The Abandoned Station

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Remember These Colours

By abandoned station

A truncated version of the truth sat in the duller corners of Robert Stockwood’s mind. He of the financial pursuits of Hawley-Groon and Associates. He of the sharp suits and easy handshakes. He of the Stockwood family, headquartered at 13492 Leighton Boulevard.

Earlier than afternoon Robert had to look busy and serious in what appeared to be frivolous moments because the eyes of the few men head and shoulders above him in the great food chain of maritime law were upon his neck.

In front of him was his task, his test, his chance, his current raison d’etre. It was a three dimensional rectangle, coloured beige, except for the baby blue trim that lined all the edges. Atop its face were the words, carefully arranged by only the most skilled artisans, “Congratulations Team: $100 Million in the Smith-Brock Settlement”.

But for all of Robert’s research and rhetorical skills, the quivering knife in his hand was all the proof needed to suggest that this upcoming challenge was more daunting than any he had faced before.

No time to linger, either. Not only the few above but the many below him at Hawley-Groon surrounded his person. The former judging his worth, the later just wanting something to eat.

And it was Robert’s task to satisfy them both, by hacking up this giant dessert that sat in front of him just so, with emphasis on ‘just so’. Each piece for the ten board members must be of equal size, weight, and in visual harmony with each other.

Start with the initial beige buttercream icing that makes up the frozen but fragile exterior, down through the first layer of the devil’s food cake, the beginnings of icing layers thin as excuses, a second layer of cake, a sudden swerve into lemon curd icing, a third layer of cake, back to buttercream icing, and a final cake section to bring the entire superstructure to a close.

Upon this endeavor weighs Robert Stockwood’s future with the company. Forget the money won, the backs scratched, the secretary’s wooed, the scotch drunk. Carving a cake just so, just right, the symbolism of management finally being broken down to simple dexterity, hand-eye coordination, and visual guesstimating. No time to linger on the exact sizes, it had to be done quickly and without the rest of the employed rabble knowing that you were attempting to reach the greatest of heights. To them it was nothing more than a ten-minute diversion before being hustled back to their desks, oblivious to the fact that a man was rapidly measuring out his future at every second.

But it wasn’t simply the cut. The presentation on the plate was also a major factor. At what point do you lean the piece on its side rather than keep it standing proud? Do you risk handing it over upright only for it to teeter over like a drunk as you hand the plate to the esteemed Conrad Wurtzberger? That would get you busted down to mail boy.

Robert knew this was coming, and for the last two weeks had been purchasing three cakes from the local bakery every day and practiced cutting them into ridiculously thin slices long into the night. His wife was first bemused and then concerned, and his two children were ecstatic until they were told by both their parental overlords that only one of these cakes were actually going to be consumed by the family.

But those three people were the furthest from Robert’s mind as he brought the knife down upon the icing, silently parting his way forward. He made sure not to turn his back directly on his examiners, as it might arouse the suspicion of malfeasance. Besides, he was in the zone. He talked up the head of the interoffice party committee and learned the dimensions of the cake two days ago and had been practicing on a replica at home. At this point he was just going through cutting motions he had already memorized, the only real concern was with the luck of falling icing wisps as he removed the knife from the cake after each cut.

“Here you are, sir”, Robert said, trying to mask the pride in his voice, as he handed to the man who made the company what it was. Brent Groon took it emotionlessly, as if being given an offer on a folded piece of paper that he does not yet know is a compliment or insult.

His eyebrows rose for the visual inspection. He raises his forearm slightly, testing the air displacement. A brief pause.

“No room for ice cream”, Groon said, not looking up and digging in with the cheap plastic fork.

The aimless chatter around him suddenly became endlessly grating. Robert’s brain urged him to scream something, but the obstinate faces on the rest of board sealed his fate.

There was no ice cream available. But that wasn’t the point. Room was expected to have been made.

Just in case.

So Robert said nothing with his words and everything with his cranky and heartbroken face but duly cut more slices of cake for the lesser people around him while his gods slash executors nibbled at their own perfect pieces with renewed indifference to the man doing the serving.

And later when he stumbled home in exhaustion from venting in the car and sought solace in a badly mixed rum cocktail, he finally came around to opening up that abridged nugget of wisdom which spat out a future cliché:

When chasing dollars you get the sense that cosmic justice was for the birds.

It wasn’t over if Robert could get off here, stop gazing ever upwards and be satisfied with his current place in the food chain.

Which really meant that it was over, anyways. He couldn’t face them again. He wished his family never knew. He watched his dreams fade out in the distance, swallowed up in the contemptible heat of the evening sun.

END