Getting Higher (18 page)

*****

Chapter Twenty-Eight

 

The next morning, Joe awakened in Rocky's apartment. Bleary and muddled, he felt a boulder in his gut and a throbbing headache mashing the tissue in his skull. Groaning, clutching his temples, he rolled over on his blanket on the floor and looked through the open doorway of Rocky's bedroom. Through bloodshot eyes, he saw his pal, snoring loudly as a cyclone with his head at the foot of his bed.

Joe thought back, remembering the party. He and Rocky had stayed until 2:30 in the morning, Rocky unconscious in a corner and Joe drinking whiskey with some truckers. When he had finally decided that it was too late to stay any longer, Joe had left, gathering up Rocky and an extra beer on the way out. He had to work the next day, this day, and had wanted to make sure that he woke up in time for his shift. It was Saturday, so Rocky didn't have to worry about rising early; he never worked weekends at Donaldson's. Joe, however, worked six days a week, from noon to seven o'clock. If he wanted to keep his lob, he had to make it to work on time, so he had to take the initiative to drive Rocky and his car back across town.

The thought of work spurred him, kicking Joe to sudden consciousness. Quickly, he sat up and gaped around the apartment to see what time it was. There was a clock above the stove in the kitchen area, and Joe strained to see it. Daylight glowed through the curtains on the window, so the apartment was fairly bright, but he still couldn't quite read the numbers on the clock; it was too far away and too small for Joe to analyze from his blanket. Finally, he stumbled to his feet and limped toward the stove for a closer view.

"Holy shit!" he shouted at last, as the clock came into focus. "It's fuckin' one o'clock!" He was late for work, an hour late and still counting. His shift had begun at noon.

Galvanized, he raced through the apartment then, trying to get ready as fast as he could. His job was on the line, now; Burger World's penalty for extreme tardiness was immediate dismissal. Once before, Joe had seen somebody fired that way, for being late. That guy had only been twenty minutes late, though, and Joe was over an hour late already.

He flew into Rocky's bedroom and scooped his jumbled uniform from the floor. Puffing and panicky, he tore off his jeans and T-shirt and started thrusting the crumpled Burger World clothes onto his body. Pants, shirt, ugly orange cap, all went on in a matter of seconds. On the bed, Rocky moaned softly and muttered something under his breath.

Joe dashed to the bathroom and urinated. He rinsed his face at the sink, the cold water helping him to wake a little more. Gazing into the mirror, he noticed the day's growth of stubble on his chin and jaw and grabbed his razor; then, remembering how late it was, he dropped the razor with a clink into the sink. Spitting from the bathroom like a cannonball, he threw himself on the couch and rammed his feet into his dingy brown work shoes. Then, he was out the door.

*****

Frantically, Joe raced to Burger World, panting and gasping and driving himself onward. His head still thundered from the hangover, and his eyes were sore and burning. Halfway to the restaurant, he got a horrible cramp in his right side and had to clutch the painful stitch and grit his teeth to keep going.

It was sunny and warm outside, a pleasant day, and many people walked along the sidewalks, going about their business. Some of them stared curiously at Joe as he whipped by in his garish outfit, but Joe was too involved in his desperate race to notice or care.

He finally reached the restaurant and plunged through the doors, stumbling breathlessly inside. Hastily, sputtering, he ran across the dining room, through the door marked 'Employees Only' and into the kitchen. Feverishly gaping, expecting trouble, he saw Mike flipping burgers at the grill.

"Where the hell you been?" glared Mike, clearly peeved at the lateness of Joe's arrival.

"Uh, sorry, man," puffed Joe, still out of breath. Charging through another door, he headed for the back room to get his timecard and punch in on the clock. What he saw there, however, made his heart sink abruptly.

Standing beside the clock, glowering angrily at Joe, was Mr. Gurney. He was a man of medium build, with broad shoulders and thinning brown hair. He wore a blue, button-down shirt and a tie with green and yellow stripes; Gurney always seemed incapable of picking out clothing that matched. He had a fierce look in his eyes, fiercer than normal, the look of an enraged tyrant. His arms were folded tightly against his chest, and his legs were planted stiffly to the floor like tree trunks.

