Over a street laced with hope and promise, the right amount of shrubs and the ideal count of cast iron gates, where any perfectly mannered family might dream of living upon, a blue-gray sky sat silent and still as an audience of one. A single carriage strolled down a cobble stone street and a white chiffon dress slightly swayed in time with the teeter-totter of a horse decorated with the festivity of this morning’s forthcoming. It seemed to be a pleasant day in this town, but one could never be sure for nothing was what it seemed. Perhaps the red ribbon of her dress truly displayed a hint of insecurity whereas the grandiose manner of her hat and safely concealed yellow curls would cause any man to stir in his socks. However, unfortunately for her, there would be no man in her life for she was locked inside a picturesque city without another soul to come along beside her. What festivity had she to look forward to, then, if no one lived amongst her? Everything. If one is destined to live alone in a city, why shouldn’t every day be a celebration? It most certainly made her life as interesting as being alone could be. Of course, the city alone seemed to speak to her in a way that no outsider would be able to understand. The cobble-stone streets were the constant rhythm under her feet (or in this case, her carriage). The light fixtures strung up with garlands of petite daisies gave her the fragrance of happiness which changed with each new dawn. Every building painted to coincide with the personalities of the families she wished would inhabit them sung the chorus she often felt within her. Today, the empty streets felt more familiar, comfortable, and oddly awakened though there was nothing particularly new about it. There was never anything new about it. But today, something appealed to her in a way she couldn’t grasp.
---
“Walter Watson,” pronounced the familiar, droning voice that never encouraged his name to transform into a name more interesting.
“Walter Watson? Mr. Kronx will see you now.”
Mr. Kronx is a large man in every way. He towers over almost every employee in his office both in the physical and mental sense. Success overflows from his dynamic torso (since that’s all anyone is ever allowed to see) onto his deep cherry wood desk which is coincidentally covered with important documents organized by the feel of the stationary. The thicker the paper, the more important it must be. Mr. Kronx arrives to work before any other employee and leaves long after the janitor mops the foyer. He wears what seems to be the same suit every day with a freshly starched white shirt and one of the many gray silk ties he (rumor has it) buys weekly. Every woman in the building—and city in all actuality--creates a reason to walk into his office. One perfect spring day, Sylvia Harton, the librarian from across the street, decided she would muster up the courage to charm him with what she supposed would win his affections. She had never seen him, but because of the nature of gossip within the office and surrounding buildings, she believed that she loved him and that when he saw her, he would sweep her off of her feet. Gossip has a way of stirring up a fantasy within a person no matter how false the information may be. Perhaps one hears that their significant other is planning on asking for their hand in marriage. Would they not float around the town in anticipation and grow butterflies within their stomach at the mere sight of him picking something off of the ground or tying his shoelace? You see, newly, falsely-confident Sylvia had fallen subject to this very concept. On this spring day, Sylvia came up with the excuse that Mr. Kronx had forgotten to renew his copy of Pride and Prejudice and must immediately return with her to sort out the situation inside the library. Much to her surprise as she rushed into his office, Sylvia discovered the row of Jane Austen novels amongst the large collection of classics in the display case behind Mr. Kronx’s charismatic head of shiny black hair. After seeing the puzzled look on Mr. Kronx’s face and muttering something that seemed to be in a foreign language, Sylvia rushed out of the office leaving only the click-clack of her heels in the hall. Needless to say, her undying love for the alleged Mr. Kronx had sent her into a nervous conniption which then forced her to stay shut away in her library where, soon after, Jane Austen novels were removed.
Walter had never seen Mr. Kronx’s face--or any other part of him for that matter. Every conversation or message he had received from him had been through a written letter, phone call, or secretary. Mr. Kronx never used computers which was part of the reason he captured the attention of almost every reporter in Boston. In today’s society, nearly everything can be completed entirely on a computer. Reporters marveled at the fact that a man was able to have the success he had without the means of the internet or variety of programs one may use to be organized and productive. In the spring, around the time of the incident with poor Ms. Sylvia Harton, Harold had decided that should he ever come in contact with Mr. Kronx, he would ask him why he chose to keep clear from such technology. However, while most men would ask such a question out of awestruck admiration, Harold would ask out of sheer frustration. The work he completed every day seemed mindless, tedious, and a waste of his time. The click of a button would be a much more efficient way to deal with the work load Mr. Kronx had thrust upon him day in and day out.
Today, Walter found himself sitting outside of Mr. Kronx’s office, waiting to speak to the legend of a man about something of utmost importance. However, Walter hadn’t the slightest clue of what the important message might be. He had dreamt of this day. He was wondering how, when, and why it would happen and finally it was in front of him. As he arose to walk into the ominous glow of Mr. Kronx’s office, Walter ran over the words he had carefully constructed in his cubicle. He wanted to say everything right, ask all of the important questions, and hear the correct answers.
Mr. Kronx, I admire your success and determination to create a company so large and astute. I admire your perseverance and production at such a young age—how old is he?—but, I am curious to know why you have chosen a technique so archaic. I find myself at a loss. I cannot continue to complete such a tedious work. I need a creative outlet because I am a man of great—no, that doesn’t sound right—I am a man that strives to be…
“Walter Watson. Please take a seat. How are you today?” Mr. Kronx’s voice matched his reputation. It was deep and profound like the movies that pretend to know what God sounds like; the gentle yet firm tone that Walter imagined to say “Let there be light”. Of course, Mr. Kronx was certainly not God and should never be compared to Him, but he might be able to play Him in a misconstrued and glamorized film.
“I’m alive. How are you Mr. Kronx?” Harold managed to form the words and send them across the vast cherry desk.
“Walter. I have called you here today because I want to acknowledge your hard work.” Mr. Kronx completely disregarded the inquiry to his personal well being. “Frankly, I think that you are doing a fine job of recording the amount of products we, as the most productive company in Boston, sell. However, I believe we may be able to use you in a more effective manner. I would like to offer you another position within the company. This position will require you to work under conditions that may not be comfortable for you. It may require you to work under cover. Will you be able to do so, Harold Watson?”
“What exactly is this position?” Walter was compelled to ask. Any normal human being might do the same after such a confusing speech and proposition. “Is it some kind of spy job, like the CIA?” Walter’s childhood fantasy of wanting to be a field agent within the CIA came flooding into his brain with a wash of nostalgia and fondness that temporarily plastered his face with a giddy smile.
“Something of the sort; yes. However, I cannot give you the exact details until you have given me a definite answer. I expect a response within twenty four hours. You are dismissed.” And with the final word, Mr. Kronx spun around on his black office chair leaving Harold stunned and ultimately confused with no other option but to stand up and leave from the office. There were a dozen questions circling in Walter’s head. What work would he be doing? Will he be put in danger? If so, what kind of danger? Will he be at risk of death? Why did Mr. Kronx choose a person as boring as Harold Watson? What will happen if he turns the offer down? And possibly the largest question that kept returning in large bold letters at the forefront of Harold’s brain: What undercover work does a muffin company have to accomplish?
No comments:
Post a Comment