Strottenger and the Mousy Fellow
by wess foreman
Smashwords edition
copyright 2011 Wess Foreman
(wessforeman.com)
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"Who is he?" says Strottenger, peering through mini blinds to the outer office.
"Who is who?"
Strottenger raises an eyebrow at the woman. The woman sighs and walks across the room and looks out the window herself―sees a welterweight dark-haired man fumbling with a briefcase like it's the most awkward thing in the world as he attempts to retrieve office keys from an inhospitable pocket. "From the temp agency. Accountant I think. You'll likely not run into him while he's here. He's working in the records room."
"Records room. How do you know he's not a spy?"
"We have nothing to hide, I'm sure," she says, returning to her seat and beginning a search of the dark recesses of the desk drawer.
Strottenger narrows his eyes at the man. "Mousy-looking fellow," he says, shifting an eyebrow in thought as he watches the man finally opening and disappearing through the door. “How's that?" says Strottenger pivoting his head round like an old barn owl.
The woman meets his gaze. "I didn't say a word. Have you ever considered a hearing aid, Mister Strottenger?"
Strottenger grunts and pretends not to have heard her and releases the mini blinds. He rakes across the room collecting static electricity from the carpet with his hard-sole shoes and pauses at the desk to collect a handful of documents. "Calls this morning?"
The woman's head pops up from one of the lower drawers. "None."
Strottenger nods and makes his way to his office. All the while thinking he's seen that mousy fellow before but can't quite place him. And the thought of it nagging him all morning. Needling him as he peruses the morning paper to where he cannot focus on what he reads. All the way through lunch to where he drives in the wrong direction and then misses the turn off for the restaurant where he is meeting a colleague for steak and he's a zombie through their conversation and doesn't touch his porterhouse. All because he can't place where he's seen the man.
He isn't given to distraction normally. He is normally a shark. Tactical in his decision making and charming in his dealings with others. He is a focused man. Normally.
...
“Balls,” he mutters to himself. He is sitting in traffic that isn't moving for one reason or another and he cannot stop thinking about the mousy-looking fellow. He's gone over it a million times already trying to plug the stranger into every aspect of his life. He's not a member of the country club. He isn't a childhood friend. He wasn't on the swim team with him at Yale. (doesn't look like a Yale man at all in fact) Doesn't recall seeing him during the war though there were lots of people during the war. He wasn't a client. Wasn't a business acquaintance. Never hunted or traveled with the fellow. And this goes on all the day long.
...
“Alright what's his name?”
“Whose name, Mister Strottenger?” she says, seemingly patient in her tone.
“You know who I mean. The mousy fellow.”
She blinks at him. (blinks! and then with such a blank look behind those eyes he thinks she must make an excellent poker player)
“From this morning,” he says civilly, humoring her at whatever game she's playing.
“Ah. The accountant.” She wheels around in her chair and ruffles through a stack of papers and holds one up at an angle to the light. “Morgan, Randal J.,” she says, “Went to Columbia University―that's probably your next question.” She keeps hold of the paper and awaits further questioning.
He picks at the end of an eyebrow and studies her face. “What I'm trying to do here, see, I'm trying to place this fellow. He's familiar to me somehow but―”
“―but you can't figure out why. I understand Mister Strottenger. I wish I could help but I've never seen him before and he's never worked in the building before today.”
He holds out a hand and she hands him the sheet. He reads every word. Measures the years listed with his own life. Jogs his memory in relation to every institution mentioned on the page. Finds no connection with the man and gives her one more studied look. (but he knows she isn't bluffing now―she isn't trying to hide anything or pull the wool over his eyes) “He still here?”
“No Mister Strottenger. Only scheduled to work this morning. He'll be back tomorrow though.”
“Very good,” he says without inflection, handing the sheet back to her, “I'll see you in the morning. I'm going home early today.” And he grabs his briefcase and hat and makes for the front door.
“I'll close up your office then?” she calls after him.
He waves a hand without stopping and reaches the door and opens it and goes home. (thinking, where do I know this mousy fellow from—why is he so familiar?)
