A Life Transparent (2 page)

He slowly exhaled, and smiled.

A good day
, he thought.
A very, very good day.

•  •  •

The morning commute was bumper to bumper for most of the way, as it seemed to be on every weekday, but nothing could dampen his spirits. He began the day feeling that all would be well, and he wasn’t about to give it up for a few angry drivers. The heavy traffic let up after ten minutes, and soon Donovan was speeding down the freeway listening to a morning radio host welcome a guest on the air.

He didn’t pay much attention to their conversation—he was busy concentrating on the road and its collection of Monday morning idiots. Still, bits and pieces of the show worked their way into his thoughts. The guest was an author promoting his latest book.

“—itle of the book is
A Life Ordinary: A Comprehensive Study in Human Mediocrity.
”

Donovan frowned. A life ordinary? What was wrong with being ordinary? He was content with his life. Sure, he didn’t have the best job in the world—not the kind he’d imagined having during those dreamy days of college—but for now he had to give up that youthful idealism and work nine-to-five like every other John. Q. Taxpayer.

Though Donovan still dreamed of writing the Great American Novel, the demands of work and marriage limited him to only an hour of writing per night. Perhaps, someday, it would be Donovan on the radio promoting his latest work. Floating in the back of Donovan’s mind was an image: Seated in his home office, fingers poised over a computer keyboard, he could hear the echoes of his wife playing games with their children.

That fantasy took him away from the radio program and back to Donna’s pleasant face. The two of them had wanted a baby for so long, and now, after several years of saving and planning, they were finally giving things a try. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evening, Donovan and Donna made love with hope of conceiving a child. Sometimes he daydreamed about that happy day when he’d burst into the Identinel offices and proclaim “It’s a boy!” Or a girl. He wasn’t picky.

The radio program cut to a commercial as Donovan took his exit. He looked at the console clock: 8:38. The lights at each intersection turned green upon his approach, and he sped through them without interruption. When he reached the Identinel parking lot, he pulled into a space near those reserved for upper management.

The odd pulling sensation in his stomach intensified as he walked across the lot toward the building. He paused at the door, took a breath, and put his hand on his belly.
What did I eat last night?

His stomach lurched, accenting his recollection of the mystery meal: curry. He’d had curry the night before.

Donovan shook off the discomfort, promising himself antacids for lunch, and pushed his way into the building.

•  •  •

Click.

Donovan removed his headset and sighed. Another sale lost. He tapped a few keys on the keyboard, adding another phone number to the growing “no call” list. The old tricks to save that sale just weren’t working anymore, and people did not want to guard their identities as much as they should.

From somewhere beyond his cubicle, he heard the screeching call of the Two Tammys, Identinel’s dual Human Resources Coordinators. Tammy Perpa and Tammy Quilago formed an unholy union of professionalism, leaving most employees trembling in their wake. The mere sounds of their voices stirred the acid in his stomach, the effect making him nauseous.

Around the office, many called them “The Terrible Tammys.” Tomorrow, along with Butler, they would preside over Donovan’s review. Understandably, this did little to ease the tightening discomfort in his gut. It slowly climbed up into his chest, giving pause to his heart for a brief moment, and he had to gasp for breath. Then, as quickly as it came, the phantom grip around his torso was gone.

He stood, peeked over the wall of his cube, and watched the two women make their way down the main aisle of the call center. After an unproductive morning, the last thing he wanted was a conversation with them about performance.

Donovan ducked back into his cube to check the time again: 10:30. He reached for his coffee cup—a custom-made mug featuring a screen print of Mr. Precious Paws—and made his way to the employee lounge. The Terrible Tammys were no longer in sight.

The lounge was furnished with two refrigerators, three microwaves, and four coffeepots. A lonely water cooler sat in a corner. A few of Donovan’s coworkers loitered around the tables in the room, chatting about their weekend exploits. Donovan, on the other hand, wasn’t there to make small talk. He needed coffee.

“Hey, Candle!”

Timothy Butler entered the room with a grin that cut across his face. The other employees scattered. Donovan shot a quick glance over his shoulder, muttered “Shit” under his breath, and began to pour his coffee.

