D A Novel (George Right) - By George Right Page 0,92
supporting role. Once I tried to call him 'Willie' and he said nothing, but looked at me in such a way that I immediately returned to 'Mr. Gills'. The whole following week I felt ashamed and worthless remembering it... Recently he was the general manager of the regional office of the corporation, and I was, accordingly, his deputy. And so three days ago two events happened. First, I turned 50. And second, Gills got one more promotion–to the very top, to the head office on the East Coast. There were rumors about it earlier, but he liked to keep matters secret till the last moment. And I had a feeling that this time he wouldn't drag me with him–and I was really sick of looking at his smug face for such a long time. I thought maybe this time I'd leave his shadow at last and become the general manager. So this bastard called me to his office... you, probably, think that he gave me the sack, and someone else got the job? No, Bettie, I got it. The top of my 30-year career. "Congrats on your anniversary with the company, Pete," he said. "And I have a gift for you–this office is now yours." And do you think I was happy? Fucking shit, like hell I was happy! Because I suddenly understood that it was the end. The last promotion in my life. I would leave this office only to retire. For 30 years I ran like a squirrel in a cage, and for what? The same fucking vanity, foolish and senseless fuss. I would keep on doing the same work from then on until they kicked my ass out to make room for someone younger. The salary would increase, but the headaches would increase, too–I couldn't work Gills style, foisting everything off on deputies. And while I stood there, thinking about it and listening to that whistle with which the train approaches the Cancer or Alzheimer's stations–guess what Gills thought, looking at my sour expression? This fucking son of a bitch got the idea that I felt sad about parting from him! "So it goes, Pete," he said consoling me, "it's sad for me to leave you, too, but in the new position I need somebody younger." And here I did what I dreamed about for many years. I smashed his face with all force I had. I think I knocked out at least five of his teeth, maybe even more. I wouldn't be surprised if I broke his jaw. I was beside myself with rage. When I hit him, he plopped in his chair which rolled back until it hit a wall. He sat and looked at me with bulging eyes, glasses half off, and blood on his chin. I cursed him for about four minutes. If his chair hadn't been on castors, I would probably have continued beating him. But he was too far from me and, besides, there was a table between us, so I was limited to words. I don't even remember what I said, but never in my life did I swear like that. Then I went out, sat in my car, and drove west. Before leaving the city, though, I stopped twice–once at my bank to withdraw my money and to close my accounts, and the second time at the post office to write and mail a letter to Margaret. I told her what I thought of her. Then I sent some more letters like that–to all addresses I could remember."
"And since then you've been going in one direction?"
"As you see, 18 years were enough for you to understand when enough is enough and I needed the whole 50."
"I think there's a difference. What will you do when you reach the West Coast?"
"I don't have any idea, Bettie, and what's the fucking difference!"
"But I hope... Pete, you aren't going to commit suicide?"
"Oh no. I didn't piss off everyone just to go and die. I'm free now and I intend to use it. You know, the day before yesterday I wiped my ass with a hundred dollar bill. But it was stupid–toilet paper is much more convenient. Things should be used according to their purpose. If a human were intended for death, in old age he would be wearing a coffin, like a crab with a shell. How do you like this idea, Bettie?"
"There aren't any coffins in nature. Nature intends dead bodies to feed other animals."