The New Boss

Today New Boss would be here.

Timmons was in a tizzy because he hadn’t secured all his hiding places, and he was almost sure that at least half of his secret games would be discovered. He rubbed his knees together under his desk and looked across the expanse of the office space. The desks were all empty at this early hour except one. Bunting. Bunting was always trying to show up Timmons by arriving as early as he did. Timmons was onto him, and he had plans, but not today. Today the new boss was arriving. Timmons did a mental inventory of his secret games and where they were hidden, and a shudder worked its way through him. Would New Boss do a sweep of the floor for secret games?

He heard Bunting pick up the phone, “Flexfast Quikchange, how may I direct your call?”

Bunting looked up, “Timmons, you have a call on line one.”

He leveled a gaze at Bunting and said, as coolly as he could, “I don’t hear you unless you page me, those are the rules.”

“C’mon Timmons, knock it off, I think it’s a client,” said Bunting.

“You knock it off, Smartpants, you’re not following the rules!” Timmons replied.

The intercom crackled above his head and let out a long sigh. Bunting’s tired voice amplified throughout the open area, “Zachary Timmons, you have a call on line one. Zachary Timmons, you have a call on line one.”

Timmons looked at him satisfied, then picked up the phone.

“You’re holding for?” He said into the mouthpiece.

An elderly woman’s voice answered back, “Mr. Zachary Timmons please.”

Timmons thought for a moment, then spoke, “He’s on another line. Would you like to hold, or can I have him return your call?”

“Zachary, is that you?” Said the woman.

Timmons paused, then, “No.”

The woman spoke again, “This is Zachary Timmons’s grandmother. Zachary left his wet bathing suit on the bed again.”

Timmons fumed. How could she think to call his work of all places and reveal intimate details of his shower time!

He would show her, “This is Zachary Timmons’s new boss, it’s my first day, and I don’t think it’s appropriate to talk about Zachary’s personal habits before I have met him as it may bias my decision on his receiving the special prize for best worker.”

“What?” said his grandmother.

“You heard me M’am,” he didn’t want to repeat all that.

“Zachary’s winning a prize?” she asked.

“Yes, for being best, but don’t tell him or it won’t be a surprise,” he said (boss like).

“Oh no, I wouldn’t dare,” she said.

“And be very nice to him by making him a pie,” he said, wondering if she would bite.

She bit, “I certainly will. When will he get this prize for being best?”

He could hear her trying to control the raging curiosity that enslaved her.

“We’re not sure yet M’am, maybe today, maybe next month, now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go review my speech for the ceremony. I’ll have Zachary call you, but you may want to remove the bathing suit yourself and hand wash his linens as he may be tied up for awhile being the best,” he said.

“Oh Okay, thank you…what’s your name?” she asked.

Timmons felt a bright stab of panic in his stomach. Of all the stupid traps to get himself into!

“Hello?” pleaded his grandmother.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you, we’re getting a new system installed and sometimes there’s glitchy glitchy,” he ventured.

She repeated herself, “I said thank you and asked what-

He put the phone in its cradle and looked up at the ceiling, “Bunting,” he thought and shook his head. A pencil hung stuck in the corky white square of prefab ceiling, the eraser pointing down at him. No doubt Bunting had been using his desk as a play area again, probably trying to develop his own secret games. He looked back at the phone, knowing she wouldn’t call back. His Grandmother would accept his lie with the elderly’s confused complacency when it came to electronic devices.

Other people had started to arrive, and he watched them file in one by one, or in clumps, and take their places at their faux cubicles, little square areas with walls four feet high, built only to define space. No one had privacy here.

Edwards, Phillips, Ms. Terri Melcher (who actually had her own office), were just a few that came in, alive from the morning commute and still steaming from the energy of the city. The sounds and smells reverberated off them, dissipating quickly in the huge dead space.

Timmons looked back up at the pencil and smirked. If this was Bunting’s idea of a secret game, it was ridiculous. He looked over at Bunting’s sad face, small and red as he chewed vigorously on a roll, Baby Bunting with his baby secret games. Knowing his luck, New Boss would stumble across some of Bunting’s shoddy secret games and think they were his. Then, not only would he be found out, but viewed as an amateur as well. He felt a smoldering anger start to overtake him.