…
It comes to him in the middle of the night as these things tend to do. He isn't sleeping anyway—the missus is sleeping, she never has trouble falling asleep (he doesn't either come to think of it—not normally) but he is staring up at the ceiling blinking at the giant spider-like shadow thing the ceiling fan has made and his mind is culling over this problem, this mousy fellow problem, when it comes to him. Morgan, Randal J.—wasn't that the man's name he met on vacation in Florida that time? Wasn't his name Randal Morgan? Maybe it was, he cannot recall. Mousy-looking fellow with a mousy handshake. (beautiful wife though, that's what stood out the most about the man then, how a man like that ends up with a woman like that)
And the rest comes to him too, the situation they got into together—Randal and he—that last night at the resort. He remembers too many drinks. Both of them. Wandering the beachfront terrace. That narrow boardwalk artificially lit with yellow sodium-vapor lamps, the kind that make you want to puke if you look into them directly. The mosquitoes and flies buzzing and angry. But Randal and he were buzzing too by then so they didn't mind. The two of them chumming around and leaning on one another and trading old war stories. Then Randal gets in an argument with some kid half his age who was also buzzing, the two of them as angry as flies. And then that kid pushes Randal, thinking this is a little man that can be pushed around. But because of the war stories or because of the buzzing Randal Morgan gets carried away and takes a swing at the kid which connects on the chin and lays him out flat on the deck in one swing.
“Balls,” says Strottenger, pouring himself a finger of scotch. The grandfather clock on the wall chimes and Strottenger sees that it's three in the morning. He polishes off the drink and turns out the lights.
He sits in the dark in his favorite mocha leather wingback and remembers the rest. How Randal seeing the kid splayed out flat under the yellow light breaks into laughter then begins hacking up a lung then leaning way out over the white wood railing of the boardwalk empties his stomach of half its contents. And how Strottenger—seeing the kid's eyes roll back nautically in their sockets and seeing that pale body of his tremble on the deck like a giant carp out of water struggling for air—has the presence of mind to check that they are all alone and that no one has seen what's happened. (and they are alone! and no one has seen! and how fortunate for them!) And how Strottenger leads the mousy-looking fellow by the elbow unsteadily back to the lobby where they part ways never to set eyes on each other again. Best thing that could have happened, thinks Strottenger, considering. Next morning he isn't surprised to see investigators in the lobby of the resort. (that kid all splayed out flat like that hadn't looked much alive to him the night before) The manager at the front desk checks the Strottengers out quickly and whispers that they should leave before the police harass them about where they were last night—he seems disgusted by the fact that there's an investigation going on at all in his hotel and wonders why they can't just leave his guests alone—Strottenger doesn't argue with the man though any other day he might have on principle. (he's always had great respect for people in uniform)
All in all he is eager to leave the thing alone. Let it all remain in the past, a foggy memory of a night that went too far—he is after all an accessory after the fact or something like that. Not that he loses much sleep over it, he's played many roles in his life.
His eyelids are heavy now. At long last. He shuffles back to the bedroom and climbs into bed.
The missus stirs on her side and clears her throat to speak. Her voice is a fragile whisper beside him in the dark: “Had a dream we went out dancing like we used to do. Like, like we used to.” Her voice trails off. She takes a deep breath as if waking again and whispers, “What time is it, Dear?”
“It's late,” says Strottenger, “Quarter after three at least.”
She doesn't reply and the silence nearly overtakes the moment but he whispers again, staring up at that spider-like shadow once more, “I was trying to think, what were the names of that couple we met in Florida a few years back. That vacation trip we took to Florida.”
But no words come back from the dark. He hears her hollow breath deepening and he closes his eyes and falls asleep along side her.
...
He never listens to the radio in the car. Music doesn't interest him. He sits with the car running and enjoys instead the steady purring of the engine. He catches sight of his inspection sticker, showing backward in the top corner of the windshield—three months until it expires.
A flash of light catches his attention as the office door swings wide and he sees the mousy-looking man walking out squinting in the new sunshine of late morning. Randal Morgan walks slowly, morosely, out into the parking lot and climbs into his late model Camry and drives away.
Strottenger furrows his brow. He turns off his engine and walks up to the front door, enters and breezes through to the inner office ignoring the two or three different hellos and good mornings from his staff.
“I suppose you have your reasons, Mister Strottenger,” she starts in on him, standing at her desk with doe eyes and her fingers interlaced the way she does when her hands are empty.
“I do, but it's a long story. Any calls this morning?”
She hesitates and says, “No, Mister Strottenger.”
He nods. “Make time on the schedule for a new inspection sticker for my car would you. Anytime in the next couple of months.” He closes the door behind him and unbuttons his suit coat and reaches for the phone on his desk.
...
“Hello?”
“Morning. I was trying to remember, Dear, whatever were the names of that couple we met in Florida a few years back? At the resort.”
“Yes, at the resort,” she says, “Oh, what were their names—nice folks—Janice and Walt wasn't it?”
