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A Day in the Office

by Chris Alexion, Copyright February 10, 2006, all rights reserved. 405 views

It started like any other day in the office. The headquarters of ZXD Corporation–a monstrous piece of modern architecture–was slowly filling with happy employees. The rising sun began to enter the building's tiny windows, making patterns on the gray carpeting and the bottoms of the gray cubicles. Already computers and fax machines were humming, phones were ringing, and busy feet were pattering back and forth.

On this merry day Wayne Byron was going about his business as usual. He made trips to the copier, the printer, and the water cooler, always in the right spot to give someone advice about which delivery service to use or which office supply store to patronize. Wayne was a young man–no older than twenty-six–with short blond hair and an invariable outfit of short-sleeved shirt, tie, and khakis. He was on his way back from the water cooler, but a sudden noise from behind his boss's door made him stop.

Wayne's boss was no ordinary e-commerce guy. He was not the stereotypical TV-commercial-style manager who didn't know anything but was in charge anyway. No, Wayne's boss was vastly different. Though his name was Mr. Wilcox, everyone at the office called him Senator Wilcox because he knew so much about politics. The staff had a sort of unearthly fear of this man who spent several hours in the morning studying what periodicals they knew not and dared not ask. Mr. Wilcox was a strong proponent of increased state control of tobacco, and Wayne, having been engaged in a discussion of this sort once, could testify to the passion with which his manager argued the point.

At about nine-thirty every morning Mr. Wilcox would leave his office and carry out a brief inspection of the premises. He would tread the gray carpeting and make sure all was in order. Most importantly, he would straighten all the No Smoking signs that were systematically deployed on the walls of the building and gray cubicles.

But it was now quarter of ten, and the boss had not even stuck his head out the door. Wayne paused in the hallway, conical cup in hand, and listened. The noise came again. It was a voice. Mr. Wilcox's voice. And it was angry.

Suddenly, with a cry of "How dare you apply for work here!", the door flew open and a short, dark-haired, bespectacled man shot out of the office and into the unfortunate Wayne Byron, flattening him and knocking his water from his hand. The paper cone slammed into the wall, darkening the gray surface as it dripped down onto Wayne's head.

Wilcox appeared in the doorway, holding a pack of cigarettes in his right hand. He stood silent for an instant, then expostulated through clenched teeth, "Ha! I should've known by the looks of you. You're one of them. The scourge of the country! We don't hire your type here." With that he crushed the offending package in his fist and tossed it at the object of his rage. "Believe me, you have two minutes to get out of this building–and don't ask me about the consequences if I see you here again!"

The short man staggered to his feet, carefully picking up the remains of his Virginian weed. Hastily he made his way down the gray hall and toward the door. Wayne stood motionless as the small figure disappeared through the pebbled glass, then looked at the card in his hand.

This card had fallen from the stranger's hand or pocket as he had been evicted from the office, and in the scuffle Wayne had picked it up. He read it now with interest, an expression of astonishment stealing slowly over his face.

The short man was a federal non-discrimination inspector.

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