Ken Eversauff was a broken man in a broken life and as was emblematic, he found himself sitting in a broken chair at the pub.

“Barkeep!” he hollered. “This chair rocks. I need a replacement.”

“Well, then, I sure hope you get one,” was the pub manager’s comeback.

Eversauff glowered at him. He felt himself a man who commanded respect, but one quick appraisal would tell the whole story: this man had the curse. It was the curse of the cosmic decree that legislated his highest achievable status—also-ran, squib, shū- shū,* forever someone’s tolerated assistant.

Eversauff knew better, always, with the accompanied envies and indignations.

Standing five-foot four, wearing 110 lbs, his stature embodied his cosmic decree; nevertheless, he propped it up as a persona. He wore his three-piece suit, angularly tailored, to portray past his fecklessness. He only fooled himself. His hair was thin but present in a gelled, straight style of shiny, dark porcupine needles combed tightly straight back. The whole package was as a self-appointed β-male peacock.

With mange.

Forever demoted into career-corners, he was an angry little man constantly on the look-out for an underling to suffer his angry little authority.

The bartender knew him well.

He rocked angrily on his chair, sipping his Jack and Coke. Who would change his chair for him? Certainly not him. It was the newest power struggle of an endless series of power struggles that daily defined his sense of self-worth.

He looked up and saw Walsh come in. He waved him over. Walsh took a seat opposite him which sat squarely, successfully, on its four legs.

“I was over at the other place, waiting,” Walsh complained.

“Sorry.”

“It was inconsiderate. You could have told me.”

“You should have assumed. Here, let me order you a drink”: apology in Y-chromosome code accepted, although the beverage was declined.

“No, thanks,” Walsh answered. The drink came anyway, and Eversauff merely queued it up as his next. “You want that promotion?” Walsh asked him, with one raised eyebrow that lifted above one side of his sunglasses.

“Yes,” Eversauff answered.

“I can make that happen.”

“This is the meeting that’ll make that happen?” he prompted Walsh.

“Yes it is, Ken.” He smiled at him. "We need a fourth-in-command.”

“Fourth?”

“Llorente’s second. Leeper’s third. You know that.”

“What would fourth in command do?”

“All the things Llorente and Leeper can’t.”

“Or won’t,” Eversauff sneered, feeling the setup for another fall.

Walsh, with his sunglasses on, hid his scornful glare. “Look,” Walsh told him with the tone of destiny, “you’d be lucky.” His tone in their conversation suddenly became hostile, like in any good bipolar conversation. “Because it’s fucking prestigious!” He settled back down. “It’d be an honor to be number four for God’s sake! You’re not gonna get higher than that. You’ll be a minor big shot. Finally, a success.” Eversauff simmered.

“Look, Walsh—”

"C’mon, Eversauff! If you’re not with me, you’re nothing. Do you understand? Nothing!” Walsh was right and Eversauff knew it.

“When would I get my badge?” Eversauff asked. Walsh reached into his pocket and jingled a good many of something, then he fished one out. As if he handed them out all day, he tossed it at Eversauff. Eversauff missed the catch and it fell to the table. Eversauff regarded it for a moment, then reached to retrieve it. Walsh put his hand on Eversauff’s sleeve and squeezed.

“You accept?”

Eversauff freed his hand politely from Walsh’s grip, grasped the badge, and applied it to his lapel. It looked good, even upside down from his vantage.

“What now?” he asked Walsh.

“Now you go to Control and when you arrive, Leeper will meet you with all of your stuff. After that, I have a surprise for you, No. 4. Don’t bug me about it; just wait for it when it comes.”

A surprise? And Leeper will meet me, Eversauff beamed. Leeper—Number three—playing a chauffer; he fingered his badge salaciously. This probably called for another Jack and Coke.

And definitely a new chair.

If the bartender knew what was good for him. Fucking bartender! As if!

Both were swaddled, gently

—The one wept, stirring against the folds of a blanket

—The other fussed, tucked within the embrace of its carrier

I wondered which she would choose, this young mother of two

She reached for the phone.

I had never seen you before.

I never saw you again after.

You came in in a blaze of fury and defeated my enemies.

You saved the day.

It may have been something small, something you have already forgotten.

But you did save me, you gave me time.

Now I return the favor and do what you did ten fold.

I am the hero of this story,

but you were the catalyst.

Without your single page in my thousand page story.

the story would have been a lot shorter.

The glasses are gone, like

the shirt and professional

pretense, for one ephemeral

flicker of the presenter’s avatar:

himself, bare-chested and sleek,

hard like the brick wall setting

off his sun-bronzed skin,

so I wonder, long after he

has hastily clicked away, who

this man is elsewhere,

beyond this Google Meet, beyond

this sales pitch for edu software,

beyond this dim and narrow

room: a man, who meets.

The cyclist apologized and offered to give Matthew his phone number. Matthew was annoyed. He would miss the meeting for sure. The car was in bad shape. The windshield was broken and the hood had deep scratches. He gave the cyclist a notebook and told him to write his information there. He had little to do but wait the arrival of the police. It was 12:45. The lunch was at 13:30. It was all done for. All he could do is phone Phillip, his boss.

“Don’t worry, Matthew,” said the raspy voice on the other end of the phone. “I cannot be there to take over, but I’ll find someone who can. Take good care of yourself and let me know if you need anything.”

Two hours passed. Matthew called Phillip again to let him know the matter had been settled and to ask for an update on the meeting.

“Who did you put in?”

“Sergei.”

“Sergei?! OK, I guess. Hope everything went well.”

“It went great, actually. He closed it,” replied Phillip over the background echo of a sky jet. “The client had some feedback and Sergei dealt with it.”

“Oh?”

“They basically said they want to continue with Sergei.”

“What?!”

“Matthew, her words were particularly strong. She finds you cold and abrasive. And you didn’t pay attention to her feedback. … Matthew, are you still there? Listen, we can discuss this later. What is important is that you are in good health.”

“Her feedback is full of requests that cannot be achieved on this platform.”

“Nevertheless, we can try to work something out. Maybe have another meeting with the development team. Tomorrow.”

“It’s not my contract anymore,” said a despondent Matthew.

After a pause, Phillip said:

“How are you? Any bruises?”

“No, not really.”

“What about the cyclist?”

“What about him?”

“Is he OK?”

“I don’t know. He left on his own two feet, so I assume nothing’s broken.”

“Do you need a day off?”

Matthew didn’t know what to say.