Just smile
, he told himself. It wasn’t that simple. When Donovan did not respond, Butler repeated himself. Donovan closed his eyes for a moment. His name was
Donovan
Candle. Not just “Candle.” Butler’s insistence on dropping a person’s first name was grating on even the best of days. Donovan tried to maintain his composure.

“Morning,” he said. He poured cream and sugar into his coffee.

“How was your weekend, Candle? Mine was great—”

Oh really? How great was it?

Timothy Butler yammered on. For Donovan, knowing his boss spoke only to hear his own voice made his presence all the more intolerable.

The discomfort in his stomach returned with force, startling him so badly that he almost dropped his mug. A few drops of coffee spilled onto the counter. Butler’s words—something about a weekend, a lake, time on a boat with his wife—ran together, and for a few agonizing seconds, all Donovan could hear was a low, metallic drone.

What the hell is happening to me?

The feeling ceased. Butler was still talking. Donovan put a hand to his forehead, and it came away slick with sweat.

“—played eighteen holes after we got home from the beach on Sund—”

Donovan knew this conversation, had heard it a thousand times before. He’d seen others caught in this same corner, forced to listen to Butler’s monologue about weekend excursions, and now it was his turn again. After nine years Donovan had learned to tune him out.

He stirred his coffee. The sensation swelled in the pit of his stomach once more, but only for an instant.
Maybe Butler’s sucking the life out of me
, he mused. The thought made him smile.

“So, yeah, how was your weekend, Candle?” Butler clapped a hand on Donovan’s back, causing him to spill a few more drops of coffee, this time onto his shoes. He looked into his boss’ cold, blue eyes and forced a smile.

“It was a weekend.”

Staring into his superior’s face, Donovan was reminded of how little he’d accomplished—how, after nine years, he’d advanced only one or two rungs up the corporate ladder. Timothy Butler, only a few years older, had a much higher salary and a more fulfilling life. Would these things be Donovan’s in the years to come?

Yes
, he told himself. He wanted the extravagant stories and financial freedom. He wanted that new TV, he wanted to buy Donna that jewelry she’d had her eye on, he wanted to finish that novel. He wanted to remodel the guest room, to have a child, to build a legacy and pass it on.

He wanted life with all its trimmings. Staring into Butler’s eyes, he realized he’d have to work harder, to toil and reach for that goal. He’d have to want it more than anything else.

“Mr. Butler,” he heard himself say. Butler’s eyes seemed to reflect the sparkle of his perfect teeth.

“What’s up, Candle?”

“Just wanted to remind you about my review tomorrow.”

Butler’s expression faded, and for a moment Donovan feared the man had forgotten about his review, but then his face lit up and he said, “Don’t worry, amigo! It’s all taken care of!”

Relief came over him, but it was short-lived. As Timothy Butler walked away, Donovan saw the man’s reassuring facade fall away for an instant. He stood there, not quite sure whether it was his imagination or something more sinister. Butler’s expression seemed so conniving. It made him uneasy, a feeling that followed him back to his desk.

There he finished his coffee and continued working through his lunch hour, making cold calls to customers in an attempt to sell them a service they did not want. As the hours crawled by, he found he was unable to escape the black cloud of Butler’s mysterious expression. All afternoon, he struggled to determine just what it was that worried him.

Was it that he did not trust his own boss? Was it the insincerity in Butler’s eyes that put him on edge? He thought about asking around the office, but that would only lead to gossip, and this would be better played close to the chest. Even so, uncertainty nagged him. It encompassed his mind so completely, that he almost missed the clock striking 5:00 P.M. The entire day was lost to an odd hint of suspicion.

He felt like a failure when he left the office. His sales for the day were the lowest in months. People under his wing—even new hires still in training—had made more sales that day. Donovan had no one to blame but himself. He wanted to blame Timothy Butler, but his rational self spoke too loudly to be ignored.
It’s all you
, it told him.
Quit worrying and get on with it.

