Authors: Christopher C. Payne
It was less than a week later on a Tuesday afternoon that I received a surprise visit at work. As usual for any day of the week, I was in my office with the west-facing windows, soaking in the bright afternoon sun. I sat facing my computer, trying to decipher another mundane spreadsheet.
Spreadsheet software reinvented the accounting world and brought with it an even greater focus to the mundane boring life that all detailed, anal accounting personnel face. Oddly enough, I don’t think that most people employed in the accounting area are even aware of how sad and repetitive our lives are. The same numbers each month followed by the same processes each quarter followed by the same annual audits that are exactly the same as the quarterly.
If you do not like repeating yourself continually, then you had better hope for a better life than the accounting/finance field. I look back on my life and still wonder how in the world I ended up in this job in this area. Don’t get me wrong, I made good money, had a great CFO, and our team was an eclectic group of misfits. We enjoyed each other’s company, and in the casual atmosphere, I projected we tended to have a decent time at work.
It was only the work itself that seemed meaningless and unappreciated. I would have never remained in this path if it weren’t for some ability to succeed, and then after doing well, getting promoted, and continuing to make more money. My wife loved money. She outwardly expressed the support for me to change careers; but once the front door to the house was closed, it was another story.
Nobody in the world truly knows what happens once the front door to a home is closed. Families are locked away in isolation, which allows their true personalities to come out. Wives and kids are beaten, alcoholics drink, drug users inject their next fix, and affairs are fostered. The shutting of doors empowers people to throw away their false projected personalities and be who they truly are. In most cases, this is an alter ego of their social shell they project.
My wife’s appetite to continually acquire more stuff meant we always needed more money. Happiness to her was shopping until she ran out of corners to jam things in, then, having a yard sale or simply a purge of past purchases in order to fill the space up again. In this endless cycle of craziness, I found myself tied to a merry-go-round on a playground. You stepped into this world only to find a crazy big brother spinning it with exuberance that could only end in somebody throwing up. Our circular path was headed for destruction, and neither one of us had the power to stop the continuing cycle of doom.
One of the prizes of my divorce, when finally complete, was going to be the ability to throw myself into some unexplored desire that I had always wanted to do, but was restrained from participating by the chains of holy matrimony. Writing was one avenue being actively explored, but there were others, as well. Dealing drugs or starting a prostitution ring were possibilities, but they might require an expertise that I did not hold. The world was finally open; so nothing was going to be ruled out until given the proper attention.
As I diligently went through my spreadsheet, adding, subtracting, dividing, formatting, I got a call from the front desk that the police were in the front lobby. They wanted to talk to me if I had a few minutes. There are a few moments in life when you suddenly understand where certain saying originated. You feel the emotion yourself. “Shitting oneself,” was now added to my list as I felt like somebody had come by with a prized Electrolux vacuum cleaner, stuck the end of the hose into my mouth, taped it down, and sucked every drop of air out of me, instantly.
After I failed to respond, the question was repeated, and I garbled out a “sure thing, I will be right down.” Bracing myself with both hands I pushed myself up. Being on death row gives one time to reflect and prepare for the long walk down the row of cells containing fellow prisoners who can all relate to what you are going through. You have the mental ability to say, “Yes, I know what day they are coming to get me.” I know what hour they will push the button and zap the life out of me, snuffing my existence on this planet.
I wonder what the responses would be if you said to each inmate, “You are slotted to be executed, and that will not change. We will surprise you with the exact time and date and leave you here, wondering when it might occur.”
How many inmates would mentally fall apart with the ticking of each second wondering if today would be the day or would it be the next or the next? How could you live knowing your life was going to end, knowing how it was going to happen, but knowing someone was insanely playing with your emotions?
I made the walk down the long hallway to the elevator and felt as if I were one of those inmates who had just been told “today is your day, buddy. See you in hell,” only to hear someone laugh as they pushed my button. I imagined my body spastically fried to a crisp like a chicken leg left to long in heated oil. I stumbled into the bathroom next to the elevator door and made a quick trip to the toilet where I did end up losing all my lunch and something extra I didn’t recognize. I knew my time was limited, so I quickly rinsed out my mouth throwing water across my face and headed downstairs.
I started wondering on the way down, why? Why at work? Why couldn’t they have come to my home and talked with me there? Why would they come to me here and embarrass me in front of everyone I knew, jeopardizing my reputation? As I pondered the questions, the answers eluded me like a little toy crane in one of those video game arcades that searches for the toy over and over again. It never seems to have the capacity to grasp those damn stuffed animals with those flimsy tentacles. My kids always demanded to play those games, but I have never once seen anyone actually win anything from them.
As I stepped out of the elevator, it dawned on me instantaneously like an epidural injection as it quickly relieves the pain and suffering of the first childbirth. They wanted to catch me off guard. They preferred to have me unnerved and rattled in the hopes that I would let something slip if I were, indeed, the person they were searching for. This was a little juvenile police game that was being played from the “How to be a Detective for Dummies” workbook that must be standard issue in all academies for police training.
As I stepped from the elevator, the anger rose up in me, threatening to explode, but gave me renewed energy and focused my attention on the issue at hand. The adrenaline flow felt like an intake of speed. The color came back into my chalky face. I, once again, used the anger that had guided me on my past adventures and felt invincible sauntering over to the two waiting detectives.
They showed me their badges and suggested that we find a place to talk, assuming that I had a few minutes for them. They assured me the entire process would only take a small amount of time and was a formality. They simply needed to follow up on all leads and were here in regards to the disappearance of Hannah Thomas and my recent relationship with her. I admitted knowing her briefly over the past few weeks, expressing my hopefulness that she was okay. I walked them through our cumbersome ineffective security screening to the second floor conference rooms that were frequently used for unexpected meetings.
