SMOKEY SAGAS #14:
"Hooked"
***
May 31st, 8:22 p.m.
The merry, merry month of May was less than four hours from over. Spring was past full bloom, summer a mere three weeks away. The given evening's sunset was nothing short of amazing, a purple, orange and blue eclipse of cloud and horizon. The thermostat had hit its day high of 79°F four hours ago, and was now lightly floating just below a balmy 74. And the hustle-bustle simply didn't quit; the further south downtown on the map, the later into the wee twilight hours the city remained active. Especially at the crossroads of Wellings Street and Cherrywood Street.
Fifty feet north of the Wellings-Cherrywood intersection stood one of the tallest, most monumental office buildings in the city, the Gailmore Towers, at thirty stories high. It sported a vertical spectrum of prestige, maintaining a steady ratio of altitude to salary. The higher workers rode the elevators or strode the staircases to their jobs, the more on the average they earned. Indeed as was the case of one particular occupant of the offices on the 26th floor.
Zachary Harris, an international research consultant employed on floor twenty-six of the Gailmore Towers, worked what would be considered ridiculously long hours stacked up next to schedules of many others. He typically got into the office around 6:00 six days a week, and on a good day could get out by about 5:00, maybe 5:30. But most days, like this one, he was compelled by his business obligations to take it well upwards of twelve hours. On top of which, he did more traveling in a month than many did in a lifetime.
Being global, these professionals were hired—more like summoned—by foreign businesses at what felt like the drop of a hat to trolley off to the airport, go through gate after gate, customs after customs, hotel room after hotel room, all for a meeting to discuss and advise on foreign economic or business policy, sometimes for as short a time as thirty minutes, depending on the extent of meeting purposes.
And at 38, ten years' experience under his belt, Zachary was starting to
really
tire of it all. In every sense of the word.
He was starting to think he really needed something a little different to shake up what only a literalist would refer to as his life. Before again hopping on a plane with a temporary farewell to his neglected U.S. abode, he more and more often found himself wishing he was doing something—
any
thing—else for a living. Preferably anything that entailed permanently staying on one continent. He wasn't even that concerned which continent it was.
He forced himself each time to look at the pros of his situation. In a highly esteemed field with some of the most expansive time spans possible spent at work, and without the typical longing to live as luxuriously as peers at his level, he was well past comfortable financially. His B.A. in business wouldn't make it that difficult to land a position nearly as advantageous, even in such a competitive market. Realistically, by this point, he might—
might
—be able to ditch it all and ride out a nice, reasonably cushy, less demanding lifestyle and occupation with fewer hours, fewer obligations, fewer frequent flyer miles and the weight of jet lag lifted off his shoulders. At least for the next significant chunk of his existence.
Heaven knew he
would
have had more than enough time to think about his life options on the planes, but after all that terminal-hopping, all he tended to do on most airline trips was sleep. Heaven also knew he didn't have all the time in the world to sleep in his own bed in his own home. Airplane seats being not nearly as comfy as any manufactured brand of mattress available for public sale, he didn't end up with the most cheery disposition at many meetings.
And he did ask himself time after time,
Well, Zack, God's sake, why not just take a vacation for crying out loud? You've accrued
plenty
of time, and it's not like you can't afford it!
And yet, with the connotations a vacation indicated, the very idea tuckered his mind out before he could even consider his activities. He couldn't mentally kick back on the beach or relax in a four-star suite with a drink, a TV and a king-size without first picturing the method of transport. He did this all the
time!
He
already
jumped on planes—trains, busses and taxis—with such staggering regularity the act almost literally made his head spin. And however long his vacation lasted, sooner or later, he'd be right back on the planes again, doing more of the same.
Needless to say, agents such as caffeine, aspirin and Visine had become some of his best friends—another element severely lacking in human form in his everyday quote-unquote "life." Outside of colleagues, Zachary's social calendar might as well not even have been purchased. There was no allowance of spare time for outings with friends, even if he'd had that many. He had family members here in town who lived relatively close by (no pun intended), but he virtually never got to see them either. And dating—at least steady dating—was absolutely an impossibility. Besides all the other factors stacked against him in the courtship arena, the female half of the drones and zombies in his profession, foreign and domestic, erased his memory clean blank of what an attractive, animated, interesting woman even remotely looked like.
It was true; for all intents and purposes, Zachary Matthew Harris was, essentially, a zombie. It was only on Sundays when he actually closed his eyes for several consecutive hours at a time. Lately, those precious few hours of unconsciousness had systematically become the happiest he got to experience. Oh, he usually slept four to five hours on normal days, and pretty well. But during the days he went without the substantial Sunday amount, the need and desire for it lessened its toll on him. He hadn't had sex with anyone other than himself in
years
, but that yearning hadn't surfaced in months either. Actually, the only legit source of non-drone human contact he had on a regular basis was the solitary co-worker with whom he'd made friends, Dan.