Donovan sat in his car for a few minutes, waiting for the emptiness to subside. When it did, he felt the first pangs of hunger rumbling in his stomach, accenting that deeper, more troubling sensation. He tried to ignore it.

Traffic was less agreeable that evening. Shortly after taking the highway entrance ramp, Donovan found himself sitting bumper-to-bumper with other lost souls trying to get home. He switched on the radio to help pass the time. A recap of the morning’s interview was playing, and this time Donovan caught the name of the book’s author.

“Please welcome Dr. Albert Sparrow—”

Outside, an SUV blared its horn and sped around Donovan’s car. He gripped the steering wheel and tried to focus on the road.

“Thank you,” said Dr. Sparrow.

“I understand you’ve got a new book available?”

“Yes, the title is—”

Donovan chimed in, “
A Life Ordinary: A Comprehensive Study in Human Mediocrity.
” He snorted at the sound of it.
So pretentious.

“Care to give us the gist, Doc?”

“Through my studies, I’ve found that most people live painfully boring lives. We get up, we go to work, we slave away for eight, ten, even twelve hours a day, only to go home and meander for a few more before sleep.”

“Yep,” the host chortled. “Sounds about right.”

“Over the last five years I’ve studied this phenomenal tendency toward the ordinary life. While some of my contemporaries refute my argument, I believe atypical activity is essential for our species to survive.”

“So, what, we should go camping or something every other weekend?”

“Not exactly, for even in such an escape we may confine ourselves to routine. Our failure to recognize these patterns leads to a kind of ennui which—”

“On-what?”

“Ennui. It’s—”

Donovan changed the station. Dr. Albert Sparrow was replaced by the screeching singer of AC/DC. He’d rather listen to this than the boorish ramblings of an overpaid PhD. He tuned out a second helping of the aging rockers. The music was interrupted by a Missing Persons alert for someone named Alice Walenta.

As he listened, that faint, metallic buzzing filled his ears. He grimaced at the sound and switched off the radio to help clear his head. The droning stopped. By the time he pulled into his driveway, he’d forgotten all about the good Dr. Sparrow, AC/DC, and Timothy Butler. For a day begun with such high hopes, it had fallen far below the mark.

For now, Donovan was just happy to be home.

•  •  •

“So, I was wondering ...”

Donna dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin. Steam from a platter of broiled chicken rose between them.

“Uh huh?” he mumbled between bites.

“I was wondering if we could, you know, maybe take a vacation?”

“A vacation?”

“Not for a week or anything. Just, I don’t know, a long weekend?”

He swallowed his chicken, cut another piece, and asked, “When? To where?”

“I don’t know, Don. I thought we could go to the shore. It would be nice.”

Donovan finished his chicken, washed it down with a glass of iced tea, and released a low belch. He excused himself, then stood and walked to the fridge to examine their cat-themed calendar. A kitten-shaped magnet held it to the refrigerator door.

“We could go early next month,” she offered, “before the tourists start to arrive.”

He flipped back and forth between the current month and the next, frowning. “Honey, I—” he began, but then interrupted himself. “Oh hell.”

“What?”

He held out the calendar page and pointed to a circled date. “Today’s the 16th.”

Donna shrugged. “So?”

“It’s Michael’s birthday.”

Before she could say anything else, he reaffixed the calendar to the fridge door and reached for the wall-mounted phone. He lifted the receiver from its cradle and dialed. Donna sighed and mumbled something. He turned away just as she rose from her seat to begin clearing the table. By the time his brother answered the phone, she was already running water in the sink.

“Hello?”

Donna clanged dishes into the sink basin.

“Mike,” Donovan said. “Happy birthday.”

Michael Candle chuckled. “Oh. Damn, already?”

“Wasn’t sure I’d catch you at home. Figured you’d be out chasing crooks and the like.”

“Ah well, you know me. Always busy.”

Although Donovan grew up reading the work of Raymond Chandler, he never fashioned himself as much of a detective. His brother, on the other hand, eschewed the fiction of their youth and chose to make detective work his career. Donovan admired Michael’s dedication to hard-boiled facts, so it didn’t surprise him when Michael struck out on his own as a licensed private investigator.