued for the day would be married to his computer screen, watching numbers and concomitant graphs move – some flailing, some too uneasy or perhaps too obdurate to disclose any change. Some however, took an untimely plunge - not necessarily tangible to the naked eye but enough to set him off.

Unlike Mr. Typical, fine hair guy would jump at his dialler by then, which meant that it was time to work his charm, that he was to sweet talk his ‘I don’t give a damn about you, just do what I say’ customers.

And they did what he said. Most of them, at least – those who didn’t know better, those who you could call pushovers, those who were hoodwinked, those who genuinely believed (as in their respective first times) in fine hair guy’s sharp, authoritative, coaxing voice. Even among those who weren’t moved by fine hair guy on phone – one meeting, one look at fine hair guy – his face, his perfect beard, his prim suit, his pointed boots and of course his emanating hair – and they capitulated – they never stood a chance. Beware of this fine hair guy for if he sets his eyes on you – you’re done for. Funny how this guy didn’t become a millionaire but Mr. Typical did.

Taking a cue from the surging passion of the fine hair guy close-by and among the hustle and bustle of the office, corduroy guy would pray to his gods for the final time – he would touch his forehead, touch his chest, twice, kiss his fingers, bring his receiver to his forehead, quickly touch that with his temple and start talking as soon as the beep went – albeit in a far less compelling tune. But he did his best.

Sat between them two, Mr. Typical would still be unmoved, sunk in his chair, resting his face on his palm, occasionally pressing against his maxillary sinuses. He was one of – let’s just say big fish guys. He wasn’t bothered with small chum change – he thought big and that he did spectacularly.

Fine hair guy never believed in what Mr. Typical said but was too busy to oppose him with counter arguments that might have shattered his faith in himself, that might have stopped him from eventually breaking it big, that might have saved his life eventually.

Corduroy guy would be stuck in between with his opinion - equivocal for who would not want to make it big and then make it bigger or make it big and be on vacations forever! So, on the fateful day when he spoke up, even before the bell had rung, that he had the biggest fish ever, that fine hair guy and corduroy guy should join him too – neither of the two were moved by Mr. Typical.

That should have been the end of it but on the fateful day Mr. Typical seemed passionate – at least more so than he usually was. He went over to others in his office, those whose faces were familiar but whose names he hardly remembered. Being rebuffed by a couple of them he went to Mr. James and said, “You must see this too, right? Right!” 

Only it was actually Mr. Jarrod and he replied, “Calm down Mr. Typical. Have some water. Did you take your pills?” But he didn’t need any pills. Neither was he worked up. Neither did he lose it – at least, not in his head.

“Oh bugger off! It’ll be your own loss.”, he had said before going back to his seat between corduroy and fine hair guy who said, “Sympathy is a big thing Mr. Typical. Besides, it’s not gonna fall so easily. It needs something more drastic.”

By it he meant the stock price of Good Motor Company which according to Mr. Typical, was going to become a ‘graveyard market’ which meant that the share price would fall so drastically that it would be a literal graveyard for anyone foolish enough to not have traded and still owning their stocks of said Good Motor Company.

Mr. Typical had literally bet his bottom dollar on it happening but his office guys didn’t believe in this conviction of his and thought he was going crazy and that he needed some stupid pill – which was irritating at first but when Mr. Typical thought how, very soon, he was going to laugh at all these naysayers, it filled him with tingly excitement – ‘Told you so Jarrod’, or ‘who’s a fool now? Who needs to calm down now?’ he thought as he sank in his chair resting his face on his palm, not needing to press against his maxillary sinuses.

Before all this, before fateful day and before sitting between corduroy and fine hair guy for the day, Mr. Typical would wake up in his typically small apartment with about a thousand needles pressing against his skull. It would take him a while to realise he was awake, that the nightmare was over for the day and then with a sudden rush of blood to the head – as all the veins in his head started popping and beating ever harder with every subsequent pulse, he would spring up from his typical bed, ready to smash through things from this pain and to stop this pain. Luckily – actually, learning from past bashings of cupboards and medicine boxes, he kept his pills by his head with a bottle of water, uncapped. Two small pills was what he usually needed and with a squawking sound his sinus block would open up and he would become a typically typical guy.

He didn’t always have these thousand needle piercing pain every day as he woke up. He’d have it after a flu or a cold but gradually it grew worse to the point where he would have these attacks every morning – sometimes during the day too, for which his smiling face-serious voice doctor prescribed him two pills of Sumatriptan 50mg every morning and more for when and if he needed them during daytime.

