He couldn’t read his own chicken-scrawl, and there was no time for that; too much to do, buddy… too much to coordinate. He blew a thick cloud of smoke out and the overhead light caught it; made it look like nourishing milk floating in the air. Henry took off his eyeglasses, closed his eyes tight and squeezed his ethmoidal sinuses between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand like very tired important people do on TV—fuck—but only fortyish or fiftyish-type people—people with the requisite lines on their face to convey the stress that they are under, but young enough not to have yellowed-out skin. He opened his eyes back up; and, leaving his glasses on the desk he was seated behind, went back to pulling sense from his schedule he’d outlined for today. Goddamn man was busy, busy-busy…
Henry’s phone vibrated on the desk. The clouds of smoke weren’t metaphysical enough to conceal his presence from the caller; they all knew his proclivity for order; they all knew that he always carried his phone. The caller was right on time whoever it was… right according to schedule.
“Hello?”
“It’s Bridgette.”
It was Bridgette.
“What Bridgette?”
“Listen.”
“Hurry up.”
“You’re scheduled to meet Tom at three.”
“Three?”
He was scheduled to meet Tom at three.
“Yes, three.”
“OK.”
He hung up. Three. Tom at three. That cleared some of the schedule up. He marked a thick line with his blue-ink fountain-pen in the row marked three. He leaned back; looked at the clock; the clock said ten; it was the morning; he relaxed; the moment was gone; had to get back to it… had to call someone—clear-up more time.
Henry looked back down to his schedule. It looked more detailed and busy than it had five minutes before; like Hieronymus Bosch logged it, like hyperactive spiders had danced in ink all over the page—fuck—there was bourbon standing on the tray by the bookcase, like you see in fortyish or fiftyish-type lawyers’ offices in the oldies; he glanced at it; it beckoned to him; it said: Drink Bourbon! Oh Bourbon tastes so gooood!—Fuck—he looked down to the desk—gotta keep away from it ‘ole buddy ‘ole pal; gotta get through this goddamn schedule!
Tabitha—the name stood out like ‘John Hancock’ on the page; eleven o’clock; Tabitha always kept her phone on her.
“This is Tabitha.”
“Tabitha.”
Tabitha was sounding stern
“Yes?”
“Eleven o’clock.”
“Yes, eleven.”
“You come in at eleven.”
Tabitha had an appointment at eleven.
“I will see you at eleven.”
He was making good progress; he sat back in his chair; the chair did not squeak or fart on account of the expense and sumptuousness of its leather; he looked at the clock; ten thirty; what a good pace; he was greatly pleased; it passed quickly. Back to it.
Henry fitted his eyeglasses back around his ears and lit another cigarette from the wooden box on the desk; smoking indoors… a different flow pattern to the smoke; lingering smoke… made it heavy; slow—he hated slow; fuck cigarettes. He ground the cigarette out in an onyx ashtray. He squinted at the severe writing in his schedule. Denise. Had to call Denise.
“Denise.”
“Hello honey! Are you having a good day!”
“Faster.”
“Right…” and you could hear the woman take a great gulp of air in, “IscheduledyouinfortenthirtytwowithMilsbornandMossandputyouDownforwalkingthedogattenthirtyfourafterweeat-brunchtogetheratcafeolewithBeverlyandMikeattenthirtythreeandonehalf!”
More progress was being made.
“Right.”
He hung up the phone and crossed a great swath of activities out with a diagonal stroke of his blue-ink fountain-pen—right—he leaned back in the chair again; have to take the blood pressure medication; ten-thirty five; keep-up the pace, keep-up the pace. He laughed at the bourbon in the bourbon bottle; it wasn’t saying anything anymore; ten thirty-five and one half. Back to it.
He heaved himself forward in his chair and hit the page again with his bloodshot eyes; Jesus… the list seemed even longer after all that work!
The intercom buzzer sent a caffeinated zip through the air.
“F.G. Haltwuy is here to see you Mr. Broachmoore.”
He had to go skiing in the Alps at ten forty.
“Hurry up.”
F.G. exploded through the doors, “Right. You have to sign this!”
“When will the building be erected?”
“At twelve thirty-four.”
“AM or PM?”
F.G. got sweaty, “AM.”
Unacceptable.
“Unacceptable.”
“Twelve-twelve AM and free Pyrenees ski-vacation at one fifty-two.”