Timmons shook his head vigorously and flapped his hands at his sides like a huge ungainly bird trying to get airborne. Once he felt his head was clear he got up from his desk and walked to his closest hiding place, three steps to the right.

The facsimile center was a bank of five fax machines on a shelf. They were set into a proscenium type opening in the wall and lit from above. Rory Lankham’s job was to properly maintain this area and today he was running late by approximately, Timmons looked at his watch, six minutes. Moving a stacked ream of paper to the side, Timmons reached behind the second machine and brought out a tiny mechanical pencil, the size of a small rectangular piece of gum. He palmed it and looked around to see if he was being watched. No one was looking, so he leaned over Fax #2 and pretended to be loading paper into it. He slid the pencil into his grip and wrote on a piece of blank fax paper in tiny letters, “kachoo.”

He closed the feed drawer and smiled, knowing that some random person would receive his message. This was one of his secret games, called, “sending small sneezes.” He reached behind the machine and put the tiny pencil back. Turning around, he found himself face to face with Rory Lankham, hands on his hips.

“May I help you, Zachary?” Rory inquired.

“Oh Rory, no not really,” said Timmons.

“Was there something you’re looking for,” asked Rory.

“Well actually Rory, I was looking for you,” Timmons replied.

“Very funny Zachary Timmons, now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do,” said Rory.

“Certainly Rory, I’m sure there might be work to be done,” said Timmons.

Timmons walked back to his desk and smiled as he peered back at Rory Lankham fluttering around the facsimile station.

Then something interesting happened. Timmons saw a memory picture.

In his memory, Timmons saw his boyhood friend Whit putting a very large grasshopper down the back of his little sister’s summer dress, and her look of terror as she danced a squirmy jig in efforts to remove it. He remembered laughing at the time, but the prevailing feeling in him then, and now, was utter sorrow.

He rubbed the sweat from his hairline and brought a hand to his belly, soothing himself with some gentle rubbing. The memory slowly subsided, but he was left with the palpable residue of grief.

Timmons was wrested from his thoughts by a commotion near the reception area. Ms. Terri Melcher and a portly gentleman were laughing it up with William Steegs from accounting. Steegs shook hands with the portly man, walked away, and Ms. Terri Melcher escorted the gentleman to another block of cubicles where he shook more hands.

The hair stood up on the back of Timmon’s neck. New Boss. This thick-bodied laughing man was the New Boss.

Timmons thought for a moment of Old Boss, Gregory Stans. Tall, ruggedly handsome, and ramrod straight in stature and code of conduct, Gregory was a challenge that Timmons could appreciate. The two of them made great cat and mouse together. The Secret Games were never secret for long and Timmons was constantly forced to reinvent the rules and find new hiding places for them. For when Old Boss Gregory put his mind to it, he could sniff out a secret game in no time at all. His record, as Timmons had noted to himself, was seventeen minutes. That was the time Old Boss had found a small adhesive label inside one of the toilet paper dispensers with the word, “starlight” on it. He’d attached the discovered label to a yellow post-it, which Timmons had discovered on his desk. His stomach had dropped at the discovery of his “bathroom galaxies,” but he had also been secretly thrilled.

He looked at the portly gentleman glad-handing his way toward him and wondered if he would be half the competitor that Old Boss was. Somehow, he doubted it.

“Zachary Timmons, you have a call on line four,” the loudspeaker boomed overhead. Timmons picked up the phone with his eye on Bunting talking sweet sugar with New Boss and pumping his little baby fist up and down in the stout man’s grip.

“You’re holding for?” Timmons spoke into the phone.

“Skreeeeeee!” A high-pitched electric squeal stabbed Timmons through his ear.

“Jeez-Louise!” He screamed, bringing the phone down hard and hitting his thigh.

“TURN YOUR RADIO DOWN!” Timmons yelled into the phone, garnering a brief stare from those in his vicinity.

“ZACHARY IT’S YOUR UNCLE RICHIE.” He heard from the receiver.

“I know who it is. Turn your radio down.” he spoke into the phone’s mouthpiece microphone style as if he were crooning to his co-workers, the earpiece pointing towards the ground. He could hear the buzz of words from his uncle’s end, but they were no longer blasting forth, so he put the earpiece to his head.