We closed the door behind us, and they began the scope of apparently routine questions about my relationship with Hannah. How long I had known her, what was the definition of our association (friendship/romantic) and how many times I had recently seen her? I answered everything truthfully and casually, stating that it was the beginning of a friendship. We held the possibilities of moving into a closer intimate form for companionship, but it was far too early to tell what the true outcome might hold.
They began asking me about my whereabouts over the two to three days that marked the disappearance of Hannah. Upon hearing that I was at my house in Twain Harte during said time period, they asked if there were people that could vouch for my activities. I had seen my local real estate agents that weekend as I always stopped in to say hello on most visits. I had also seen a past work associate at the grocery store and both could vouch for seeing me. The time period they were covering was rather large, and I had been alone in my house most of the weekend so there was nobody who could attest to every minute. The people I had mentioned would place me in said location over that given period.
We spent about an hour, and I began to see the pattern of questions being asked in different ways, but with the same desired goal or outcome. I sensed that this was page two of the “Detectives for Dummies” handbook as they were looking for any inconsistencies in my responses. As you grow up, your parents continue to tell you how much easier it is to tell the truth—telling a lie only leads to more lies. The underlying philosophy is you have to remember a lie, but the truth is simply the truth. It is what occurred and your mind knows this and naturally navigates toward this in reflection.
I simply told the truth to every answer. They did not ask me if I abducted and killed Hannah or if I had tortured her in any way. I would have lied to both of those answers, but my location and activities were easy to recall. Keeping with the truth and only adding in or changing what you absolutely must is a key to survival, I decided. Let them think what they will of me and what I choose to do in my personal time, but don’t cover up meaningless embarrassing facts as it overly complicates things. Lay all the cards on the table only holding back the one or two that are hidden up your sleeve. You’re not supposed to have those anyway.
My energy level fueled by my anger and adrenaline lasted for the hour-long questioning. The two detectives then left their hopes of finding a culprit behind as I escorted them both to the door. I offered them my help if they needed to contact me again and asked them to keep me informed of Hannah’s status. I was now very worried. I watched as they walked to the parking lot and then turned to head back to my office once they had made it a comfortable distance.
Having three kids, I have had on more occasions witnessed them inject themselves with soda, candy, cake and any form of sugar they were able to stuff into their mouths as quickly as possible. I find it humorous how kids never understand why adults don’t eat cookies at every meal once they grow up and can make decisions for themselves.
I have also witnessed the free-fall crash that occurs after the sugar has run its course and inevitably loses its toxic energizing ability. You see your child plummet down the abyss of emotional reasonability. Birthday parties are the perfect example and why almost all of them last three to four hours. Stuff them with as much artificial toxins as possible. Then, send them home so the parents can go through the detoxification process of returning them to normal stability.
As soon as I walked back through security my energetic rush lost its power, just like sugar being drained from my veins. It was all I could do to make it back to my floor, hobble to the bathroom door, and once in the stall continue the purging process of anything still residing in my stomach or anywhere close.
I was sweating buckets and felt like I had just taken a shower with my clothes on. They were now clinging to my skin. My hair was soaking wet, and the only part of my body that seemed dry was my mouth from the constant flow of heaving. I knew the right thing to do was to return to my desk and gather my senses, but I also knew that I was incapable. I needed to find a way to exit the building, get to my car, and get out immediately.
I stayed holed up in the toilet stall, making noise and commotion for about 30 minutes. Finally, once my need to heave uncontrollably had subsided, I splashed huge fistfuls of water from the sink on my face. I then made the long walk back to my office for my laptop and my belongings so I could head home.
I passed two coworkers as I made my way down the never-ending pathway, both of whom commented on my looks and asked me if I were okay or needed help. I stated that I was fine but had just received some bad news. It had affected me harder than anticipated. I was going to leave for the day. Luckily, they were the only two I had to interact with, but unfortunately they were also the two defined gossips of the department. I was sure before I had even made it to my car there would be rumors flying.
Does every office have those one or two individuals who seem to know everything that happens before it is announced, and have the inside scoop on all activities? Isn’t it odd how much time in company politics is spent on the gathering of knowledge in the background through non-official channels? Whispers happen in the hallway and hushed conversations occur in the cubes. Everyone talks about who Sally is sleeping with or that Bob might finally be fired or that Betty in receiving is having a baby, but she is not married or is married but it is not her husband’s.
Even with the invention of the Internet and online gaming, which have to be two huge productivity sucks from the corporate bottom line, I still think that the tried-and-true gossiping has to remain crowned in the top tier of corporate distractions. Everyone is involved at some level. Even those of us who try to abstain get sucked into conversations at times that in retrospect should have been avoided. We are all human, and as such, our curiosity can be piqued and must be appeased.
So with this I left the office. It was Tuesday afternoon, and I knew that I could not stay for the day. At this point, I had no idea when I would return. I called from my cell phone on the way out, leaving a message for my boss, stating that I felt ill and had to leave early. I would call him tomorrow morning and give him a status update on what I thought tomorrow looked like. My voice was hoarse and cracking from the recent regurgitation and helped my cause. With the story most likely being spread, I was sure that everyone would have me in handcuffs before the night was over.
I made it home in one piece, went straight to the liquor cabinet, and began to drown myself in scotch as quickly as possible. My kids were coming over for the night, and I luckily remembered that two drinks into my quick gulping. I called the au pair, stating that I was sick and would not be able to see them until tomorrow evening. She said she would inform my ex-wife. I was sure to get berated as my ex-wife liked her evenings out and would be pissed to have her social life disrupted.