Joe froze in his tracks, realizing that his luck had again taken a nasty turn. Why did it have to be
Gurney
? If Mr. Stevens had been on duty, Joe would at least have had a chance; Mr. Stevens, though demanding at times, was a fair man, more likely to give an employee a mere warning instead of a pink-slip. Gurney, though, had a quick temper, and enjoyed exerting his power and firing people.

"Good morning, Mr. Jones," Gurney purred snidely. "Or should I say 'good afternoon'? Or 'goodnight,' perhaps?"

"Uh, hi," was all that Joe could think to say.

"So, Mr. Jones, how are you today? Did you sleep well?" Gurney liked to beat around the bush, to play games when he had caught somebody breaking the rules. He liked to toy with his prey, to slowly work his way up to the final punishment.

"Not really," mumbled Joe, trying to think of some way to get off the hook.

"Well, we've been waiting for you, Joe," sneered Gurney. "We've been waiting for you since
noon
. We've been waiting right through the lunch rush, in fact, with only one cook in the kitchen. That's pretty funny, isn't it, Joe?" In his right hand, Mr. Gurney held a timecard, presumably Joe's. As he spoke, he absently fondled it, turning it over in his grasp. "Since
noon
, Joe. How long ago was that, do you know?"

"Uh, no, uh..."

"Hey, Mike!" called Mr. Gurney through the doorway into the kitchen. "How long's it been since noon? Joe here forgot how to tell time."

Mike slowly turned around, his eyes cool and resentful. He hated Gurney a great deal, had often griped about the guy during his shifts in the kitchen with Joe. He had worked for the sinister manager for three years, and had put up with too much of his abuse as a result. "I don't know," he said, evenly.

"Come on now, Mike," hassled Gurney. "Just look over here at the clock. See? The little hand is on the 'one' and the big hand is on the 'six.' What time is that?"

"One-thirty," said Mike, smacking a burger onto the grill.

"And what time was Joe supposed to start?"

"Noon," answered Mike, stiff and emotionless.

"So, how late does that make Mr. Jones? It's easy, Mike!"

Mike hesitated. "An hour and a half," he droned at last.

"Very
good
!" crowed Gurney. "Thank you, Mike!" Grinning like a bandit, Mr. Gurney waved the timecard in Joe's face. "There you have it, Joe. You're an hour and a half late. You know what
that
means, I bet."

"Cool it, man," muttered Joe. "I got a reason for bein' late."

Gurney beamed, pulling his lips back in exaggerated delight. "Oh, good. Let's hear it, Mr. Jones. It better be good."

"My friend died," Joe said slowly. "He got killed by some asshole, an' the cops hauled me in for questioning. We were best friends, man, an' now he's dead." Joe thought of Crank's smashed body, of Benny's leering face, of the misery that he'd known; it wasn't too hard to pretend that it all had happened only yesterday. "Is that good enough? Is that a good excuse, man? My friend was murdered, and the cops thought I did it? Maybe you'd like me to get down on my knees an' beg? Is
that
what ya' want me ta' do?"

Gurney just watched and said nothing, his features unreadable.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Mr. Gurney," Joe continued sarcastically. "What now? You gonna' fire me? You gonna' fire me 'cause my friend got
killed
?" His fists clenched and his voice shook wrathfully, full of grief and force and fury.

When Joe finished, the kitchen fell silent. For a moment, the only sounds were the crackling of the fryer and the popping of burgers on the grill. Grimly, Joe stood and scowled at his persecutor. Mike watched, cool and detached, from his place at the grill. Gurney seemed stunned; he stood by the clock with a blank expression on his face, Joe's timecard held limply at his side. All the gleeful venom had apparently drained from him, leaching away like the air from a tire.

Silently then, Gurney turned and slipped the timecard back into its slot alongside the clock. Without saying a word, he marched past Joe and through a door toward the dining room. The door flapped back and forth behind him.

Joe stepped confidently to the clock, plucked his card from its slot and punched in. Replacing the card, he turned and walked to the grill. His hands shook a little as he picked up a spatula, but he felt a rush of relief because the confrontation was over.

"Way to go, man," said Mike, patting Joe on the back. "You told
him
off."

"Yeah, great." Numbly, Joe flipped a burger.