So on the fateful day, when he woke up, it took him a while to realise he was awake – not for the pain but the sheer lack of it. He couldn’t remember the last time he had such a good sleepy sleep. 

Then he remembered .

It was the day he graduated. He thought he had bottled the tests but when the results were declared, by some stroke of luck, by some super natural powers at work, he became a business graduate – although marginally, only just, but a grad nonetheless.

Now he put last night’s takeaway hamburger in the microwave without having to take any pills. On TV the beautiful news anchor was talking about Good Motor Company, about how among allegations on such such embezzlements, such such internal policies and violations, stipulations it was going to merge with Better Motor Company, about shocking development when Mr. CEO of Good Motor Company had blacked out, collapsed during a press conference but was now okay as it was a pre-existing Coronary Artery Disease (CAD), about next time where he’d speak that day in a place close to Mr. Typical’s workplace before concluding the merger.

This mention of CAD caught his attention. He was sure that he had heard of it somewhere, that it wasn’t any long forgotten family member but that he had heard of it, definitely. 

This was when he took out last night’s takeaway hamburger on plate and tried to sit down on his typical couch when he fumbled and lost his hamburger. He was helpless as it tossed, revolved and fell down. 

But with some super natural powers at work, it landed with the plate underneath, intact. 

He looked up at his TV screen – Good Motor Company – among allegations of such such embezzlements – merger – that’s it!

He would buy every share of Good Motor Company he could with the last penny from his savings. He wasn’t going to hold back and play safe like corduroy guy and was definitely not gonna jump ships like fine hair guy. He would ensure that his put option was on place so when the prices collapsed, he could still sell high and then buy again at the cheapest and then inevitably, eventually cash in once it stabilised. 

By then he would have caught the biggest fish yet, the one that ensures vacations ever after!

But nobody believed him on that fateful day and certainly nobody joined him on his endeavour.

Despite all the good fortune leading up to when the bell rang on the fateful day, Mr. Typical couldn’t laugh at his office guys when the market opened. He couldn’t rejoice even after an hour, after he traded his stocks and anxiously waited for the plummet.

“Any moment now.”, he smirked at fine hair guy. But of course he was too busy himself to pay any heed.

An hour then another hour after that, there was hardly any change in Good Motor Company’s numbers. 

And the pain of the needles slowly but surely crept up. First it was some ten needles, then it was twenty or thirty, then suddenly a five hundred and finally two thousand needles all up in his skull, around his temples, piercing in and out with every heart beat.

Any moment now, Jarrod would laugh at him. Corduroy guy might join in on the fun if he found a respite from his own clients.

But they didn’t. As if, they never really gave Mr. Typical’s antics any chance – which they never did but still, it was even harder for him to swallow. He couldn’t take it anymore and burst out of the room.

He opened his Sumatriptan packet and gulped down two pills while trying to haul a cab – such a wearing task! It was this fateful moment when he noticed that somewhere on his Sumatriptan packet it read, ‘Contraindications : CAD, such such such’. 

He had to Google it to know what it meant.

When the search results came, so did the coveted cab. But much to the disdain of the taxi driver, Mr. Typical moved away . He remembered fine guy’s words, ‘sympathy’, ‘something drastic’ as he did. Mr. Typical would now transcend being typical.

*****

Twenty bucks, a promise to return (which he did) and the story that he had to meet someone inside who couldn’t come out himself was all it had taken to get a reporter’s ID from a ‘not so interested’ looking journalist.

Anyone hardly noticed him when he went in, got close to the podium where Mr. CEO would stand, slipped a pill worth of Sumatriptan inside the only glass of water, put on the lid and walked out.

He was sure that the cameras were off, that Mr. CEO would take a sip, that without the merger the stock price of Good Motor Company would crash, that he would finally break it big.

And that he did spectacularly. But even more spectacular was how SWAT had moved inside his typical apartment and had swatted him away soon after he had become big. 

Presently Mr. Typical perhaps Mr. Atypical by now, was inside a confinement cell awaiting trial. He was ruminating, trying to find out where it went wrong – the not so interested journalist? Were the cameras on somewhere? Perhaps Jarrod? Out of jealousy? But how could he have known? It couldn’t possibly have been fine hair guy, could it? – when his meal was deposited in the window tray. It was a stale appalling hamburger.

Suddenly he fumbled and lost his tray, his hamburger. He was helpless as it tossed, revolved and fell down – with the tray beneath, intact. He realised he didn’t have any migraine either!