“His name was Walt? You sure?” He hears her sigh and there's noise over the receiver like she's moved hers to the other side of her head. (she's probably still lying in bed)
“Yes. Janice and Walt Mosley, from Phoenix,” she says.
“Balls,” says Strottenger.
“What was that?”
“Mousy-looking fellow,” says Strottenger.
“He was a mousy-looking fellow,” she says, “come to think of it.” And there is a beat of silence and she sighs again and says, “I thought she could have done much better than him, tell the truth.”
He nods though she can't see him nod and he says, “Hope I didn't keep you up last night. I just couldn't get to sleep.”
“Darling, you work yourself into knots sometimes.”
“Do I?”
“We should take another vacation soon, do you think?”
“Perhaps we should. Indeed.”
the end
About The Author
I am an artist and also a writer. I dabble in other hobbies as well. Too many hobbies at times—one hobby taking the place of other hobbies, which take a backseat to other hobbies in turn [as hobbies must do to make room for new hobbies]. One of my all time favorite hobbies is painting and I post articles and pictures of my work on my website which I named after myself: wessforeman.com. My other website is a tumblog where I post much of my shorter writings, musings, recipes and more — that website is wessf.tumblr.com. Also, please follow me on twitter—wessf—and be my friend on goodreads.com.
I live about an hour [driving time] north-northeast of New Orleans with my wife and kid and our decorative fish, two dogs, and three cats — not that any of that matters. Point is this: thanks for reading this!
—Wess Foreman
P.S.
Also available on the smashwords website are my free collection of short writings, On Remembering, and my two "real" books, A Slow Flowing River and Leito the Artist. Easiest way to find them is by searching for "Wess Foreman" on smashwords.com. Short excerpts from the two books have been tacked onto the end of this very file using common household items like thumbtacks, white glue, and chicken wire. Enjoy!
Excerpt from A Slow Flowing River
(available in digital formats at smashwords.com)
Finishing the biscuits and laying back down on his cot and holding both hands over his ample stomach he heard footsteps at the doorway. He turned and saw the sheriff enter.
"Coffee?" said the sheriff, holding up a steaming tin cup in one hand.
Russel found his feet and nodded, "Thanks."
The sheriff squinted over at Saguaro and said, "What about you?"
Saguaro shook his head without saying a word.
"Lemme get your plate there," the sheriff grinned.
Russel passed his plate, knife, and jam jar through the meal slot. The knife slipped from the plate and clattered to the floor — almost making the same sound that Jerrod Price's saber made when it fell — and both men bent down to reach for it. Russel found that it was on his side of the iron bars and he picked it up. He stood and momentarily felt the heft of the blade in his hand. It was only then that he realized he held a weapon in his hand — could even reach the sheriff's soft stomach with it from where he stood. Could jab between the bars — jab right through the sheriff's button down shirtfront — right through the skin and pass between the ribs, maybe puncture a lung or stomach lining. Could be the killer they wanted him to be. Could so easily do that, not that he could actually do that, but physically it was possible. And all that took half a second before the thought dissipated from his mind and he passed the knife through the bars for the sheriff to take in exchange for the cup of coffee.
When they were alone again, Brand looked over at Saguaro. He was sitting once more a few feet from the wall — his back was straight as a sapling and his eyes were closed. Brand could hear a low reverberation emanating from that side of the room and he couldn't tell at first whether it came from Saguaro or from somewhere beyond the window. It was like the rumble of a distant stampede. It grew louder and Brand could hear that it was Saguaro. The large desert cactus. Brand thought perhaps he was praying or clearing his mind — a meditative ritual of some sort — and Brand did not interrupt. The humming subsided at last and the room returned to silence — quieter than Brand had remembered it ever being; so quiet that he could hear a lone spider scrambling along the floor beside the cot; he could hear the sounds of passing horses and people outside the window; he could hear the small chirps of sparrows foraging for grain in the field beyond the jail house; he could even hear his own heart beating, a steady thrum-thrumming in his ears.
"Your life will end soon," said the hollow voice that seeped from Saguaro's lips.
Brand felt a needling of dread in his stomach and all the oxygen seemed to be sucked out of the small room. The words were biting but he knew them to be true. He found that he could not speak, for to speak was to deny and to deny was to be untruthful to himself. Brand swallowed back the foul taste in his mouth left by biscuits and old coffee.
Saguaro was looking up at him with sorrowful eyes. "It is true, young one. Soon. And then you will enter a period of torment and testing. Your second life will be difficult."
"Second life?"