“Right.”
They shook.
“Get out.”
F.G. jumped out.
Henry lined-out two more items on the schedule; that’s plenty of time cleared-up; he leaned-back in the chair; ten thirty-nine; ski-vacation; the skiing wasn’t fun—back to it.
Tabitha.
The intercom zipped.
“Mrs. Tabitha Ersthwaite is here to see…”
“Hurry up.”
Tabitha sententiously paced in through the door that F.G. had left open and provided Henry with his alpine view.
“Mister Broachmo…” she aristocratically began, rolling her r’s like no-one ever does anymore.
“Get out.”
Tabitha was early; ten forty-three.
Tabitha turned on the ball of her left foot and left in one fluid motion; she smiled; she wiped out her schedule for eleven in her head.
Ten fifty; nap-time; cigarettes and nap; he always felt better when working while napping.
He’d gone to brunch; eaten with DeniseandBeverlyandMike; he was still hungry; tobacco cured the hunger; the Indians were smart. Henry leaned forward and zipped the intercom.
“Yes Mr. Broachmoore?”
“Tobacco.”
Tobacco was smart.
“How much in tobacco?”
“Twenty-thousand in tobacco.”
All these people around that don’t eat.
“Yes Mr. Broachmoore.”
Tobacco=bad breath.
“Buy Tic-Tac’s as well.”
Corner the market.
“Twenty in Tobacco and twenty in Tic-Tacs.”
His phone vibrated.
Even though the smoke from his cigarettes wasn’t metaphysical enough to hide him from the callers on the phone, it did enough—why wasn’t he smoking! He started smoking. Everyone knew that he always kept his phone on him; so he should always be smoking.
“What!”
“Mr. Broachmoore?”
“Faster.”
Henry looked at the clock.
“Carnival cruise.”
Ten forty.
“James!”
“It’s James.”
It was James.
“How much.”
“Free Carpathian ski-holiday.”
“Free Pyrennese ski-holiday, a meeting with Tom at three, and twenty-thousand in Tic-Tacs.”
“What about Bridgette?”
“Lunch in one minute at Café Ole for you to tell Bridgette yourself.”
“Done.”
“When.”
“Six-o-one tomorrow.”
“Dubai?”
“Dubai.”
He’d meet James with DeniseBeverlyandMike in Dubai at six-o-one tomorrow.
Sleep… sleep for the cruise.
He zipped the intercom.
“Yes Mr. Broa…”
“Sleep.”
“How much sleep?”
“Times twenty-sleep.”
Times twenty was a good number for heavy sleep.
“Twenty-sleep?”
She’d never given him twenty-sleep.
“Twenty-sleep.”
“Yes Mr. Broa…”
The phone vibrated on the desk. Right on time; right on schedule for whoever it was.
“Hurry-up!”
“It’sDenisehoney!”
“Whatwhat!”
“JamescalledBridgetteandBrigettecalledmetoofferyoubacktheappointmentatthreefortwentyfivethousandinTic-Tacsandafree Himalayanskivacation!”
“Donedonedone!”
“I’mgoingtosleeptimes-thirtyhoneybye!”
He zipped the intercom.
“Yes Mr…”
“THIRTY! –TIMES-THIRTY!”
“Yes M…”
He couldn’t even lean-back in the chair anymore; too much to do, too much to do! He lined the rest of the chicken-scrawl out in the schedule; the clock on the wall said twelve-twelve; schedule-in tomorrow: Himalayan ski-vacation; Brian; Tom Bridgette; Dick; walking the dog…
“Here you are Mr. Broachmoore.”
She set the tray down.
“The window!”
She went over and opened the window.
Cars beeped up.
He chugged the pills.
Three hundred pills…
He needed to call A.P. Pruitt.
His phone vibrated; why wasn’t he smoking!
“Hurry up!”
“It’sDeniseI’llseeyoutherehoney!”
HE WAS FUCKING BEHIND-SCHEDULE!
He zipped the intercom.
“I’mgoingtomeetmywife!”
Eleven o’clock…
He dove out the window.
***
Seth V Seppala was born in Texas and raised in Europe. He was a student of architecture at the University of Florida and then an infantryman in the U.S. Marines. Now he just sits around and waits for his wife to get home from work to bring him money.
Photo by Yandle
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