There were twelve steps from the elevator to Mildred's desk, eleven if I took a confident stride. Eleven steps later, I was there, and a few more and I was in Mr. Robinson's office.
"Lovely place you have here. I'm Mike," I said when I entered. Mr. Robinson rose to greet me.
"Feel free to help yourself to some whiskey," he said. I poured myself a glass and downed it in one gulp.
"That's the finest Tennessee whiskey I've ever had. I can taste the bourbon barrels."
"I bought it from a general store in Knoxville, believe it or not."
I felt his accent strengthen whenever his home state was mentioned.
"And that's a Kandinsky, right?"
"It is!"
"I heard he painted that during the Russian Revolution while sheltering in a cave. The colors are inspired by lichen patterns."
"Who would've thunk it?" he said with rare curiosity.
I didn't know that either: I ad-libbed that and the whiskey play, like all great actors did. There'd been something gnawing at me these past few Fridays, and I wasn't sure if it came from Dennis's talk of Troy Bentley or Jordan's general coolness, but I felt this strange compulsion to be assertive. That meant being friendly with Abby on the train while still respecting Dennis and his hot tips for how to make the most of oneself at the workplace, it meant greeting people with the crispest handshakes and waves known to man, and it meant saying to myself, "you've worked on this presentation for weeks, you've got this!" I liked this new Mike, and I hoped everyone else did too.
"Who's your boss, Mike?"
"Jim Ryerson."
"He's taught you well. This report is good stuff. I just had a few questions."
"Let me try my hardest, Mr. Robinson, to answer those questions for you," I said. "Come look at this view with me."
I walked to the ceiling-height windows behind Mr. Robinson's desk, and he followed me.
"I'm used to seeing our city at night, but I think it's even more beautiful during the day. Isn't it beautiful? It's a city of skyscrapers tall as redwoods. People bustle like ants below, talking of change and prosperity. Imagine this, but instead stretching out as far as the eye can see: that's Hong Kong. I know you're thinking that this proposal is too risky. I know you're thinking that Hong Kong can't escape the gravitational pull of the CCP. I know you think I'm a maverick who would rather stake my career on being the first of us to set foot in that fragrant harbor than help the company. And yet, knowing all of that, I've come to you with my reputation on the line to give you this proposal, because I believe it's going to save us."
Mr. Robinson flipped through my report again, searching for evidence that would prove me wrong.
"Here's my intuition: I always say that business, real business, isn't what you see on TV with its cocaine-fueled gambles—at least how we do it here. It's science, as precisely engineered as my vintage DeLorean. I think you make many compelling points here, and I think it's entirely true that we have a lot to gain, but we also have a lot to lose. Just like you said. As for the figures in here, they all look reasonable. As reasonable as they possibly could."
"Is that good?"
"I like you, and I like this proposal. Let me think about this and get back to you Monday. You have my word that you'll like what you hear."
He shook my hand again, and it seemed like that was that. As I left, he called out again:
"Take the whiskey bottle, as a token of my appreciation. Next time you come up here, I'll have sake."
"That was a quick chat," Mildred observed when I walked out. I took a mint to celebrate.
"He liked what he heard."
"He was telling me as he was looking over it before you came that it was stellar. I wish I had his brains for business," she said dreamily.
I was just deciding where to display my war trophy when Jordan and Abby came by again.
"Abby and I wanted to come by and congratulate you on your presentation. How did it go?" Jordan asked from the doorframe.
"It went great, though it was an awful quick session. He said he'd get back to me Monday. I'm feeling really optimistic. I gave this heroic speech about the 'fragrant harbor'—you told me that's what Hong Kong meant in Cantonese, Jordan, and he loved the metaphor!"
Abby looked at me disappointedly.
"So that's cool, Mike. How are you gonna celebrate?" Jordan asked.
"It's been a long week. I was going to head home and eat leftovers."
"That sounds fun. I just have my volunteer meeting tonight."
"Nobody asked," I saw Abby mouth. I think Jordan was too focused on admiring my whiskey bottle, or perhaps himself, to notice.
"I'm glad it went well," Abby said.
"All in a day's work. I'm just happy all this is over. The stress was getting to me."
"We'll leave you to your whiskey," Jordan said, and once he left, Abby left.