“…and they have curlyfries now!” said his uncle.

“Hello?” said Timmons.

“BOOGER!” yelled Uncle Richie.

“Shhhhhh” Timmons hissed into the mouthpiece. “What do you want?”

There was a pause. Then a whisper:

“Mama says you gettin’ a prize.”

“Maybe I am and maybe it’s none of your business.” Timmons said.

He thought of his grandmother’s big mouth and squinted.

“Zachary, would you like to come over and see my trays?” said Uncle Richie.

“Uncle Richie, goodbye.” Said Timmons and hung up the phone.

He was through being polite to Uncle Richie about his trays. Six porcelain trays, each one with a different adverb on it, all lined up in a row on his couch. One time, as a boy, he had taken GENTLY and put it under the couch until Uncle Richie had started cry and he had to reveal its whereabouts (which he did in an anonymous telegram). The tray collection had grown twofold since then and Uncle Richie beamed over it every chance he got. It exhausted Timmons with boredom.

“Hello Zachary!” said a voice behind him.

Timmons turned around slowly. He knew that his conduct in the next few moments was crucial. Facing him were Ms. Terri Melcher, who had said hello, and the New Boss.

“Zachary this is Ennis Toots; he’s the new Regional Supervisor,” said Ms. Terri Melcher.

New Boss’s hand popped out like a rabbit punch and stopped six inches from Timmons’s midsection.

“Hello Zachary. Pleasure to meet you,” said New Boss.

Timmons, feigning a clumsy demeanor, stepped forward into the extended arm and let it sink into his soft midsection a fraction before grabbing the hand attached to it. He called this, “rubbing the shake,” and watched to see how New Boss would react to the first of his Secret Games.

“Nice meet you,” he said fluidly. “Welcome New York. I’m looking forward working with you.”

A barrage of “skipping the to-s” was always a good way to gauge a new acquaintance. He watched New Boss’s eyes.

“Likewise,” said New Boss.

“Zachary has been working on the Fielding Report,” said Ms. Terri Melcher.

“Oh, how’s that coming?” said New Boss.

“Aces!” chimed Timmons.

“Well, I can’t wait to hear about your progress,” said New Boss.

“There’s so many good surprises in store for you!” said Timmons.

New Boss stared at him for a moment, and then it came, a flicker in his eyelid.

“Well Ennis, let me introduce you to the New Accounts Group,” said Ms. Terri Melcher.

“Nice to meet you,” said Timmons. “We’ve all been very excited for the new boss to arrive, and now he has.”

New Boss laughed, and said, “Well I’m excited to be here. See you later, Zack.”

As they walked away, Timmons’s jaw dropped. He’d just been “short-named.” He hadn’t short named anyone in years, and didn’t know anyone else was aware of the technique.

Maybe New Boss had some tricks up his sleeve after all.

Timmons sat down at his desk to think. He glanced at the framed picture in front of him: Grandma, Uncle Richie and himself, sitting in a porch swing sharing a platter of Nachos. Grandma was wincing because Uncle Richie had placed the oven hot platter on her unprotected lap and the swing was shimmying this way and that. Timmons remembered it as a horrible place to eat Nachos. It was two summers ago when Uncle Richie had broken his wrist, and Grandma had sprung for a trip to the countryside. Timmons studied his own face. He remembered being annoyed, but that wasn’t the look he recognized staring at himself. It was almost as if he was trying to convey a message to the here and now. His face seemed to say it would suffer no more surprises. He was ready for any challenge.

He opened a drawer, pulled out a Ziploc bag filled with large marshmallows, and started, “chain-puffing” them. One by one they entered his mouth, were chewed, swallowed, then replaced. When there were seven left, he took them from the bag and lined them up in front of him on the desk. With a green felt-tip pen he began labeling each one with a letter: n, e, w, b, o, s, and s. He put the labeled marshmallows back in the bag, zipped it up, and stuffed it in the inside pocket of his coat. Later, when he figured out exactly what to do, he would use them, but first he would have to consult with Jeremy.

Whenever Timmons found himself in a bind, he would meet with Jeremy to sort it out. He got up and walked over to the window. The sun was bright in the pale blue sky, and he watched it gleam on the windows of the skyscrapers surrounding him. FlexFast QuickChange was on the nineteenth floor and from his window Timmons could see a radius of about six blocks before taller buildings blocked his view. The Four Seasons Hotel was only a few yards away and the proximity always fascinated Timmons. Each window, when not shaded, revealed a different story.