"You told that cocksucker
off
," smiled Mike. "I've been wantin' to do that since the day I
met
that asshole. Way to go."

"Yeah," said Joe. "Thanks a lot."

*****

That night, Joe trudged weakly home, exhausted from both his work and his ordeal with Mr. Gurney. That evening, Burger World had been so busy, he'd had to stay overtime, and by the time he made it back to the apartment, it was nine-thirty.

Rocky was waiting, as usual, drinking beer and watching television. When Joe plodded through the door, he glanced up and grinned.

"Hey, Joey," he greeted. "What's up?"

"Nothin', man. Nothin'." Joe slogged to the bedroom to change his clothes. He stripped off the smelly orange uniform, which was coated with grease and sweat, and pulled on his old pair of jeans.

Tossing the uniform on the floor, he walked out to the refrigerator. He got himself a beer and popped the tab, and then the phone rang.

Sipping some beer from the can, Joe went to the phone and picked up the receiver. The ringing stopped and a familiar voice piped into his ear.

"Hi, Joe!" It was Shelly; her voice was high and excited, dancing from the receiver like windchimes or bells. "Guess what?"

"Uh, what?" muttered Joe, too tired to be interested in whatever she had to say.

"I got you an
interview
!" shouted Shelly. "With Harry Donaldson, Joe! I got you an interview for a
job
!"

Siphoned and disshevelled, Joe absorbed his girlfriend's news. He knew that he should feel happy, since he might finally get a good job. At last, he had a chance to escape from Burger World, to escape from Mr. Gurney. Best of all, he might get more money, might not have to work for chickenfeed anymore. He should have been ecstatic.

He wasn't, though. He was numb; he didn't feel anything. If anything, Shelly's thrilled, strident voice was getting on his nerves.

"Oh, that's great," he told her. "That's really great."

"You
bet
it's great! The interview is tomorrow morning at eight o'clock, so you can still make it to work when you're done! You already know where the office is." Shelly squealed delightedly. "Oh, Joe, I'm so
happy
for you!"

"Yeah," he said blandly. "Me, too."

"I'm coming over right
now
, Joe!" she boosted. "We've gotta'
celebrate
! I'll see you in fifteen minutes!"

"Okay. See ya' later."

Shelly hung up, leaving silence in her wake. Listening to the vacant, open line, Joe was still unmoved.

*****

Chapter Twenty-Nine

 

When the bus pulled up to the entrance of Donaldson Trucking, Joe got out and walked up the wide, short road into the compound. As he strode toward the building which housed the main office, he heard the big vehicle rumble away into the distance. If Rocky had been working that day, Joe could have ridden to Donaldson's with him; Rocky had the day off, though, because he had to fill in for someone during the weekend, so Joe had been forced to take the bus.

After a short hike, he found himself in the waiting room outside Harry Donaldson's office. Shelly wasn't at her desk, and Joe hadn't seen her since he'd entered the room; as he waited, sitting in a blue plastic chair, Joe wondered where she might be. The night before, she had promised him that she would be in the office during the interview to give him moral support.

The minutes dripped away like water droplets from a spigot. Joe looked at the receptionist's desk, Shelly's desk, which squatted to the right of Mr. Donaldson's door. He looked at the wall clock, its second hand ticking relentlessly onward. He looked at the worn, brown carpet. He gazed at his shoes. He stared at the ceiling, the white fluorescent light strips there, the dimples and kernels in the plaster. Quickly, he grew restless, noticing that it was already ten minutes after eight, ten minutes after the time when his meeting was supposed to start. He wondered if his interview had been cancelled, and why Shelly hadn't called and told him if that was the case.

Then, the door to Mr. Donaldson's office finally opened, and Shelly appeared. When she spotted Joe, her face lit up like a matchstick.

"Joe!" she smiled, striding quickly to stand in front of him. "I'm glad you could make it!"

Joe smiled in return but didn't feel the same joy and affection that Shelly displayed. "Yeah, hi," he said simply, nodding once, rising from the chair.

