One Loan Soul, page 6
part #1 of Loan Series
I blink at my surroundings and cringe — internally to save grace.
I'm standing before a populated board room, a massive oval conference table extending in front of me instead of a red carpet. Replacing the journalists on either side are men and women in snappy suits. Their swanky desk chairs are crammed around the entire circumference of the substantial centerpiece. Behind them, one wall is floor to ceiling windows. Another across from me is clean and white, punctuated with an analog clock that tells me it’s not yet noon. More glass lines the other length of the room, frosted on the lower half. The transparent panes reveal a hallway running parallel to the room and partitioned cubicles, between which people scurry around like lab bats flapping in a labyrinthine cage.
A throat clears. I return my attention to the proverbial bed in which I’ve just scattered crumbs. My accusatory finger is jutting not at a bored soul in Hell behind a counter top but at a very severe and unimpressed middle-aged man with that silver-fox salt and pepper at his temples. I’m in deep dog spit here.
"Uhm. Excuse me," I utter, dropping my finger with caution as I would a loaded weapon. My voice is low. Another male. “That was a, uh ...”
My brain feels like it was left somewhere in that swirling vortex, the turtle trying to catch up to my soul in the race. I've never hopped from casing to casing before; Hell was always an intermediate stop over between jobs. Not that I miss the paperwork. Something is definitely wrong with this trip besides the lack of file on my casing … casings, plural, now.
"I thought my old friend from college had played a prank on me." Smooth as clingfilm being draped over leftovers.
The man I’d been pointing at is very clearly the one in charge. He’s sitting at the head of the table, and everyone else is sending furtive glances his way in nervous unease, trying to gauge what reaction he’ll have to my unprofessional and unprovoked outburst. His heavy eyebrow raises, and his lips pull down, accentuating a permanent five-o-clock shadow. "Mr. Atsuko, you have thirty seconds to finish your presentation, and then we're moving on.” He rubs his eyes with one thumb and index finger then looks at me with withering pity. “You've been trying to get this proposal in front of me for two months. Don't waste your time. Or mine." Threat delivered, he leans back in his chair, screwing and unscrewing the lid of a very fancy-looking calligraphy pen.
My experiences with Hell make me almost instinctively warn him it’ll shoot ink all over his face. But I’m on Earth … inexplicably, just in a different location. The pen won’t spontaneously combust.
My chances at recovering this stint might though.
"Yes, sir." On to the next dish to fry … What am I supposed to be presenting about?
I turn toward the huge screen behind me to ogle all the wobbly graphs and pie charts. There isn't even a title on the slide. Who doesn't put titles on their slides? If I'd gotten here earlier, I would've helped Anonymous Atsuko with his presentation-making skills, which are seriously lacking. Six charts are way too many to cobble onto one screen. The best way to convey a short message isn't cramming it all in there, it's picking one representative schematic that pops to lure the audience into asking for more information. That way you don't overwhelm and lose everyone into uninterested ether and win yourself bonus time.
I don't even have an MBA. I’ve gleaned a tip or two after about twenty business presentation stints, albeit most of that is just common sense, practice, and forethought. Seriously, I barely have a GED and I can remember enough high school knowledge to tell me not to bore my audience to death.
I’d rather not increase the population in Hell with this insufferable lot.
"Well, sir, as you can see, sir… on this chart on the right..." I fumble. This feels even more out of my element than being Ginger. My helplessness is growing; there are no assistants or make-up artists or stylists to be back-up here. I can’t just keep my lips zipped and ride the wave. This role requires brain effort.
Which I don’t have.
If Nix is playing a prank, he’s going to regret it. No one is amused here. He who laughs is the guilty party.
A pen begins to tap on the table behind me, and my heart rate vaults to shocking levels. Maybe I'll have a heart attack and die at just the right moment and head home.
If I can call it home. I’m barely ever there. Much like my old foster houses. I became independent at a young age because they weren’t always … reliable guardians. I learned to do what I had to and to be good at it, so I could rely on myself.
