The world of fast cars is a dangerous one because, as they say, speed kills. It might even be argued that those who own fast cars are themselves dangerous, the reason being that they obviously intend to go fast in them and do all sorts of dangerous and generally stupid things. The police definitely feel this way, judging by how much extra attention they pay to any car that even looks fast, and the general public aren't that much impressed with them, or the people like me who pilot them, either. After what I saw that late May evening, I have to say that I can understand their feelings.
It happened when I was finally leaving work for the night, having just walked out the front door as the last agent on site with the night shift Floor Manager, Dagmar Alejandro. I'd been working overtime with a few other sales reps, busily cold-calling Americans and trying to separate them from their hard earned money by tempting them with accidental death and dismemberment insurance at less than ten dollars per month, first ninety days free with no commitment whatsoever. (yeah, right, and my name isn't David Legassy, just
try
to cancel this shit, lady) I heard the car coming, knew it was a muscle car by its exhaust note and quickly building RPMs, and jerked my head to the right to check it out.
It was a red Mustang, really cranking nicely and sounding damned good at the top of its power band, flying up the recently widened and resurfaced Barling St.. I watched it with a growing smile, forgetting that the beautiful bitch from hell was there with me. With tunnel vision, I followed its path around the slight, blind, uphill bend in front of the call center. I figure its driver and I saw Kelly Preston, a fellow agent at the crosswalk, at about the same time. I don't think Kelly saw anything at all before the Mustang ran her down without stopping, or even slowing afterwards.
We both just stood for a moment as the red killer sped off in the distance, Dagmar probably wondering if that really happened like I was, whilst the petit Kelly's broken and inert form in the middle of the road constantly insisted it had. Somewhere inside I wanted to yell, cry and throw up all at the same time while I only stood, completely stunned.
Dagmar was the first one to move. She broke into a run and, despite her voluptuous build, sped across the front lawn while franticly digging out her cell phone. Then I moved. I walked down the driveway and towards the back parking lot where my car was parked. Why? I didn't want to be involved.
That's right. I'd made an entire life of being uninvolved up to that point, keeping to myself and making money, serving myself and hurting nobody and, furthermore, I knew there was nothing to be done. She was dead, anybody could tell that and I didn't want to see it up close. I didn't want to and I didn't need to. Besides, Dagmar was there with her cell phone and it's not as if I knew CPR or anything. It had nothing to do with me and I just wanted to go home. I know how that makes me sound but, I assure you, I'm not that cold and uncaring, at least I don't think so. It's just that, as I say, I was uninvolved and that's how I wanted to stay.
----- ----- ----- -----
"Dagmar would like to see you." Sally the Supervisor whispered with a smile as she looked down over the top of my cubicle at me.
Why she found it necessary to whisper, who could say? She was always whispering with that stupid smile. Nodding optimistically, as if there was anything to be optimistic about when talking to Dagmar, she was off, a little whirlwind of positive productivity. I glanced at her ass as she walked down the aisle, the only positive thing about her in my eyes, logged off, removed my headphones and stood. The sound of just over three hundred people doing their damndest to keep their jobs, maybe even earning some sales bonus Dollars in the process, inundated me without the semi-soundproofed cubicle and I began heading down the long aisle towards Dagmar's office.
Of course, I knew what this was about.
The first time I saw Dagmar Alejandro was during the third night of my week long training class, when I'd first secured the job just over a year previously. She walked in the room wearing a black business suit with a tight skirt that stopped just above her knees. A lot of men would have been put off by the height and size of the woman who, I guessed, was in her very early forties, if not the 'all business' expression that seemed to never leave her face, but she captured my attention right away. My impression of her was that of a goddess. Her complexion was dark and I guessed, judging by her last name, that her gene pool consisted of a mixture of African and Spanish, the latter being the dominant. Her hair, long and jet black, was put up in such a way as some could still hang down at her shoulders with one stray lock dangling at the side of her face, as if attracting attention to her eyes, not that they needed it. They were brilliant green and attracted me like I've been attracted to very few women, but it wasn't just the colour, it was also the way they scanned the room, coldly, harshly appraising everyone present, including the instructor.
It's hard to describe that first reaction. I mean, I can say she was a goddess in my eyes, but it was more than that, more than just her physical appearance. She had a sort of powerful strength of personality about her, intelligent and uncompromising. The very impression she made on me seemed like an invisible extension of herself.
Those eyes caught mine before I could stop staring at her, before I could get over the funny feeling that popped up behind my sternum at the sight of her and we regarded one another for a moment. Her expression unwavering, she held my eyes as if daring me not to look away while the instructor was introducing her to the class.
I looked down, pretending to study the material in front of me, putting on a small frown of concentration as I looked at the people around me peripherally. They all seemed to take her seriously enough, alright, but none of them seemed completely taken aback by her like I was.
She addressed the class and I watched her again, listening to a voice which matched her demeanor, as strong and powerful as she was beautiful. Her eyes kept returning to me and I had to look down every time. What was it about her, anyway? I'd never been especially great with people, but this was ridiculous. After all, I'd learned to be a decent actor by the age of thirty-one, and I wasn't often put off by anybody. People were just herd animals to me.
In time, I began hearing the stories of what she was like. ' Tough', 'mean', 'bitchy', 'cold', 'heartless' and 'domineering' were only some of the words I'd often heard used to describe her. I'd even watched her personally escort several 'non performers', as she would refer to them, right out the front door in the year and three months I worked there.
But, by that time, I'd learned my job well. Very well. And in the telemarketing game, the numbers that are generated from the bottom make everyone look good, right on up the ladder. Yeah, they liked me a whole lot, especially Sally, and this was what insulated me from Dagmar's teeth and claws. Good thing, too, because ever since that first day, we never got along. Not that anyone really got along with Dagmar, but she seemed to have some special dislike of me that I could never quite understand. By the time my sales record made it unnecessary to worry about her anymore, I'd decided that she was a lesbo and hated men, or she thought I was a lowlife, or whatever. In the end, I just decided to try to ignore her and her beautiful, larger than life presence.
Dagmar Alejandro
Floor Manager
One couldn't help but notice that she was the only one on the management team whose door bore a polished black nameplate with red letters, the rest having a plastic wood grain plate with white letters.
I knocked.
"Come in!" she commanded in her usual bitchy, uppity tone that everyone had come to just love her for.
I did as commanded, a little nervous about what she'd think of me after I just took off the night before. She sat behind her desk with a strangely blank expression and wore the usual business suit that she always looked great in, if a little pretentious and overdone.
"Have a seat." she said, gesturing to the chair opposite her desk.
I took it and said, "Look, I'm sorry I took off last night. I just didn't want to see,... that."
She only regarded me with the same unreadable expression. She was reading me, I suddenly realized, reminding myself to be careful here. She and her people had taught me half of what I knew about dealing with others. I waited for her to say something, but she didn't.
"Uhh, look, I said I was sorry. I didn't mean to stick you with that, but you had your phone and, even if I knew CPR, it wouldn't have done any,... any good, cause she,..."
Why wouldn't she
say
something? This was starting to freak me out more than a little when she finally decided to speak.
"David Legassy.", she said, stating my name as if for the record. "Whatever will you do?"
"Huh?"
"What would they all think out there if they knew?" she asked.