"Come on," said Shelly eagerly, leading him by the hand. "Mr. Donaldson's ready to see you now." They walked back through the door from which Shelly had just emerged and entered the inner office of the boss. It was a large room, but sparsely furnished; there was a desk at one end, two plastic chairs facing the desk, and a row of filing cabinets lined neatly along one wall. The only other decoration in the room was an amazing explosion of paper. There was paper everywhere, piles of paper, sheafs and stacks and bundles and folderfuls of paper. Heaps of paper spread sloppily over the desk, swaddled both of the chairs, protruded from the filing cabinets, sat like ottomans on the carpet. When he walked in, Joe nearly tripped on a pile beside the door, barely avoiding kicking it over.

"Hello, Mr. Jones," said Mr. Donaldson from behind his paper-strewn desk. "I'm very pleased to meet you. You come to me highly recommended."

Shelly giggled and nudged Joe's arm with her elbow.

"Have a seat," said Harry, motioning for Joe to sit in one of the chairs. "Here, I'll take those," he said, indicating the mound of paper swelling from the seat. Joe lifted the pile of sheets and handed them over the desk to Mr. Donaldson, who then dropped them haphazardly on the floor. "Paperwork," he nipped glibly, settling back in his black vinyl swivel chair. "The curse of a successful business. The curse of
any
business, for that matter."

Joe nodded and chuckled, pretending to enjoy the joke. Behind the forced laugh, though, he felt like leaving and going home. He was nervous and uneasy, didn't want to continue with the interview. Suddenly, he felt uncomfortable and disoriented and wondered what he was doing in that office. Something moved in the back of his mind, something that had been festering for a very long time.

Shifting restlessly in the hard plastic chair, he examined Mr. Donaldson. The owner of Donaldson Trucking was in his late forties or early fifties, with a salt-and-pepper crewcut and bronze skin that was starting to show wrinkles. He had a strong, square face, with bright green eyes and prominent cheekbones. He wore a white shirt and navy blue tie and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows; he had a broad, muscular chest, thick arms, and just the trace of a spare-tire gut. Overall, he appeared to be a pleasant but formidable man, supremely confident, easily capable of building the trucking empire that he had spawned.

"So, Mr. Jones, I hear you're interested in working for me." Donaldson tilted his chair back, thoughtfully appraising the applicant before him.

"Yeah," shrugged Joe. "I was thinkin' about it. Shelly here..." He turned to point at his girlfriend, but she was gone, had surreptitiously slipped from the office and closed the door. "Uh, Shelly mentioned you had a job open," he said, awkwardly turning back to face Donaldson.

"Mm-hm," nodded the interviewer. "We do. There's a position open right now for an assistant foreman. Would you be interested?"

Joe's eyes widened and he sat a little straighter. "Assistant foreman?" he repeated incredulously. "I thought it was, uh, somethin', uh..."

"Something lower, Joe?" Donaldson smiled amusedly and leaned forward over the desk. "Look," he said conspiratorily. "I need an assistant foreman. I need one now. I don't especially care whether you're qualified or not, son. If I like you, you've got the job."

"I don't get it," frowned Joe, still baffled by the offer. "Why aintcha' promotin' somebody that's already here? I mean, they been workin' here a lot longer than I have...or will be, or whatever."

"Don't talk yourself out of a job, son," smirked Donaldson. "I have my reasons, count on it. One of them's Shelly. I trust her, and I'd like to help her out. Another reason is the union. They're threatening to strike, and I don't want to give them a leg up by hiring another union boy. Plus, I'm too damn understaffed right now. I'm real short-handed, and I'm in trouble because of it. I need people, good people, to get this place in the black again. This is a chance, Joe, a real once-in-a-lifetime chance. No other sane businessman is gonna' hire some boy off the street like you for a job like this, no way. You're real lucky, son."

"Yeah, but I won't know what I'm doin'," stammered Joe. "I don't got no experience."

"I'll
give
you experience, see? You're gonna' have on-the-job training, night and day, from me and everyone else. This won't be a bed of roses, but by the time we're done with you, you'll be the best damn assistant foreman who ever worked here. If you work hard, you'll
go
places with me." Donaldson smiled at Joe. "Well, what do you say?"

"Could I think about it?" asked Joe, feeling confused. "I mean, I don't...I'm not, uh, sure. Could I call ya' tomorrow and let ya' know?"