"The next life. You will be reborn, changed. It will be most difficult. I might see you again. Maybe in your third life."
"It's good to know I have so many lives to look forward to."
"Perhaps you will. The future is not always easy to see and it's near impossible to understand." Saguaro seemed pleased with this statement, smiling to himself and nodding thoughtfully.
Excerpt from Leito The Artist
(available in digital formats at smashwords.com)
You okay? Leito asks, trying his best not to sound too creepy, not to sound like the total stranger he is but also steering clear of sounding too familiar.
With his words, Julie's face scrunches up; she wipes away fresh tears with her palm, tries taking in air through her nose revealing a case of sniffles.
There are some tissues in the glove box, says Leito, if you want. With a lowered, softer voice, trying to be unobtrusive, invisible. He goes silent again, and Julie finds the small travel-pack of tissue paper there, wiping her nose, composing herself once more. Leito lets truck cab return to an emotional equilibrium before asking, delicately: You were good friends with him? With Daniel?
Julie smiles at him, With Dan? She pauses, as if waiting for Leito to respond but continues before he actually can: Everyone knew him as Dan, she explains, and seems to revel momentarily in Leito's misinformation, You must be a professor of his? Or . . .
Professor? Oh. No, I actually knew him a long time ago — growing up. Haven't seen him in . . . well, in most of my life.
He didn't grow up here, she says pointedly, and I'm not his friend, I'm his sister.
Leito does not process this right away but turns it over slowly, sorting out the logic of it [sister? Daniel had a sister?]. Sister? says Leito, Daniel had a sister? [For it is all Leito can think to say]
Julie responds with a dramatic sweep of the arms, ending in a ta-da! pose, hands turned outward, framing the face. She says: I'm right here!
I mean . . . I don't remember you . . . ah, that didn't come out right, either.
When did you know him?
I don't know, this would have been . . . sometime during elementary school — you know, riding bikes everywhere, digging in the backyard, getting in trouble at school —
Julie says, You're THAT Leito?!
Leito blushes, I guess so.
I knew you. I knew you. You and Dan were always playing together. Julie pauses, hesitating, then adds: I hated you!
You what?
Not hated hated — oh, don't take it so seriously — as a kid, you know? You two were always rough-housing, breaking my toys, knocking over my playhouse — don't you remember? Pink, with white-framed windows on the side? Mom used to make me play in my room when you'd come over because I'd always end up crying and bugging her to fix whatever got broken.
Leito smiles, shakes his head: Sorry, I . . . I don't remember any of that.
And I always wanted to play, too. Outside, with the boys. But I wasn't allowed. And Julie is smiling at Leito now, her eyes gleaming in the darkness beside him. She says, I cried so much when you moved away. I cried buckets. She stops talking.
And Leito stops talking, his breath frozen, his heart skipping its beat. Neither talking now. He can feel his face warming with the rush of blood. Driving. Leito just drives — finally coming to a fork in the road — he manages to says, Which way?
There, Julie points left. Leito turns left. Silence. Leito thinking, trying to remember Julie back then, little Julie, little pink and white playhouse Julie. Julie crying. Daniel's little sister crying. Crying buckets when Leito moved away.
Up here on the right, says the voice in darkness beside him, brick mailbox. There. Leito pulls in the driveway. It's an old white two-story, apparently converted into several apartments — Leito notes the little numbers beside the doors, counts one, two, three doors downstairs, one door upstairs atop a spindly staircase, maybe another apartment door around back. Leito stops and puts the truck in park. They sit in darkness. Leito waiting for Julie, waiting for Leito, waiting for Julie. The two of them. In the dark. Waiting. Sitting there, and Julie says, He was so full of life. You know? Always joking around. Showing off. She stops talking. And Leito cannot speak. Wants to speak but cannot. Doesn't know what to say. Wants to reach out to her. Wants to say he's sorry. For all of it — the playhouse, her toys, leaving, making her cry, and for her loss, her brother, so full of life, dead. Gone. All of it. Grown and gone.
I'm sorry, she says at last, I'm sorry — thanks for the ride. It's good to see you, Leito. She opens the door, activating interior light — Leito in the spotlight, blinded — Leito's suit coat comes back inside, on the seat beside him, folded over.
He says, Goodnight.
She says in a whisper, Thanks for the ride, Leito. I'm sorry. Goodnight. She closes the door, hugging her bare arms and walking away from him, darting in and out of headlights as she walks, disappearing with a little wave into one of the downstairs apartments. Leito drives away. Life goes on.
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