The Promotion

THE PROMOTION 

BY P.V. Drumm

            Damon’s shirt is crisp and clean. The suit, he borrowed, but it fits him. It fits him so well no one will know. The promotion that Damon worked on for two years is waiting for him atop a desk, on the fifty second floor, in his downtown office building. He went to bed early last night.  He ate a reasonable breakfast. He was easy on the coffee, to avoid jitters. He kissed his wife goodbye, but she doesn’t know yet. She doesn’t know that they already offered it to him. He’s going to make it a big surprise. No more ramen for dinner. No more taking the bus. Company car from now on. A black one. In the garage, right now. He just signs the agreement and he can at last feel like all this work paid off. He signs the paper. They slide him the keys, he drives home. Maybe get flowers first? A bottle of wine? He sighed. 

Right up there on the good old 52 floor. The promotion is already his. He simply needs to sign on the line and his life changes forever. After years of grunting and sweating under a wary life, it is finally happening. He’s at the building early wandering the lobby, taking it all in while he is still a commoner. Ha, ha. He laughed a little too loud at himself. No. Damon, Remain humble. 

He took a deep breath and touched the two, nice, shiny, silver, pens in his jacket pocket. A mentor of his once said, “Damon, you keep two pens in your pocket at all times m’boy. Nice ones. Metal. Something shiny. And make sure they always have ink. Test them. You see, everybody needs a pen at some point in any meeting. And inevitably, some jack ass is going to forget one. Or worse, be seen with a goddamn, plastic, hotel pen. Weakness. You pull out a nice pen and hand it off, entrusting a stranger with your nice pen. Boom. Power move. But wait. Now you got no pen. That’s why you bring two. Not only are you kind hearted, you are also prepared. So you reach down and pull out your own, equally as nice pen. Now, you own the room. You’re in charge. You are a neutron bomb and you can take that meeting any direction you want.”

Damon held his phone up to his face and played a video of himself saying “You are a fucking, neutron bomb, now go get that promotion!” He looked at the clock on his phone. Okay. Ten minutes till the big signing. He put the phone in his jacket pocket with the pens and made his way to an elevator about to leave. “This one is full honey.” A kind, face said as the elevator doors squeezed closed. Damn. He fixed his hair in the reflection of the doors. “Bing!” Doors  of another elevator opened, inviting him inside. Empty. Good. Calm down. “It’s already yours.” He said quietly. He took a deep breath and pressed the button with a 52 painted in gold. “Executive, level please.” He said to an imaginary operator, grinning. He swooned with self pride. The doors hesitated slightly and then banged closed. Whoosh. The elevator climbed. “We have lift off.” He said into his hand. A loud, whooping, suddenly buzzed and beeped on his phone in his pocket against the pens. He touched it to turn it off. The alert came again. Louder and longer. “Better silence this thing. No need for distractions.” He said pulling it out and clicking the little button on the side. The alert came again. He attempted turn it off. He tried to silence his phone, by patting the screen. The alert screamed on and on. He shook it saying, “Damn you.Turn off!” Then silence. The phone went dead. The screen tuned black. Nothing. 

A rumble like thunder shook the elevator. Boom! The lights went out. The elevator car stopped abruptly. Throwing Damon in the air and slamming him to the floor. He could  hear screaming all around and then silence. Another rumble. Closer. 

The car dropped. An amusement park ride sensation, shuttered through Damon’s belly.  He was falling. The car hit something cracking the the sides and stopped. It creaked and groaned fell again. Damon screamed as it descended. With a powerful, crunch, it stopped again. Hard and final this time. Tilted askew and lodged between floors. Damon crumpled against the side. Pulling himself up he asked, “Was that an earthquake? Jesus, was that an earthquake?” His voice echoed off  the Mylar. Pain in his side clenched his jaw. He broke down crying. “Was that an earthquake? Somebody? Was that an earthquake?” He touched his pained side. Wet. Blood. He’s hurt. He looked under his jacket, drawing it open with shaking hands. He felt at the wound. One of the silver pens had stabbed him between his ribs. The realization frightened him.“Help is coming Damon. Just hang in there. It’s just a little earthquake. No big deal.” He reassured himself. “They happen all the time…Wait.” He whispered. “We don’t have earthquakes here. Do we?” He scanned in the darkness to turn on his phone as the pain made him wince. No response. He poked it, slapped it and then finally threw it, sobbing . “Please. Just call for help!” His phone did not respond.  Safety lights flickered on above briefly, and then off. Then total darkness. Another rumble. The car shook. “What the hell is that? Hello! Help!” He pushed the emergency bell. Nothing. Light peaked in through a small crack in the doors. He pulled his limp body over to the light. He pushed his fingers in between the rubber and shattered glass of the doors. He pulled with all his strength and pried them open. Scooting to the edge gently, he looked over the edge to see he was perched on a column of concrete and steel high above a demolished landscape. He could see the destruction far off in the distance. Half crumbled, spires and skeletons of structures were all that remained. No movement on the ground. Just piles of rubble. No sounds. No screams, No signs of people. No signs of life. A smoke, white, sky. He could just barely make out two dark, flying airplanes turning into dots on the horizon. 

The End