legs

“Mr. Jones, based on our calculations, you need to save about $897 a month for the next 30 years so you can retire and live the life you are accustomed to. This is based upon complex formulas and your current, past and future earnings that we estimated.”

I sat there and stared at my “Investment Guru.” This was a self-given label. These people were called in by my company to try and “kick start” retirement planning. Funny, I’ve pretty much known for 15 years that if I didn’t marry a rich woman, retirement for me would be a one-bedroom hovel on skid row.

“What do you think of that Mr. Jones?” this perky, 24-year-old guru asked me.

“Well, Miss Smythe. … It is Miss?”

“Yes.”

“That is more than I make in two weeks. If you double that to get my monthly income, then subtract rent, utilities, gas money, student loan payment, credit card payment, internet payment and so on, you’ll see that this is impossible.”

I stared at her as she stared at me.

“And that does not include food.”

“OK. So you’re feeling a little bit overwhelmed. … No need to be belligerent.”

“Belligerent? I’m not being belligerent. I’m being rational. If this company paid a living wage – no one in this office has received a raise in the years I’ve been here. In fact, they’ve all received pay cuts. Do you know what that’s like?”

“Well, uh…”

“I thought not. I mean, if the company took the money it spent hiring you and your “associates” to come in here and tell us that we’re not going to ever be able to retire, and divided it up amongst the 100 or so of us, then we’d have that amount of money. For a week.”

Dumbfounded, Miss Smythe played with her pencil and stared at her computer monitor. I didn’t mean to be mean, but sometimes it was inevitable.

Instead of apologizing, however, I decided to stare at her legs. They were great legs. The kind that look like ivory, but soft. She had on a short skirt to show them off and it made me feel worse. So, I stopped looking at them. But a little too late.

“Did you enjoy that?” Miss Smythe said angrily.

“Not particularly. Just reminded me of an ex-lover of mine who devastated me years ago.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” I said, looking at her tits now.

“Mr. Jones, I want to help you. And it appears from your financials that you need help.”

“Just from my financials?”

She brushed that off and continued: “Here is my card. I don’t usually do this with clients from this job, but you genuinely need help. And I think you are smart enough to know you need help.”

“Being smart enough isn’t enough,” I said with a bit of a southern drawl.

“Yes, that is true, Mr. Jones. Most people don’t know it’s too late until they aren’t working anymore and have medical bills and other financial obligations that a measly savings and a Social Security check won’t pay.”

I knew all of this was true, but I didn’t care. I was here for one reason – my boss said I had to come – but now was here because staring at Miss Smythe was better than staring at the drivel known as copy that the reporters and editors handed to me at the paper. Bitterness did not come close to describing what I felt each day I plopped down into my cubicle.

Yesterday was especially bad because my boss found a project I’d been working on. Sometimes in the office, but mostly late at night in the comforts of my way-too-expensive for my income beach house while sipping on a bottle of Jameson. A collection of short stories based upon a dying newspaper. It would never be read, but it was damn funny – to me at least.

Reporters who can’t write and editors who can’t edit filled its pages. A manager in number – but not effort – for each reporter. A drunk leading the charge – not altogether a horrible thing, mind you – and an elf-like publisher who showed up every so often and said hello – his hunched shoulders reminding you that he had millions in the bank and you had $45.12.

“Mr. Jones, we need to talk,” she yelled from her glass-enclosed office in the corner of the newsroom.

I got up, sighed loudly and trudged to her office.

“Sit down please, and shut that door!” she barked.

She managed to say that second part after I had sat.

“What is this? This garbage?” she then yelled.

“What exactly are you talking about? The paper? Or something in it?”

She stared for a second, trying to intimidate me. After realizing the folly, she continued…

“I think you know what it is I am talking about. This, this writing you’ve been doing. Probably doing it while sitting in your comfortable chair over there.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s comfortable….”

“Shut up. You’ve been writing about us. Making fun of everyone in that office. What do you think they would all think about it if I showed them?”

“It would be quite a portrait of just how awful all of our lives have become,” I replied. “About how awful we’ve all let our lives become. This, for all of us on a daily basis, is a choice.”

My boss, taken aback by my non-chalance , sighed even louder than I did moments before.

“Mr. Jones, do you know what this means?”

“That you don’t know my first name?” I thought of saying, but since I knew the answer I refrained.

“Yes?” I finally said.

“You need to apologize to everyone for this. If you want to let them see it, and then hate you for it, that is your decision. But you must apologize.”

I stood up from the leather chair in her office, noticing just how comfortable it was compared to my stained with God-knows what, rickety old felt covered chair at my desk, and nodded. I felt it served the purpose better to just nod like Billy Bob Thornton in “Sling Blade”.

I went out into the office and cleared my throat.

“Attention everyone!” I said. “Attention everyone!”

The quiet of the newsroom stopped. Now it was a murmur of noise. A pleasant, but too slight, consequence of my voice ripping through.

“I have to say something,” I said, looking back at my editor. She was smiling, just a slight smile, but it was there. Her legs were crossed. Damn, she had great legs too.

“I’m sorry,” I finally said.

“For what?” a voice I knew all too well echoed from the back of the room. It was Larry. He was an overweight reporter. The only one in the room I had any respect for. And that was mainly because he kept action figures on his desk.

“For what? Damn, that’s a good question. I guess because I write stuff, and it hurts.”

Everyone looked down.

“We’ve seen it,” Larry piped up. “We saw your writings months ago. It made me laugh.”

I turned back to the editor. She was frowning now. Her legs? Still hot.

“And you don’t need to apologize,” Larry continued. “We all know.”