Short Story Introduction
Andrew sat alone in the break room. The color scheme was nauseating. The walls were an insufferable shade of peach and everything else that occupied the space seemed to be painted the exact same shade of white. He loved this room when it was uninhabited by his co-workers, all of whom he resented for personalized reasons. His long legs were planted firmly on the beige tiles while his back arched forward in the chalk colored chair. Pointed elbows dug into the surface of the table and held his thin rawboned arms upright. He clutched an aluminum thermos between ten bony fingers. It contained his choice beverage-- Canadian whisky. He threw his head back and took a long swig, his Adam’s apple protruded outward. His eyes clenched shut as his muscles forced the syrupy drink down his throat. He trained his sight on the clock above the door and waited for his vision to restore. It was 4:14. In one minute Andrew would quit his job.
He could see his boss approaching through the window. As his frail hand neared the handle, Andrew choked down another sip of whisky. The door swung open inward, Mr. Harington stepped in. He moved past the employee, completely oblivious of his presence. Andrew struggled to find the courage he needed to speak to the private owner of Harrington Bank. He had an intimidating presence despite his small stature. The unsettling aura that surrounded him was a direct result of his over-confidence and pride. It was apparent to Andrew that he had never once been denied any of his desires. He was the beneficiary of the Harrington fortune. He had become greater than any of his successful ancestors. He was Harrington Bank.
The short man walked with a slightly noticeable limp, favoring his left leg. He nearly reached the door on the opposite side of the break room when Andrew rose from his chair. He opened his mouth for a moment but made no sound. His mouth had the sensation of dryness; the aftertaste of alcohol suddenly intensified in his throat. He wondered if the smell was evident in his breath.
“Mr. Harrington, I quit.”
The man stopped abruptly in his steps and turned to face his employee. He tried to mask his reaction to the pain he experienced as he shifted the weight to his bad hip. This momentary weakness could only be seen in his eyes, which briefly screamed with extraordinary discomfort.
“What was that?” He asked, challenging Andrew’s courage.
“I said, ‘I quit.’ My therapist says I need a change. Something big-- something drastic. He says if I never leave my comfort zone then I’ll continue down a destructive path.” He paused for a moment. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay here.”
“You’re not leaving.”
Andrew looked down into the other man’s dark brown eyes. “I’m sorry, but I have to make a change. I quit.”
In the blink of an eye the short man lunged forward, grabbing the inebriated man by the tie. The frail hand clenched surprisingly tight and the soft knuckles drove forcefully into his collarbone. Andrew’s back was plastered into the peach wall. Harrington had brought his subordinate to eye level.
“You are not ‘quitting’, and let me tell you why. You are far too valuable of an employee to lose. Therefore, I refuse to let you leave. If you decide to never come back, I’ll personally see to it that you never find another goddamn job as long as you live. I promise you this.”
“But you can’t do that.” Andrew said, cowering behind thick rimmed spectacles.
“I can do whatever the hell I want you miserable piece of shit.” He extended a delicate finger toward his face. “You are mine. I own you. I own your mortgage. I pay your salary. I lease your car. I own every goddamn thing you own!” He tightened his grip on the tie, and gave the bony man one final assertive shove. “So if you honestly think that you can leave without my permission, you’re only deceiving yourself.” The frail hand released its tight grip. “Come on Andrew,” he smirked,”What would your wife th--”
Harrington was set off balance by a heavy blow to his nose. He stumbled backwards bringing the table with him on his descent to the hard floor. The thermos was catapulted into the air. It did several summersaults before clanging to the ground, spilling its contents on the beige tiles.
