Author's Note: Although rating are nice, nothing beats a comment or two about what you liked or disliked about a story. Please take a moment to leave or send one. Thank you.
July 1973
Wearing a light blue denim shirt and a darker pair of jeans, Jack Buchanan stood in front of the old prewar apartment building on the corner of East 80 Street and York Ave, trying to figure out which set of windows might belong to apartment 9C. It was a silly thing to do, the short haired nineteen year old realized, as he didn't even know if the apartment overlooked the main street. But if it did, he wondered if someone might be looking down in search of him, wondering if he was actually going to show up.
The doorman in front of the building had given him several inquisitive looks during the nearly half hour he'd been standing there, but so far the older man hadn't approached him to inquire if he had business here. Running his hand through his dark hair one last time before stepping toward the entrance, his thoughts flashed back to the two months before and the events that had led him here.
-=-=-=-
He'd just about reached the end of his first year of college, and to say that his initial foray into higher education had been less than stellar would've been a generous understatement. Oh, he'd managed to squeak by and not actually fail anything, but the effort to do so had been more exhausting than he'd expected. As a result, Jack had been looking forward to a few months of taking it easy and recharging his batteries.
Unfortunately, his father, who was the maître d at La Promenade Impériale, one of Manhattan's most exclusive eateries, had other plans for Jack's summer. Only reluctantly footing his school bill, the elder Buchanan felt that if his son wasn't spending his day attending classes, then he should be working. And in order to facilitate that, he'd arranged a summer job for him at the restaurant.
Months before, during the semester break, Jack had worked at the restaurant as a busboy in order to earn some extra cash. It had been, he felt, the hardest money he'd ever earned. So much so that just the thought of spending the next few months repeating the experience was enough to send him into a frightened panic.
He'd desperately appealed to his mother for help, but the best she could do was convince his father to let him first try and find alternate employment on his own. As Jack quickly discovered, this was easier said than done, given his late start. Every position he inquired about had already been long filled, and after two weeks of disappointments, it seemed as if he was doomed to a summer of drudgery.
Then, only a week before term's end, a ray of sunlight pierced the dark clouds. Ryan Taylor, a classmate he'd befriended, told him about a summer position that had just become available. Actually, it had been the one he'd originally secured for himself, but was now passing on in favor of an overseas trip with his grandfather. If Jack was interested, Ryan was sure he could get him an interview with the guy who ran the program.
"I gotta warn you, though, Jack, it's not much of a job," Ryan had said. "The pay isn't much more than minimum wage, and it's really not interesting work."
"I don't care if it's shoveling up shit after the elephants in the circus," Jack had replied. "It's gotta be better than cleaning tables, doing dishes, hauling out trash and whatever else my father can come up with for me to do."
So, two days later, Jack found himself in the office of Joshua Warren, deputy director of personnel at the Municipal Museum of Art. At first, the balding sixty-five year old didn't seem all that impressed with Jack, pointing out early in the interview that, by all rights, he'd really should've just called the next name on the waiting list and offered them the job. But, he then added, Ryan's grandfather was an old friend and the assistant director owed him enough favors that he'd agreed to at least meet Jack.
Jack hadn't realized that Ryan had gotten his grandfather, who he had been named after, to call about the job. Yet, in thinking about it, it only made sense. Who was going to listen to a nerdy twenty year old with grades almost as poor as Jacks?
"How do you know Ryan Taylor?" Joshua asked, glancing again at the slim resumé that Jack had submitted with his application.
"Well, I don't actually know Mr. Taylor, at least not the one that you're referring to," Jack replied. "I go to school with his grandson; he was the one that told me about the job."
"I see," Joshua said in a noncommittal tone.
The job, he went on to explain, really didn't have a set list of responsibilities. It was carried on the books as a clerk/messenger's position he said, but that was only because wage slave really wouldn't look good on an organizational chart.
Jack didn't laugh at the man's attempt at humor, but he did at least give him a smile.
