Intergalactic Fly-Fishing

The exits are situated here, here and here

Entrance

Graham pushed the wooden gate open and his red setter charged ahead.

"Blue!" Graham called.  The dog stopped mid-run, raised his ears and looked at Graham, a question in his eyes.  Graham smiled, "ok then boy, don't stray too far."

Blue wagged his tail and continued on his original course towards a weeping willow, its leaves trailing in the lake to Graham's right.  The sun winked through the branches and cast leaf shadows that danced across the water.  Three ducks wallowed in the shade.  As Blue approached they quacked and paddled further out.  One of them ruffled its feathers and quacked some more, as if to berate the dog that sniffed at their willow.

Graham would have laughed if he'd noticed.  This was the first time that he'd come to the wood, sunlight painted shadow pictures across his path, and when a breeze stirred the leaves, it sounded like the sea.  But Graham didn't see any of it.  The quiet enveloped him, goosebumps prickled his arms in the comparative chill, the air tasted of bracken, and moss covered exposed roots.  The trees thinned at the water's edge and a bench had been made from a felled trunk.  Graham shuffled forward, his gaze unfocussed.  Blue rushed about in ecstasy, claiming every tree:

This tree is mine, and this one and this one mine and (pant - sniff) this one.

Graham's feet followed the path through the trees as his mind played through the letter again and again.

He'd done it.  He'd finally done it.  The carefully worded letter had been placed in the pigeonhole.  Graham had casually walked past once, twice... the third time it was gone.  That could only mean one thing.  His manager, Samuel Paul Aswegeni, had it.  He imagined the shock and perhaps hurt that Sam would feel upon opening the letter and reading:

Re: RESIGNATION.

He imagined that Sam would read the letter twice, perhaps three times, and that on Monday he would casually approach to see what he could do to keep such a valuable employee.  Better pay perhaps?  Greater Authority?  Both?  He, Graham, would not be swayed.  No more yes sir no sir, whining after customers.  No more striving to sell warranty.

The just-above-minimum-wage-job had been his stopgap after uni.  He'd breezed the interview.  They'd wanted to put him on the management programme, but he wasn't going to stay, he'd said.  It was just until he figured out what he wanted to do, he'd said.  After three years of study he didn't want any pressure.  Then he'd started.  It wasn't long before his first review from a mystery shopper.   The store had scored 'average' and the managers had been falling over themselves to get the story to 'excellent'.  And the Americanised greetings stuck in your throat.  They just didn't sound right in a Brummy accent.

Try going up to a Brit and saying ohsobrightly, "Is there anything I can do to help you?"  And regardless of reaction (usually defensive, "Just browsing, thank you."  Subtext: why would I need help?  Get to the exit get to the exit get to the exit...) he would institute selling them anything he could.  Such was the company policy.  He often found himself repeating the same litany – get to the exit get to the exit – and half expected a monk to enter the mechanised doors and relieve him of this job.  A job that was clearly his penance for another life.  He snorted to himself.

Blue looked up at him to see if the snort signified anything, but as the man continued to plod on the dog chased a squirrel into a small copse.

If it was so hard, thought Graham, why oh why did Phil always get welcomed with open arms and grateful smiles?  He was so smooooth... Graham hated Phil.  The guy was always cheery, he never bitched about the customers, not once.  He had them eating out of his hands, they almost purred.  And Sam.  Sam thought he was great.