I left a bit earlier than I usually would on a day like this. On other days I'd spend some extra time spinning around in my chair replaying the failures of that day and imagining an alternate universe where I'd leave Mr. Robinson's room and come out to a red carpet stretching down the hallway and a garland of flowers around my neck. I had spent so long imagining failure that I didn't know what success felt like, and if it was supposed to have a faint stink of what had come before.
When I left, I ran into Heather, who was just leaving then.
"Hey Mike, I just saw your email, and I'll get to it Monday," she said hurriedly.
"No rush. Have a good afternoon, good evening, and good night! TGIF!"
"What's got you so cheerful on a Friday night?"
"I'm happy to be going home." I gave a toothy grin so she knew I was telling the truth.
"Abby was asking me earlier if I wanted to go to Truman's tonight. Wanna come?"
"That's the bar where all the college students go, right?"
I had asked Jordan once about the place, since he was the youngest of all of us and consequently a subject matter expert. "I graduated college early to avoid college students," he scoffed, and I decided that if Truman's wasn't good enough for him, it wasn't good enough for me.
"Yeah... but Abby likes those sorts of places. Have a good weekend!
By then I'd had my fair share of busy Friday nights, and I was glad to have earned myself a bit of rest and relaxation before a weekend that was going to be similarly restful and relaxing. Mr. Robinson had said yes! Or something that I'd chosen to take as a yes. That optimism was celebration enough. My last thought before bed was that I'd earned a nightcap of whiskey, but I remembered I had left the bottle in my office.
I woke up to an article my dad sent me from one of those clickbaity websites—and I interrupted my usual train of thought to scream.
"Working nine to five, what a way to make a living," I muttered to myself as I threw on business clothes and my usual Friday fun socks. What a load of bullcrap that was. Eight to six was the modern worker's anthem, every day older and deeper in debt.
"Morning, Larry!" I waved to my neighbor. Larry waved back with his cane in hand, and hit it against the ceiling light.
"Ope, probably shouldn't do that!" he laughed.
"Look at you being a rascal!"
"What's got you looking so pained today?" he asked. He leaned on his cane and looked at me tenderly.
"Work's not been treating me so well lately."
"You're almost at the weekend, keep your chin up."
"Yeah..."
"One day more!" he sang in a lovely baritone. "You know, Les Mis? I saw it on Broadway back when it came out. Great show."
"I'd best be going. Wish me luck."
"Break a leg!"
I hurried out of our building and to the train station. The faster I got to work, the faster it would all be over. I took a shortcut through the slush that wet my socks, but I didn't care.
"...you don't look like you'd have a tattoo," Dennis said to Abby. I could imagine her coal-like eyes bursting alight with smoldering rage.
"It's a butterfly, on my ankle."
"I don't see it," Dennis said, looking at Abby's Converses.
"Obviously you can't see it, Dennis."
"Left or right?"
Abby ignored his question and waved to me: "Hey Mike, what's up?"
I imagined the ghosts of businessmen from bygone days walking through the train car, and I realized that we too were being shuttled to the slaughterhouse.
"I see dead people."
"You and me both," Dennis laughed. "So anyway, Abby, what you were saying earlier reminded me of this podcast I listen to. Have you ever heard of Troy Bentley?"
"Troy Bentley is a maniac," she said through clenched teeth. She looked at me with helpless eyes, like I was supposed to save the conversation, but I shook my head. Dennis the Menace was incorrigible, and continued unabated:
"I actually disagree with that, Abby, though I see where you're coming from. Troy Bentley has this thesis, he has this supposition, that we've lost our way in society from the good old days. They always say 'out with the old, in with the new,' but what he argues is that the old and new can coexist. When you look at the Greeks, when you look at the Romans, they had all these diseases, but they had what we'd call a classical society—"
"They're all dead," I said sternly. "And soon we'll be entombed in ash and rubble alongside them."
My remark killed the conversation, so we sat there quietly until we reached our stop. Abby changed her Converses for high heels and made haste to leave. I walked quickly too, though a bit apart from her, until she caught up with me at the door.
"Do you want to talk, Mike? All this," she said gesturing up and down, "isn't you."
"I'll be fine, just wish me luck on my presentation. TGIF, am I right?"
"If you say so," she said, giving me her best impression of a reassuring backpat.