Timmons gazed in the window directly across from him. A hotel Maid was making the bed in a practiced mechanical manner and her large body rippled gently in her tight uniform as she moved this way and that. He watched her move about the room tidying up until she looked up at him suddenly with a large grin and waved. He was struck by her good cheer and raised his hand reflexively but found himself unable to smile. His embarrassment at being caught watching, contorted his face into a tight-lipped wide-eyed mask. She went cheerfully back to her work and only then could Timmons force a smile on to his face. It was too late. He rubbed his belly gently until the shame subsided.

On the windowsill in front of him was a large planter box filled with some sort of out-of-control creeping vine that spilled over the sill and hung halfway to the floor. Behind the planter box, between it and the window, sat Jeremy. Timmons looked around carefully and then reached down and gently picked up the little potted cactus that he’d stowed there. His Jeremy. He took his handkerchief from his breast pocket, carefully covered the plant, and walked briskly towards the washroom.

Timmons backed carefully into the bathroom. He looked around to make sure no one was there and then opened one of the stall doors. Slowly, he slid into the stall, carefully holding Jeremy so he wouldn’t topple over. Then he heard the door to the bathroom open and fumbled desperately, grabbing at the stall door in a panic, trying to shut himself in. He was unsuccessful and the stall door swung slowly out, revealing Bunting standing half in and half out of the doorway.

“I was just going to use the bathroom,” said Bunting.

“So use it,” said Timmons.

“Did you need a hand with something?” inquired Bunting.

“No, Bunting,” shot Timmons.

Bunting stood planted in the doorway. “Why don’t you like me, Zachary?” he said.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Bunting,” said Timmons.

“I’ve never done a thing to you, you know,” said Bunting.

“Bunting, I’m busy with Jeremy,” Timmons said through gritted teeth.

“What are you talking about?” giggled Bunting.

Timmons pulled the handkerchief off the small potted cactus and held it towards Bunting.

“I have to talk to Jeremy!” he screamed, “I have to talk to my Jeremy!”

Bunting’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared. His lip quivered and his face lost its color. “Screw you, Zachary,” he whispered, and ran out of the bathroom.

Timmons watched him go, then looked at Jeremy and sighed. A memory picture flashed before his eyes: Whit’s little sister shrieking and squirming to get away from the locust scrambling inside her dress. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, but she kept shrieking and reaching effortlessly behind her while her older brother howled with laughter. She looked towards Zachary, pleading, turning toward him, motioning for him to get it out, get it out, get it out.

A tear plopped out on his cheek, and he opened his eyes wide.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

He held Jeremy close to his chest, taking care not to injure himself, or the small plant, then stepped into the stall and clasped the door behind him. He carefully set Jeremy on the flat surface of the paper dispenser and proceeded to wipe the toilet seat with a bundle of tissue. When it was sufficiently clean, Timmons let his pants fall and sat down. He didn’t have to move his bowels but knew this would help camouflage his conference with Jeremy. He reached over and took the potted cactus in his hands. Holding it in front of him, he started the conference.

“Hello Jeremy. Hello Pal. How is Jeremy today?” he said.

The cactus stared silently back at him.

“He’s here Jeremy. He’s here and he may be a match for us after all.”

Timmons looked through the crack in the stall door to make sure he wasn’t being observed.

“There’s still Secret Games unaccounted for. Do you think I should challenge New Boss to a Dual of Hints?”

Only once had Timmons directly challenged someone to a Duel of Hints. He had been a sophomore in college and Mr. Snates, the Library Administrator, had caught him rubbing the pages of a vintage ship building manual on the skin of his face. Snates had roared something unintelligible and struck Timmons with a Thermos, knocking the nautical guide to the ground. This had upset Timmons greatly and he had stood on his tiptoes and whispered the word, “Shadows,” to Mr. Snates, setting the challenge in effect. He had seen Snates whither at this challenge, before Snates promptly fired him.