Pleased with his wit, Joshua expanded on what Jack would be expected to do, that he would be a sort of floater, filling in for regular employees as they went on vacation. And since he was a new hire, while most of the summer staff were returning from previous years, he would most likely wind up with the crappiest assignments.
From the way he was presenting it, Jack felt that Joshua was trying to discourage him from taking the job by making it seem really terrible. That way, he could satisfy any obligation to his friend and still hire whoever was next on the list when Jack turned it down. Whoever that was, it was doubtless someone else that was owed a favor. That was just the way it worked, Jack realized.
Which was ironic, he thought, because the reason Ryan called Jack about the job in the first place was because the older student had owed him a favor. The awkward redhead was somewhat socially inept when it came to girls and was still a virgin. On learning this, Jack had set him up with Peggy McGuire, who he'd known in high school. Not exactly the kind of girl you brought home to meet the parents, she'd been known to her classmates as 'all the way Peg,' and the large breasted brunette had done wonders for Ryan's confidence. Of course, that wasn't something that Jack thought he should share with the man behind the desk.
'Most of our summer hires," Joshua continued when he saw that Jack hadn't lost interest, "are art majors, willing to put up with a lot of crap in the hope of making future connections that'll help them in the future. Since I don't see anything like that in your background, I have to wonder why you'd want a job like this?"
Jack thought about it for a few seconds, trying to decide what answer might impress the interviewer. But then, deciding that he probably wasn't going to hire him anyway, he went with the truth.
"Because the alternative to being a wage slave here would be to be one at La Promenade Impériale. My dad is the maître d and believe me, that would be much worse than anything here. If I really did hate it here, at least here I'd have the option of quitting."
The answer amused the director. Jack was, he now felt, a refreshing change from the steady stream of sycophants he usually had to deal with. Rising from his chair, Joshua leaned across his desk and, offering his hand, welcomed Jack to the Municipal Museum of Art.
It didn't take Jack long to learn that while Joshua had exaggerated a bit about how boring and tedious the job could be, he hadn't done so by much. Still, even at its worst, it was better than being at La Promenade Impériale with his dad watching his every move. Over the next few weeks, Jack completed his assignments diligently, if unenthusiastically, and no one really seemed to have a problem with him. At least not until last Friday, which was how he found himself back in the personnel office almost a week later.
'I'm going to get fired for sure,' Jack thought as he sat on one of the hard wooden chairs, watching a steady stream of people go in and out of the inner offices, awaiting his turn.
It didn't help matters that the secretary sitting across from him, Doris Meyers, had been wearing a look of smug satisfaction since he'd arrived. The stern looking sexagenarian liked to say she'd been at the museum since Roosevelt was president, and was known for not liking change. More than a few people wondered if she was referring to FDR or Teddy, but none had been brave enough to ask. In her opinion, which she gave freely and often, Jack shouldn't have been hired in the first place. She preferred the more artistic types who usually got the job.
The hands on the wall clock showed a quarter to twelve when the intercom on her desk buzzed and Jack heard a voice that definitely wasn't Mr. Warren's, saying that Doris could send him in now. The voice had been that of a woman, and a look of confusion filled the young man's face until Doris identified it as that of Abigail Porter, the head of personnel.
'God, I'm fucked!' Jack thought as he rose from the chair and headed for the office on the left that the secretary indicated.
-=-=-=-
"Have a seat, Mr. Buchanan," Abigail Porter said as the young man stepped into the office.
The room itself seemed a mirror image of the one to the right of the reception desk where he'd had his initial interview. Even the furniture was identical, with the exception of the chair behind the desk. High backed and well padded, it was probably a perk of the higher position Jack thought. In that chair sat a middle aged woman with short blonde hair.
As he sat down, Jack wondered why he was seeing the head of personnel rather than Joshua Warren, who was nominally in charge of the summer program. In fact, if they were simply going to fire him, there were at least half a dozen people further down the chain who could've done it with much less fanfare.
