This Young Man has a Gun in His Pocket

Standing at the front of the table, he addresses his colleagues on a new marketing strategy. This strategy, one he has slaved over for four weeks straight, ought to boost their profits by seven percent over the next two years. He explain his reasons in charts and graphs. His presentation skills are superb. His dress and appearance are impeccable. He projects an air of confidence and his smile never falters. He ends his presentation to a smattering of applause from the six other people in the room. The lights come on and the shades are opened, a gentle lull of traffic noise drifts up from the city streets below, a light snow falls on the window pane. He takes his seat and asks for questions.

His hands are pressed together in a triangle, his fingers touching the top of his lip. He carefully displays a facade of interest while they ask him stupid questions. He nods his head, giving them a gesture that says “Ah, I hadn’t considered that.” When really, he had considered that and he had just spent fifteen minutes telling them all about how he was going to get around it. He patiently explains himself again, his audience losing reasons to nix his ideas. His logic is sound. His desires are the best interest of the company.

At last they all agree, they will budget the appropriate money. They will implement his marketing plan. Profits will grow over the next two years. Everyone will be happy. They all shake hands and file out of the room one by one. He lingers behind to pack up his laptop and projector. When he is finished, he throws the satchel strap over his head and rests his right arm on top of the bulging bag. He gazes out of the large windows in the conference room, the sight of the busy city, the sounds of the busy people. He watches as little snowflakes land on all of them. Behind him, through the open door of the conference room, he hears the elevator ding. He looks and sees that it’s heading down. He hurries to catch it before it becomes too full. He has to make it home before six or his wife will worry.

He makes it just in time. He squeezes into the front, and he must smile and make polite laughs to the people he outran to get his spot in the elevator. He shrugs his shoulders at them, a gesture saying “Oh these crazy elevators! But what are ya gonna do? Eh?” They politely laugh in his face. The door closes and they all head down, with a few stops along the way, just so the door can open and everyone waiting to get on can be disappointed.

He does his best not to panic. It’s a long ride down from the high floor he was on. He could be stuck in the elevator for ten minutes depending on how many floors the full elevator has to hit before it reaches the ground floor. People cram him on all sides. One person in the back has to twist his shoulder into a corner in order to reach her hand up and scratch her nose. The young man does his best to endure the stifling heat and stale air.

He survives it as long as he can. The elevator only has three more floors to go, but he cannot stop his left hand from reaching towards the inside pocket of his coat. His hand twitches in, he can feel it.

Two floors to go.

The people in the back are preparing to get off. They move forward slightly. Just enough to push him against the door, locking his left arm in position.

One floor to go.

He flicks his fingertips forward and backward, trying to reach just a little further. His breathing has accelerated. He tries not to make grunting noises, but he is straining his muscles severely, trying to get his left hand a tenth of an inch further in his pocket. The people in the back make one small adjustment forward. He cannot reach any further in. He lets out a scream.

The elevator doors open and he is shoved forward. His coat swings open with all the force on his back and his left hand falls out of the pocket. The crowd moves across the marble floor of the lobby, their heels clicking, the echoes bouncing all around. He gains his composure and exits the building. He hails a taxi and heads home, his head leaning against the backseat window, watching the snowflakes assault the bright yellow body of the cab.

~ by thethingswethink on October 8, 2007.