Melting into Pink
Morris was junior investor at Brooks-Douglas. He was 43 years old, tall and slim, with muscles that couldn’t be seen beneath the felt jackets and cotton suits he’d wear to work. He’d been in that position - junior investor - for years, working 9-5 Monday through Friday, crunching numbers, making projections. He was good at it; as a matter of fact he’d obtained a highly analytical mind from all his years, and was arguably the most talented investor in the whole firm, though one might not know it judging by his disposition. Every day Morris would come into the office with a slight hunch in his posture, as though he were walking in from the cold, even during the summer. Beneath his felt hat he’d held a constant frame of imposition, a frown that hinted at a glum and rueful disposition. He wasn’t trying to have an image about him, but in middle age the frown just seemed to settle in his cheeks, hung beneath a delicate nose and resting on a close-shaved chin. He wasn’t an unattractive man; he oiled his gray hair and wore expensive suits, but still there was that look of disinterest to detract from everything else. Over the years he’d tried different tactics to make himself seem more congenial: a feather in his hat, forcing smiles at coworkers, or putting up photos of long-estranged family members on the edge of his desk, but none had the desired effect. He took to wearing pink ties, the kind with prints of roses or paisleys on the silk; the feathers and the family came and went, but as for pink ties he’d come to own a reputable collection.
Five days a week Morris would come into that office, hunched over slightly, place his hat on a rack and sit down at his desk, hammering out financial documents that would constitute men’s livelihoods, reduced efficiently to numbers and graphs. Now and again a colleague might look at those graphs and think “Damn, I never would’ve figured that out.” and they might say something in the break room like “I mean, you saw it right? It’s a shame that Morris isn’t much of a talker, ‘cause if he was, he’d have made partner ages ago.” In fact, Morris felt no need to be a senior investor. It was early in his career that he’d realized his life had a sort of double meaning, that he only worked his days to make it easy to live on nights. He didn’t care about the job, even though he was good at it, because it didn’t constitute a sense of “being”. The weekend was his one great love, offering the romance of another life. Come Saturday, Morris’ office would dissolve like sugar in hot flood of lights and music, and he would feel the universe align. She would shed her felt and cotton skin, revealing someone whole and new, confident and smiling, unequivocally alive. “The Queen!” they would announce, and she would strut into the spotlight, a vision of silk and feathers, big eyelashes and pink everything shining brilliantly on stage. A wave back to the band signals a theme, and she moves a smile just close enough to the microphone, cradled gently in the other hand. The piano vamps on two chords. “We have an excellent show for you tonight, folks. I know you like this song, so I hope you’ll sing it with me.”