Vital Signs

Part 14

Once again I look to Carl. 

"Maybe you're mistaken, Phil," Carl adopts a soothing, good cop tone.

Glerk leans forward on the table and snarls, "I don't know what you're trying to pull here. What is it with people like you?"

Carl smiles gently. "Phil, I understand how upset you've been, after all you've been through, but--"

Glerk cuts him off. "Cease and desist immediately or there shall be legal consequences."

"Thanks for the advice, but--"

"--It's not advice." Glerk glares. A droplet of blood forms in the corner of his eye and balances on the lower lid like a tear. I can't help but stare. The intercom beeps.

Wren says, "Mister Glerk. Your wife is on line two. She's calling from the hospital. Your son--"

"Take a message." He snaps. Then back to me. "Stop your meddling nonsense this instant! This is your final warning."

                                                                        #######

When I step back and take an objective look, I see what you probably see: a middle-aged guy with creeping paranoia about the world around him being largely inhabited by emotionless robotic humanoids. A guy who suffered a breakdown and went on an insane two-day rambling spree during which he was poisoned by a powerful insecticide, which brought on manic behavior and hallucinations. Not the most reliable narrator. I get that. I know that I'm prone to exaggeration and hyperbole. Guilty as charged. 

But it's not hyperbole and exaggeration to say that Trollamex is an organization run by some very bad people. For the past few years, I've been working on their behalf cranking out misinformation, misdirection, and flat out lies. And I believe that the negative effects have been far more damaging to me than the chemicals that I inhaled, which have since been eating my brain. 

I'll admit that in the mental health category, my score could be higher, but I'm sufficiently stable to know right from wrong. So no. I'm not okay with Trollamex hurting people and doing whatever is necessary to avoid accepting responsibility. What am I going to do about it? That's the question I'm wrestling with.

I exit the building and walk to the coffee shop on the corner. Christopher, my familiar barista checks the time and says, "Phil, my friend. It's 10:48. Que pasa?"

"The usual. Blueberry muffin and coffee."

"You got it." 

He puts my muffin on a plate. "Haven't seen you around."

"It's a long story."

He serves me my muffin and coffee, which I carry to a table by the window while I consider my options. After all, I have a family to consider. Maybe the smart thing to do would be to forget this whole Trollamex mess and just move on. And maybe take Carl up on his offer to manage the new company satellite office. No question, that would be the safe play. 

Instead, I take an Uber to Palmer's Hardware store. Palmer's is one of the last of its kind, a family-run business keeping its head above water and fighting to keep the doors open in the face of overwhelming competition from the big box stores and hardware chains. It's a well-tended store stocked with every sort of tool imaginable, propane grills, and plumbing supplies.

Zach Palmer is on the floor helping a customer. He appears to be in his 50's, about two hundred pounds of a man wearing Dickies slacks and an Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A thick crop of curly light orange hair covers his head like a fuzzy bathing cap.