Stare Indecisis

Office Premonitions

Jacques was steady at my side, as always. Not in court today, but at the esteemed law firm of Plantag, Hartley, Saxe & Associates. (Or PHS&A, as our tongues rolled from time to time, trying to abbreviate the blasted moniker.) My colleague's stature boomed of a man who wished to escape his heritage of the romantic nation across the channel for the pragmatism of the British Isles: his hands always entrenched themselves in his trouser pockets, not willing to wave out into the open air of the world. He arched his body at a perfectly vertical angle, making sure that even when he walked, he stood completely still amidst the wayward arches of London streets. Even his mustache was trimmed to roost precisely above his tightly-wound mouth, as his character tried to affect an aura of grimness. Yet the blues of his eyes always reminded me of the pleasant skyline of Paris, with the French sun limning the reds and yellows and sapphire hues of the buildings Jacques once frequented. No matter how hard he tried to root himself in the undergrowth of British stoicism, I felt that the young lad would always hold a yearning for the Parisian sunshine.

I gave him an affable smile, trying to mollify his desire for a more...traditional work style.

"Oh, it's the last day, Jacques, settle down. I've essentially finished up everything, anyway. I'm sure the principals won't mind."

But that's when I heard the familiar clack of four boots marching in from outside the office. The eight other lawyers stationed at their desks slammed down their pencils in unison and stood up from their chairs—as did I, following along with my lawyerly regiment. I looked to Jacques' stiffening expression as we beheld the incoming senior partners.

Richard Plantag and Jonathan Saxe were two men who carried an innately sobering profile, their grey breeches tailored to the rubber soles of their shoes, their waistcoats pleated against their torsos—so suffocating as to surprise observers to the fact that the two weren't gaping for oxygen. The only color on their ensembles was the dim orange of the office gaslamps seeping off their top hats, as if to brighten their spirits a tad. Soon enough, though, I realized I was staring far too long, and instead took up my post boring my eyes into the sorry linings of a wall.

"Evening inspection: let's hope you gents have your marbles in order," Plantag gave his usual, drear preamble.

Plantag and Saxe strutted down the desks, giving my other colleagues cursory nods of approval at their hard work. After all, it had been a toiling 365 days up to this point, and at the crown of December there was some closure to be had for an annual job well done. The principals gave a nod of approval towards Jacques' immaculate deskside, before engaging in a perfunctory sigh as they reached my own. I ladled my arms at my back, hoping that they'd overlook the spit-stain on my papers and the frazzled situation of my hair. The two of them were granite statues for a time, poring through the meanders of words that galloped along the pages. Beneath their gazes, I could make out the figment of an amused smile. Better than a scowl, I thought, twiddling my fingers.

". . .What's this?"

Saxe's glance sank to the open drawer below my desk's surface, where the gleam of a notebook cover could be faintly seen. He took the notebook into his grasp. The protests in my mouth died before they could discharge, and Saxe flipped through salmon-tinted reams of paper, tutting away along with Plantag before slamming the book shut before my face.

"Doodling short stories on office hours, Mr. Battersby?"

He shook his head.

"You'll get these tales published in the Sunday Times before long, I'm sure. Seeing your literary success will be a much-needed comfort on the unemployment line."

He clamped the book back onto my desk. My head flagged.

"You're lucky Hartley favors you. If that quixote didn't get his way. . ."