"Nope," said Donaldson flatly, wagging his head. "One way or another, I've gotta' know right now. Way I see it, you don't need any time to think about
this
one. You're already getting more breaks than I've had in my whole damn life. Besides, I've got lots of other people on my list. I've got plenty of unemployed relatives, and a bunch of guys more qualified than you. I'm giving you first dibs as a favor to Shelly, understand? She's been with me for a long time, and she's almost as responsible for this company's success as I am. Make up your mind, 'cause the chance won't roll around twice."

Joe paused and thought, trying to sort it all out. He knew that he should take the job, that he'd be crazy to reject Donaldson's offer. It was a great opportunity, a chance for more money and a better life. If he worked hard, and made a good impression on the boss, he could probably move up through the company; it would be a good job, and his girlfriend was a friend of the boss. He knew, without a doubt, that Harry Donaldson was right, that he would never have a chance like this again in his entire life. Yes, he had to take it, had to jump on the offer without hesitation. He had to say 'yes.' His whole future depended on that one word...yes yes yes yes YES!

"Well?" asked Mr. Donaldson expectantly.

"No," said Joe.

"What?" frowned Harry Donaldson. "Are you kidding me? Do you realize what you just said?"

"Yes," said Joe.

"You don't
want
it?" fumbled Donaldson, grimacing puzzledly. "You really don't want the job?"

"Nope," answered Joe.

"You dumb bastard. You dumb fucking bastard."

"Thanks anyhow," said Joe, rising from his chair. "I appreciate the offer, man," he nodded, reaching over to shake hands with Mr. Donaldson.

Bewildered and offended by the refusal of his generosity, Harry just glared and wouldn't take Joe's proffered hand. "You
blew
it, son," he muttered, scratching his cheek. "You must be a damn idiot."

Joe smiled slightly and shook his head, then shrugged and left the room. Relieved, he walked into the outer office and closed the door behind him.

"Well?" asked Shelly excitedly, jumping up from behind her desk. "Did you
get
it?"

"Nope," he said simply, shrugging again. "I didn't."

"
What
?" she jolted, stunned and disbelieving. "You mean Harry turned you
down
?"

"No," corrected Joe. "He didn't turn me down. I turned
him
down."

"You
what
?" Wincing, Shelly fell backward a step, appeared to be mortally wounded. "He
offered
it to you, and you said
no
? I don't
understand
! I thought you
wanted
a good job. I thought you
wanted
to get out of that crummy restaurant."

"I
am
getting out of there," he told her. "I don't want
any
job."

"Oh my God," she blurted, gripping her forehead with shaking fingertips. "What's
wrong
with you?" Shelly was becoming frantic, started to emphasize certain words as she spoke. "I tried to
help
you. God, I
love
you." Suddenly then, she ran to him and threw her arms around him. Shivering, sobbing, she hugged him tightly, pressing her body against his borrowed plaid shirt.

Joe looked down at the woman who had clamped herself to him, and he wanted to get away from her. He had heard that word again-- 'love'-- and had sensed the feeling and force and responsibility behind it. At that moment, he knew what Shelly wanted, and what he could never give. She wanted him, and she wanted much more; she wanted a ring on her finger and a house and kids and a loving husband with money and a good job. He could never give her those things, he realized, he could never provide her with those prizes and still be happy himself. He could never give himself, he knew, to anyone or anything...except himself. It was just the way that he was.

He liked Shelly. He liked the feel of her warm, supple body against his. He liked to be around her, and talk to her and have sex with her. Pushing her away was one of the hardest things that he had ever done, and when they were separated, he suddenly felt empty. He wanted to take her back, to hug her and comfort her.

But his mind was made up.

"Shelly," he said, holding her shoulders. "I don't love you." Then he let go and walked out of the room without hesitation.

Rubbing the slight stubble on his face, he left the building and stepped out into the rain. It was pouring, gushing down from the sky in a mutinous torrent. The air was cold and full of water, and thunder rumbled overhead. Joe took his shirt off and threw it on the glistening pavement. As the cool rain soaked him, he walked off through the trucking compound, hiking from the premises without looking back once. He didn't care about the shirt, he didn't care about anything, and he knew what he had to do next.

Behind him, at her desk, Shelly wept bitterly.