Zack and his buddy Dan Kline certainly didn't talk or interact nonstop all day long, but they managed to have a decent frequency of lunches together, and oftentimes after work made their way down to the corner pub for a quick drink before catching a taxi home. They didn't have cars—at least not which they drove anywhere near here. They'd waste way too much time going down twenty-six floors, feeding the meter, going up twenty-six floors, back down to feed it again, ad infinitum. There were plenty of cases in which time really was money, and paying a cabbie for a simple fare plus tip was far simpler and more efficient than the alternative.
It was after 8:00, and they were starting to get pretty wiped.
"Man, let's blow this popsicle stand, how 'bout it," Dan called to him from his cubicle.
"Best idea I've heard all day," Zachary agreed. They each rose with a stretch, grabbed their belongings and headed to the elevator. If they ever felt they could use a little exercise, they could take the stairs, but with schedules like theirs, they were still finishing waking up in the mornings, and they were drained of stamina by the evenings. The only mileage the staircases above floor nine or ten got came as the result of a broken elevator.
They got outside finally at 8:22. The cool late spring breeze stopped by briefly to refresh them.
"So what'dya say?" asked Dan. "Feel like grabbing a beer?"
He shook his head. "Nah...thanks. You go ahead; I've got a flight early in the morning. I think I'm just gonna check in, try and get a wink or two."
"Heh! Well, good luck with that!" said Dan, also of course abreast of what crazy hours their occupation entailed.
"Yeah...I'll tell ya, man, I'm really starting to feel like just calling it quits," Zachary admitted. "'S seriously stressing me out."
"Oh yeah?" replied Dan. "Well, y'know what, a while back I was kinda feeling the same way, so y'know what I did, I went and saw this chick hypnotist, right up around Columbia Street, I think. Dr...Starr, I'm pretty sure she was..." He thought. "Oh, shoot, what was her first name again, uh...Annie, Angie, something like that. Anyway, dude, she is freaking
a
maz
ing
. I'll find you her number if you want."
"Uh, heh..." Zack hesitated sarcastically. "Thanks, man, but...I
really
doubt that kinda thing could help me. I'll see ya later."
"Well, a'right, but seriously, you might wanna think twice about it, just saying. See ya, dude." He turned and started for the pub.
Left alone in front of the Gailmore, Zachary, who was carrying both his briefcase and his suitcase for the trip, flipped through the former to make sure he had the paperwork for the meeting the following day. He was certain he did, orderly as he always was; it was simply incumbent upon him to check.
Folks passed by him to and fro on the way to wherever they were headed next, but he hardly noticed them, even after he verified he had all his notes and put them back in the briefcase. The next morning yet another journey was scheduled, this time all the way north into Europe to Norway. Thank God it was summer—or nearly so, he thought to himself. He'd booked a hotel room for the night because this particular hotel was much, much closer to the airport than was his house, and this flight tomorrow morning departed especially early.
Perhaps the most frustrating aspect of all the traveling was the inability to ever settle down in any one foreign land and maybe, just
maybe
do something as radical as enjoy some leisure time there. No time at all to do silly, frivolous things like go on tours, take pictures and see historic sites and landmarks and museums; no, gotta get right back on that next flight and back home to immediately schedule the next one. The more he thought about it, the more he pushed himself towards finding some way out of this rut he called his career.
He was certain he couldn't just strut into the big boss's office and say, "I quit!" because, well, for one thing, it wasn't good business etiquette. Technically, one
could
get away with doing so, in theory; it wasn't illegal, but it wasn't very considerate of his boss or fellow employees either, and if he just up and quit, besides not exactly leaving him and the boss on great terms, should any future potential employer want the boss's recommendation, he'd end up kind of S.O.L. Unless as in certain extreme cases, like, say, death, it would be best to provide two weeks' to a month's notice.
Well, he reasoned with himself, the more he thought about this, the more he would weigh out and balance all the factors until he could arrive at the best decision.
"Hi there, cutie, you want a date?"
He looked up to see a young woman leaning against the lamppost, blithely smoking a cigarette, sporting a flamboyant hairdo, a decent amount of makeup, high heels and a skirt that didn't leave much to the imagination. She was smiling at him, her face turned to the side with a coy, flirty expression. She gave him a finger-wiggle wave when he looked at her.
Oh, Lord
, he thought, turning away from her for a moment.
"Look, I'm-I'm really sorry, ma'am, but I just haven't got the time right now," he told her, glad to have a harmless excuse to remove himself from this situation. He signaled for a cab, but someone else got it first.
"You sure, babe?" the woman asked.
"Uh, com
plete
ly sure, yes."
"Tickle your balls with a feather?"
"Ex
cuse
me?" he turned back to her, a little startled.
The young woman looked at him innocently. "What? I said, 'Particularly balmy weather.'"
Zack could have sworn he heard her say something else, but it wasn't worth it to him to argue over it. Still, she tried again.
"Come
on
," she cooed. "I'd make it worth your while and then some," she provocatively added.
I'm sure you
would. "No, no, again, sorry, but I've really gotta get going." He more insistently flagged for another cab. Still no luck. He thought, ah, the heck with it, and started walking in the direction of the hotel. It was many blocks up the street, but maybe he'd get a taxi on the way there.