Timmons smiled as he thought about his wistful college days then he remembered the marshmallows in his jacket pocket. He cleared his head of fantasies and retrieved the Ziploc from under his coat. He was glad he wouldn’t have to resort to a “Dual of Hints.” It was rather extreme. Holding up the bag, he examined the “Situational Treats,” as he liked to call them. Then he held them up for Jeremy to see.

“Well Jeremy, here they are.”

“I used a green marker this time.”

The bag that Gregory Stans had found in his briefcase, on the way home from his last day at work, had contained twenty-one Vanilla Wafers, each one lettered in red: G, O, O, D, B, Y, E, O, L, D, B, O, S, S, G, O, O, D, B, Y, E.

Timmons looked hard at the labeled confectionaries. This would be the test; he would drop the bag on New Boss’s vacant desk, and if the candies were traced back to him then he would know he had his work cut out for him and would tighten the security surrounding his Secret Games.

If New Boss brought the marshmallows to Bunting, or worse, ignored them altogether, Timmons would know that his time here was done, and he would leave. There was a feeling inside him that a new chapter had begun here at FlexFast QuickChange. Things were different. Bunting and others like him were infiltrating the place, and things were becoming dumber by the second. He wanted no part of a place that wanted no part of him. It was the Secret Games he lived for, and if there was no one to acknowledge them then they didn’t exist. For what makes a secret a secret but the potential for telling.

Timmons put the bag back in his coat pocket and held Jeremy in front of his face.

“Don’t worry Jeremy. Don’t worry Pal, we’ll be fine no matter what happens.”

He covered the small cactus and set him once again on the toilet paper dispenser. Pulling his pants back up, he decided to check on one more of his Secret Games before presenting New Boss with the “Situational Treats.”

Timmons reached up the back wall, to the top of the stall, and found a length of twine hanging from the ceiling tile. He tugged gently on it and the tile above jerked slightly. A small paper glider flew gently by him and skidded to a halt under the stall door. He gave the twine a second small tug and another plane coasted by his nose and collided with the stall door before going belly up at his feet. He called this contraption “Hiding the Glider.” It had taken him two weeks to make and store two hundred small paper gliders in the crawl space above the tiled ceiling, each one attached to the other by a small fold, like tissues in a box, so that when one was released the next was moved into a ready position. All it took was a gentle pull on the twine to shake the tiny jet loose from its runway above the tile. He was very proud of this contraption.

Timmons opened the stall door and picked up the little planes from the floor. He pocketed them and quickly, but carefully, collected Jeremy from atop the paper dispenser.

Exiting the bathroom, Timmons walked slowly back to his desk, as if he was carrying a full cup of piping hot liquid. He didn’t care who saw him, his mind was on getting the “Situational Treats” on New Boss’s desk without being noticed. Since he could see the man’s office from his desk, he figured it wouldn’t be too hard to find the right time. Some paperwork or a folder would be a perfect decoy for the walk to the office and then he would take the Ziploc from under his coat and place it on the man’s chair. When something was placed on your chair, you had no choice but to notice it.

Timmons placed Jeremy tenderly down on his desk and pulled the handkerchief from over him. He would let him stay here for a bit while he waited to hatch the plan. His hand went to stroke Jeremy as he looked up to spy on New Boss. As he peered into New Boss’s office, his hand grasped Jeremy’s small stalk and slowly tightened around it. His jaw dropped and a low moan came from his throat, as he saw his grandmother and Uncle Ritchie sitting and chatting with his New Boss, just fifty feet from where he sat. He quickly removed his burning hand from the cactus and shook it in front of him. Jeremy fell over and dry soil scattered across the desk, but Timmons didn’t see this for his eyes never left the ghastly scene that was playing out before him. He could see his grandmother nodding vigorously, a ridiculous smile plastered on her face. Uncle Richie’s head was swiveling back and forth, taking in everything at once, like an idiot child brought to the fair. When his gaze moved towards Timmons’s desk Timmons ducked down below the line of his cubicle in panic. He hadn’t seen New Boss’s face but could only imagine what he was thinking and rage bubbled up inside him. It was inexcusable. It was his first day with the New Boss for Heaven’s Sake! He thought about all of the things he had said to his grandmother under the guise of New Boss and shame poured through him. He was done for.