Inspiration strikes. I flip around and move to stand in front of the screen at the end of the table, leaning on fingertips. Several people adjust themselves at the sudden change of direction, the ones closest wheeling slightly further away lest they be associated with my impending failure.
"The details and numbers aren't what’s important here."
"Not important?" Bossman is aghast. He clearly lives and breathes data and reports, not wholly indifferent from my last stint — the planned one. Business guys are all about the profit.
I use that fact to my advantage as a distraction.
"No, sir. It's not about the exact value of this particular project to the company. It’s about the value to the world. That's not how the average consumer evaluates their … investments. If we want others to believe in us, we need to think like them." Channel the animal. That’s what I used to coach myself when brainstorming my taxidermy figurines.
Bossman leans forward in mirror, folding his hands on the concernedly empty pad of paper before him. He's not persuaded ... yet. But he is allowing me to expound. There’s hope. The clock over his head has definitely ticked past the allotted thirty seconds. “Explain.”
I take a fortifying breath, grasping the bull by the eye. "Every human, I mean every person strives to do what's best for themselves, right? They're not going to invest in what this company has to offer because it will improve our shares and profit. They don't care about our stockholders or investors. They care about themselves. How can we benefit them?”
A few heads nod.
“The only way to measure our own success is to get feedback from the average consumer about what they want. And that can’t be measured quantitatively. It has to be analyzed on a qualitative basis. Success will be measured not in the number of zeros in a value. It needs to be considered in the same way you are listening to me.” I’m equally thrilled and distressed that he continues to listen to me. “The public should be treated like an adviser, their counsel considered as important as the people in this office.” I wave a hand at my audience and the employees behind the window.
“How do you propose to gather such intelligence? Collecting the input of the world, as you suggest, will cost me time and people.” He swivels his chair gently back and forth. The brow raised suggests he’s testing me. I don’t get the vibe that he’s skeptical.
“I propose …” I gulp and glance at the screen again, grasping for any word that jumps out at me. None do. Whipping back around dramatically, I declare, “I propose to implement an undercover op." May as well stick to the day job I know. You can trust what you know.
A few people snivel.
“An undercover operation?”
“Yes, sir. To go out into the public as one of them and get honest feedback, incognito. Give me some time to gather intelligence,” I stall on my casing’s behalf.
“You think you can accomplish this in a week?”
I become a bobble-head for a minute. I throw caution to the sky. “In a week.” Sorry, Mr. Atsuko. “In a week, I can give you information more valuable to you than these numerical projections." I straighten and wave a hand behind me at the blah tossed on the screen in a mess as if they were pizza toppings slung on raw dough by a teen on a Friday evening before heading to a party.
Silver fox doesn’t seem convinced. He needs the Darcie Rose Touch. "The extra benefit I’m offering you with this proposal is that by putting out feelers beyond our walls, we get direct assurance from the source that when the full project is rolled out, we can expect success of our —" Product? Services? I was doing so well with the vague catch-all jargon. "— output." Phew. "And those involved in the trial run will contribute half our work for us, able to build awareness and share recommendations to a wider audience in anticipation of the, uh, release — like positive critic reviews of a movie.” Like Ginger’s. Hopefully, the sudden zone out and return of her soul to her body doesn’t ruin that. “It's a one-one." I give a cheesy grin. People respond better when you’re confident and enthusiastic. I survived life as long as I did on sheer unrelenting determination and random trickles of luck. It’s how I wriggled my way into taxidermy, coercing my mentor to give me a shot – I just wouldn’t leave him or the work alone. I’ve never been the charming one though. That was Leland. I snort internally. He’s so good he can charm a best friend into ruining your life. Or maybe my luck just ran out that day.
Bossman's lips jut out like a platypus. "You mean win-win."
"Er, yes. ... Sir." I fold my hands together to keep from twitching, hoping that my inability to remember idioms doesn’t ruin the smooth delivery, and wait lest I reveal too much ignorance by spewing less nebulous promises.
