Vital Signs

Part 16

A stern-looking male receptionist greets me. "May I help you?"

"Phil Robiski to see Mr. Markowitz, Communications Director."

The receptionist's eyes go to a security guard standing against the wall. He looks like a china cabinet stuffed into a navy blue blazer.

The receptionist says, "I don't see you listed. Do you have an appointment?"

"No. Not really. But Mr. Markowitz knows me. We've worked together on some projects. Actually, quite a few projects."

The receptionist checks his computer monitor and says, "He'll be right down."

The security guard gestures toward the waiting area with a hand the size of a catcher's mitt.

I find an empty seat at the window, feeling the scrutiny from both men. I keep my confident smile fixed in place. On the coffee table is the usual collection of trade magazines. And a kid's book titled "Fish Sticks For Francine." Who would ever bring a kid into a place like this?

My curiosity overwhelms me. I thumb through the first few pages of the book. Not a very intriguing plot. A skinny little girl in a plaid jumper is sad that her mom is not serving fish sticks for dinner. It takes a moment to register. I check the back of the book. Sure enough. The book is published by a major seafood company. More corporate propaganda.

The elevator doors open and out steps Vern Tattersal. I rise, offering my hand.

"Mr. Tattersal. How are you doing?"

He gives me an insincere handshake. Blotches appear on the cheeks and neck of the perpetually nervous man. He clears his throat and begins, "Mr. Robiski. Mr. Marko... Mr. Markowitz isn't not available."

"I really need to speak to him."

"Can I be of help? Assistance?"

"Actually, Vern, I'd like some information on a product Trollamex used to manufacture called "Tiger's Teeth." 

He removes his glasses, rubs his eyes then clears his throat again. "Since 1987, Trollamex has distinguished itself as a top ten customer-oriented organization and rates among the top five in world-class service select disciplines."

"Vern. Don't stonewall me. I need--"

"--There is nothing more mission-critical at Trollamex than both our consumer and non-consumer segments."

"Come on, Vern. Cut the crap."

The enormous security guard advances. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave these premises. Now."

I swallow my frustration. 

The DING of the elevator draws my attention. The doors separate and out strides Douglas Glerk, teeth bared, hackles raised. He fast-walks to a position two inches from me, nose-to-nose. His red eyes lock with mine. I can't help but stare at the two protrusions on his forehead. Vern slowly backs away and hides behind a chair. 

"You want to slug it out with us?" Glerk points a finger capped with a yellow fingernail. "Who do you think you are, you little insignificant crumb?"

In a day or two, I'll think of at least a dozen witty comebacks. But at this moment, my brain fails me. The only message it transmits is RUN!

I head for the exit and push through the door, out onto the street, doing a terrible job of disguising my anxiety. My fake smile disintegrates.

Glerk chases me onto the sidewalk and shouts, "You're a joke. That's what you are. A pathetic excuse for a man. You'll never work in this town again. You'll never work on this planet again. Never! Go get yourself a cardboard box and find a bridge to live under. You're done! Finished!"