I worked straight until lunch, skipping my usual coffee, and would have worked through lunch had my bodily needs not caught up with me by then. The chicken cacciatore only tasted of onions and garlic for me by then. I knew I'd need one of Mildred's mints before the presentation.
Mr. Ryerson came by to interrupt my boredom.
"Hey Mike, how's it going?" Mr. Ryerson asked.
"As well as it can be going before a big presentation," I laughed.
"You look a bit more harried than usual. Do you want a little secret? I always splash a bit of water on my face before I have a big presentation."
"Thanks for the tip, Jim."
Mr. Ryerson picked up my report and thumbed through it.
"I like how you used the heavy-stock paper. This is good stuff! I think this shows how you've taken feedback well and grown in your core knowledge areas. I can tell graphic design is your passion."
"Thanks, Jim." I smiled at the compliment, though I'd heard it many times before.
"I think Mr. Robinson will be impressed. Keep it up, I just wanted to surprise you with a little pep talk."
"I appreciate it."
He paused, like he was searching for a motivational quote, but I think he could read in my face that there was nothing that would motivate me.
"Have a good weekend," he said, and he left unceremoniously.
I counted fifteen steps this time to Mildred's desk, each a step toward becoming my cheerful self. By the time I reached her desk and eyeballed the mints, I was refreshed. She could see in my eyes, though, that I had just woken from a stupor.
"Mr. Robinson's a tough guy. But you'll do fine. He was looking over your presentation earlier and said it was stellar," Mildred said.
"I appreciate it. And these mints." I took a deep breath and went to receive my alcoholic baptism.
Now that I'd had enough whiskey to bear the taste, I realized mint didn't pair well at all. Once I'd tried a mint julep back in college: I was watching the Kentucky Derby on TV in an airport bar, and I'd found it refreshing then. Here it was too much, though it did calm my nerves as I gave my same rehearsed spiel about harbors fragrant with tea and money.
"I like you, and I like this proposal," Mr. Robinson said.
"And I like you too, Mr. Robinson, for saying that."
"Let me think about this and get back to you Monday. You have my word that you'll like what you hear. And take the whiskey, too, as a souvenir of your success."
"Thanks, Mr. Robinson, for everything," I said, and I waved him adieu.
"How did it go?" Mildred asked when I left Mr. Robinson's office.
"He said he'd think about it over the weekend."
"That's very good coming from Mr. Robinson. Typically he'll say one of his funny phrases like 'meet me next life,' or I don't know, whatever people like him say. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"These mints are good. Where do you get them from? I don't recognize the brand."
"They're imported from Britain," she said, pulling out an unopened container from under her desk. "I saw he already gave you some whiskey, so here's a treat of my own. I have some Reese's Pieces too, but I need to keep those underneath my desk because otherwise Mr. Robinson has too much sugar."
"It's like Halloween came early!"
"Have a good night, Mike."
"You too, Mildred," I said, and I walked down the hallway triumphantly with my treasure in hand. It was interesting how the smallest things brightened the darkest days.
Only Abby came by later that day, and I think she was expecting to see me in a tearful heap, not smiling with a jar of mints open and ready for her.
"These are the same mints Mr. Robinson has," I said with a grin. "Want one? They're good. Extra minty-fresh."
"Something's put you in a good mood today. Have you gotten into day-drinking?" she asked, looking at the whiskey bottle.
"Mr. Robinson gave me the bottle during our meeting earlier. My presentation really piqued his interest. Hong Kong's a crouching tiger, he said, ready to roar and pounce."
"At least it seems like you're feeling better."
She frowned, and I saw an opportunity for my usual levity.
"Turn that frown upside-down! It's a Friday, TGIF! You should celebrate."
"You're the one who had a rags-to-riches story today. There's nothing for me to celebrate until I have my own Cinderella moment."
"Someday your prince will come," I sang. "I was a Disney kid."
Abby took a mint and looked it over before popping it in her mouth. I could hear the crunch. This was one of the more powdery kinds, like Life-Savers, but chewing mints took guts.
"There must be cocaine or something in these. I don't get what's so special: are rich people so particular about brands because they're higher-quality, or are they just a status symbol? I don't know. Don't stay too late, Mike."
"I won't," I promised, and I turned back to my work to signal that she could take her leave. I wasn't going to stay late. There was a burger with my name on it.