The room is silent. A few heads twist toward the table’s throne as the second hand ticks around the face one entire lap. My heart keeps pace. If I’ve destroyed Mr. Atsuko’s one chance, then I also fail. The Devil always follows through on his promises; I always ensure they succeed. And more, if I can manage it. I need just a nudge of luck.
Finally, Bossman sits up and expels a huff. Tipping his chin up, he exposes an expression that is cautiously speculative with a tinge of curiosity and intrigue. His lips purse as he studies me. It's a lot less affirmative of a look than Caliré and Slipknot used only a few minutes ago — several hours into the future, according to the clock. The second hand is closing in on another rotation. I mentally prepare for my first complete disaster in the SOLE program.
"One week. No more. On my desk before five."
A rush of relief passes through me in a surge of searing oil. "Yes, sir."
"Now get out." He flicks two fingers at the door to his right, elbow still pressed into the table. “We have much else to discuss; this took more time than permitted.”
I scurry around the table without hesitation.
"Johnson. Progress report."
Another suit hurries to take my place. I’d wager he’s the next poor soul slurping into Hell. The soul replacing his will know exactly how to handle the spotlight. Unless the glitch is bigger than me … As Johnson begins to drone in a confident voice, I resign myself to being the lone soul trapped in this peck of pickled peppers. He only has one image on his slide. Perhaps he could have considered a more utilitarian one than a smiling emoji in sunglasses. These people. Johnson should be consigned to Hell when he dies simply for that abomination. His soul sub is lucky he got his casing’s file. There’d be interpreting the intended report from that visual.
I pull open the door, slipping through a small crack to avoid admitting the disruptive office noises from outside the conference room.
"And Mr. Atsuko?"
Bossman's eyes dart to the side, away from the man in the hot seat, who stops abruptly.
"Yes, sir?" Did I leave a laptop or something?
"I expect results. Or you can forget about being considered for employment when your internship ends. And the renewal of your visa."
I balk and shut the door before Bossman can see my mouth parting à la Ginger Ferreira. He's already reverted his full focus back to Johnson's presumably good news anyway.
No pressure. Fairly certain I’ve done the complete opposite of what I normally like to do for my casings, I stand in the hallway, trying to process. I also have no idea where my desk is. Do I even have a desk?
Snagging a lady by the elbow as she passes, I ask, "What department do you work in?"
Her eyes shift from the document she's reading to my fingers, and I drop her elbow like it’s a hot potato, remembering I'm male and personal space at a workplace — well, anywhere — is wise. "Accounting." She frowns. "Are you hitting on me?"
I shake my head. "Ah, I'm looking for a restroom. I seem to have, uh, gotten turned around. I'm not usually in this department." Ain't that the truth?
She is visibly weirded out. Then, she looks behind me, registering the room from which I’ve just exited, and understanding clears her expression. "Meeting with the boss go that bad, huh?"
“Like Hell,” I admit.
Her head shakes, and she closes the folder, sympathy winning over the annoyance of inconvenience. "Come on. You need some air. I’ll ask Susan to escort you back where you belong."
"Susan?"
She laughs. "Maybe you should take the rest of the day off."
That was probably wise. One problem. "You don’t happen to know where I live, do you?"
She flashes a look of warning over her shoulder.
"That wasn't a line." I hold up both hands as we walk and notice a flash of silver. "I'm married. I just … I feel like I have amnesia. Rough day, ya know?"
She snorts and steps to the side, directing me with a gesture towards a glass door that leads out onto a balcony inset into the side of the building. "Preaching to the choir here."
Huh. I always thought the phrase was preaching to the friar. Why would the choir know as much as the preacher?
“Good luck. I’ll have Susan collect you here.” She heads back the way we came.