When Timmons ventured a peek over his cubicle his grandmother was holding up what looked like a small flag and waving it back and forth in apparent glee. With a cramp in his belly, Timmons realized that it was his very own bathing suit, what he liked to call his “Showering Trunks,” being held on display for everyone to see. He put his head in his hands and was reminded of the pain in one of them. Looking down at it, he caught sight of Jeremy, toppled over and floundering like a fish out of water. A gasp escaped him, and he quickly scooped up the small cactus and did his best to get it upright in the little clay pot. He picked with futile effort at crumbly dirt trying to get it to go back in and provide some leverage for his downed friend, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. Jeremy wouldn’t stand. Timmons vision blurred with hot tears, and he felt himself breathing heavy. Suddenly a sing-song voice rang out over the loudspeaker above.

“Zachary is a liar, Zachary is a liar, Zachary is a liar, Zachary is a liar.”

Over and over again it chimed. Timmons wiped his eyes with his good hand and looked around wildly, searching for the source. He found it at Bunting’s desk, where Uncle Richie was standing, holding Bunting’s phone and singing into it. Bunting had a strange expression on his face, like he wasn’t sure what was happening, but was nevertheless entertained. Timmons picked up the remains of Jeremy and started towards his demented Uncle, who had hung up the phone and stood there giggling over Bunting. He had made his way around the block of desks that separated his cubicle from Bunting’s when a hand grabbed his arm.

“Hey, Zack, got a sec?”

Timmons looked up into the face of the New Boss and felt a panic rising.

“I didn’t ask her to come here.” He said.

“She didn’t say you did. Why don’t you come talk about it.” Replied New Boss.

“We could have had some good times.” Timmons mumbled. “I think you were really up to the task.”

“What do you mean, Zack?” The New Boss inquired. “We can still have good times.”

“No. They’ve ruined all that. It’s over. All over. Even Jeremy’s dead.” Whispered Timmons.

“Who is Jeremy?” said New Boss.

“Pull the string in the bathroom for starters.” Said Timmons. “That’s one of the better ones. I think you would have liked it. And it’s mine not Bunting’s, for God’s sake.”

Timmons pulled one of the crumpled paper gliders from his pocket and handed it to New Boss, who stared at it curiously. He saw his grandmother standing in the doorway of the office wringing his shower trunks in her hand.

“Zachary, come talk to Grandma!” she croaked loudly.

Timmons stepped around New Boss and grabbed the Ziploc of marshmallows from his pocket. He winged it at his grandmother, striking her in the neck. The bag fell to the ground, and she stared at it, shocked.

“Go on, take it, there’s your prize, you ol’ busybody!” Timmons hissed.

She stared at him wide-eyed and held out his swimsuit to him. He looked incredulously at her then turned on his heels for the door. Uncle Richie stepped in front of him.

“Booger!” he taunted.

Timmons retrieved Jeremy with his already injured hand and looked down at him lovingly.

“Goodbye Jeremy. I love you.” He whispered.

“Who’s Jeremy!!” barked Uncle Richie.

With the greatest of care for his dying best friend, Timmons shoved Jeremy hard into Uncle Richie’s teasing face. Uncle Richie screamed with pain and flailed his hands at the thorny pickle attached to his cheek, as Timmons stepped around him and walked out the door.

In the elevator bank, Timmons stood for a moment, listening to the pandemonium he’d left behind. He bypassed the elevators and shoved open the fire exit that led to the stairs. The alarm started immediately and drowned out Uncle Richie’s howls just as fast. Timmons stood on a small balcony that led to a second stairwell door. He supposed he should leave before he was apprehended for his mayhem but couldn’t help noticing how beautiful the city looked before him, and beyond that the Hudson River and the lush green of New Jersey.

He thought for a moment of the possibilities of life, and for the first time they extended well beyond the trove of Secret Games that lay hidden in the pandemonium behind him. A breeze ruffled his hair, and he smiled. He reached in his pocket and pulled out the second small glider he’d retrieved from the washroom floor. He smoothed out its mashed nose with his injured hand, the palm covered with a multitude of tiny red dots and held the paper jet up to the breeze. The wind took it from him kindly and it floated for a second in front of his eyes before cascading smoothly downward, on a current of air that would take it somewhere new, somewhere unknown. He watched it go as the fire alarm blared above his head, and when he lost it in the distance, he turned and made for the stairs.