“Thank you!” I call after her and face the door. I have a healthy balcony phobia. It’s the one perk I haven’t partaken in though opportunity has been abundant, thanks to Nix’s stacked hand of high-end jobs he doles out to me. What celebrity doesn’t have a roof deck with or without a pool?
“Excuse me.”
I step one way.
“Sorry.”
I detour the other.
This corridor has more traffic than an airport.
Embracing my fear with the intention of removing myself as an obstacle in the hallway, I step outside, remaining as close to the building as I can get, protected on either side by solid walls of building. The air is a lot cooler than London with a light breeze. Lifting my chin, I shut my eyes against the sun peeking through clouds and try to relax. The wind wafts a sickening aroma of fish. It’s nice.
That lady was right. I feel a lot clearer taking a few deep breaths.
Clearer but clueless yet.
I fumble in my pockets for a wallet, needing to find out what I can about myself before Susan arrives to drag me back to wherever I belong. I pull out a passport. My Japanese is nonexistent. I flip across some stamps to the back where a visa indicates legal entry into the United States.
Name: Kenji Atsuko. Age: thirty-four. City of residence for duration of visit: San Francisco.
I suck in a sharp breath, emotions fluttering through me in a frenzy.
I'm home.
Immediately, I forgo my fear to shuffle right up to the edge of the balcony, pressing my stomach into the metal railing topping the glass partition, and lean out to look over the city. Just around the corner of the building — I must be on at least the twentieth floor, east-facing — is the Golden Gate Bridge.
I break character with a girly squeal. I'd missed that view, this place.
Like hitting a switch, tears prick my eyes. And suddenly utter abandonment hollows out my insides.
My butt vibrates, startling me into retreating several feet back from the edge to avoid a repeat of My Final Downfall. Pun intended.
I slap around for the phone in my back pocket and flip it out so exuberantly in my excitement that I have to play catch the fish before it soars over the railing.
Tsuma the screen announces. Someone's name? I debate leaving it, having learned to look before I dive, but I've already done enough damage to Kenji Atsuko's life. I need any direction I can get.
If I had let the last few minutes of that meeting fall through, I'd have caused the Devil to have reneged on a deal. No bueno. I'm not looking to have to put him in that position. Because that would put me in a scarier no bueno position.
"Kon'nichiwa," I try, answering with the extent of my knowledge of Japanese. I plan to turn Nix into an origami pig when I get back and then roast him on a spit.
A slew of Japanese spews into my ear in worried, urgent female tones.
"Sorry. Uh. Bad reception." I turn away to stare at the building, to stymie a search for my apartment building on the skyline.
"How it go? Why English?"
"Uh. They're watching me. I have to show that I'm comfortable communicating in English." I shuffle to stare some more at San Francisco’s iconic bridge. The view is no longer comforting.
"Your English lessons go well!" she exclaims with pride. "Your accent is gone."
I wince. It's going to be weird when that vanishes the moment Kenji gets back into his casing. "Yep,” I embrace the excuse.
"How it go?" she asks again with excitement, her breath fanning through the speaker.
"Good." Maybe. "They gave me a week to prove … my skills, and then they’ll decide on hiring me." I try to sound upbeat like the job is a sure thing, no problem.
"Oh." She deflates. What did I do wrong? "You not come home? See your own son?"
This is the wife. And I have a kid? "I will. I’ll visit soon." I'm trying to keep my sentences short and simple. Rule One.
"We miss you. I love you."
"Love you, too," I presume. And hopefully, unlike someone else I know, his long-distance relationship isn't being used as a chance to make some time with another girl. If true, I'm castrating this casing before I leave. Once burned, always sensitive to touch.
The door swings open. "Mr. Atsuko?" Susan.
"I have to go," I say to my wife.
"Video next time? I don’t see your face in a long time."
Maybe he is a lying, cheating son of a... I quell my ire when Susan’s eyes widen. Nipping any disloyalty in the bulb is going to be another perk of the Darcie Rose service with this one. "I will. I'll —"
Slurp.
CHAPTER SIX
