Head Count
A short story
Simply put, I love Frank’s work- both his great essays on the nature and history of pulp writing as well as his own fictional works.
So it was with great pleasure that I read his latest piece as it slid across my desk this morning.
This absolutely does not disappoint- fast pace, deceptively simple dialogue and the kind of description and scene setting that you can vividly see and bring your own imagination to. This is what great storytelling is for me. And I don’t think I need to say anything more except:
Enjoy.
Pushing through the glass revolving doors of Bronson, Stanley, Graf & Company, twenty-five year old Jeffrey Morenz struggled to carry his gym bag. Three days had passed, his rain coat was caked in bile, blood, and the filth of the city.
His work boots left muddy foot prints on the otherwise pristine floors of the corporate high rise. The young woman at reception began to gag as Jeffrey approached. He stood there tall and rough, slamming the gym bag on the desk.
“I’m here to see Mr. Bronson,” Jeffrey said trying to keep himself from collapsing due to his exhaustion.
The poor woman belched and expelled bits of her lunch in the waste basket next to her. The lobby became flooded with the reek of the bag.
“Name?”, she squeaked
“Jeff Morenz. I’m here for my interview.”
She picked up the phone, keeping a hand over her nose and mouth.
She muttered in an uneasy tone of voice, “Jeff Morenz is here to see you sir. Yes sir, his third interview.”
She put down the phone. “Go on up,” she coughed, “Level 12. Executive Boardroom.”
Jeffrey threw the bag over his shoulder and trekked his way to the elevator.
Inside, he turned and watched the neon city lights through the glass as he ascended to the top floor. Normally he’d be home, walking with Tia in the cold, wet night.
Things were different now.
The economy went south. He lost his income, his apartment, girlfriend, and whatever moral virtue he had left in him. Everything he once owned was sold at auction, though it made no difference. Work opportunities were drying up and only a few of the larger firms were open to hiring. Eight months of rejections and failed interviews were enough to make any penniless man desperate.
He needed something, anything, to bring him back to his normal life. As the chimes rang with each passing floor, Jeffrey took a deep, long breath and starred at the gym bag. Funny, he always considered himself a pacifist, one who would speak out against violence and thought himself above such vile behavior. But when times are tough, when food, housing, and jobs are scarce, a man’s thoughts center only on his own survival.
Level 12.
The doors opened. Jeffrey took his bag and marched forward, walking through the opulent hallway of Southern Gothic tradition and decorative displays of animal heads encased in gold.
He stopped at the mahogany French doors, knocked three times, and waited. Seconds felt like a lifetime but soon the doors parted. Walking in the darkly lit room, Jeffrey was met by the partners, Mr. Stanley and Mr. Graf, siting in their plush leather chairs at the end of a conference table. In the back near the bar, an older man, maybe late 60s, suited in a sharkskin gray vest, pants, crisp white shirt, and regal magenta tie poured himself another glass of bourbon.
Jeffrey nearly collapsed at the end of the table.
“Well I’ll be damned,” the old man in gray smiled and carried a southern gentlemanly air about him.
“I’m here for the interview, Mr. Bronson”
“Take a seat, my boy! Seems like you’ve earned it.” Bronson’s voice was baked in Tennessee sunshine.
Jeffrey climbed to the leather chair by his side and pulled the gym bag up on the table.
“Drink?”
“Water. Please.”
A quick snap of the old man’s fingers and a large glass pitcher of water appeared at the end of the table. Jeffrey grabbed the pitcher with both hands and nearly drowned himself trying to drink as much as he could.
“Something to eat?”
Mr. Bronson whistled and a half rack of pork ribs, warm, smoky and dripping in bbq sauce materialized before Jeffrey. The poor hungry fool couldn't stuff his face fast enough.
The older men laughed watching this sad display. Mr. Stanley leaned forward and smiled
“Well fellas,” the portly partner’s voice was thick and guttural. “What do we think young Jeffrey has brought us in the bag?”
He rubbed his pudgy, sweaty hands together in such delight.
“Smells ripe to me,” Mr. Graf, who sat back in his chair with a nasally voice and rat-like face, took in the foul aroma with great pleasure. His eyes were hidden behind dark oval glasses. He smiled showing off his set of golden teeth.
“Well Jeff,” Mr Bronson said, “what's in the bag?”
Jeffrey took his sauce covered fingers and pulled down the bag’s zipper. He emptied it.
Four heads rolled on to the conference table.
Eyes removed from their orbital sockets. Four rotting green faces, three men, one former blonde. Mr. Stanley and Mr. Graf rose to their feet in a roaring cheer and applause.
“My my,” Mr. Bronson said “You actually delivered. Well done, Jeffrey! I admit I'm surprised. The others candidates shied away from such a task.”
“Not afraid of a little blood sport eh,” laughed Mr. Graf as he caressed one of the decomposed heads.
Jeffrey stood up, “I did what you asked. Do I get the job?”
Bronson smiled, “Well Jeffrey, this does make for a marvelous offering. Bringing us the heads of the other candidates is quite creative, quite creative indeed.
“Well?” Jeffrey clutched at the empty soiled bag.
An obscure whisper in a strange tongue shook through the room. Mr. Bronson nodded in agreement.
“Unfortunately, the firm is also going through cuts. Bad times I’m afraid. But good luck in your job hunt.”
Jeffrey was closed to tears. This is not how it was supposed to end for him. The blood wouldn’t leave his hands now. He fell to his knees.
“Please, sir! I’ve done everything you asked. You said this was a good offering for the Chairman. I’ll scrub toilets even. Please.”
Bronson sighed. The foreign whispering voice echoed again through the room.
“It seems our generous Chairman has a soft spot for you.”
Jeffrey wept with gratitude.
“He wishes to meet with you in person”
Mr. Stanley and Mr. Graf grabbed Jeffrey by the arms and stood him up, holding him steady. Mr. Bronson spoke an unrecognizable language and whistled.
The conference table spilt in two and separated, revealing a massive pit spitting flames and gas. A choir of cries shrieked in agony and pleas for mercy.
The partners dragged Jeffrey towards the pit. He resisted as best he could.
“What are you doing?” Jeffrey cried as he struggled to break free.
“Making the proper introductions to our Chairman.”
The partners cried out in unison, “Hail Mammon. Hail the Prince of Riches,” and threw Jeffrey down the pit watching the flames embrace him. The conference table rejoined and the partners took their seats.
“If that doesn’t satisfied our Lord, I don’t know what will,” Mr. Stanley said.
“Agreed,” said Mr. Graf “I do enjoy a good show but six sacrifices is far too much. What does this mean?”
Mr Bronson gulped down his bourbon.
“It means, gentlemen, that we must continue to make our head count until we’ve reached the satisfactory quota. Our Lord has always taken care of us. Every recession, depression, and correction he has delivered for us. Until then it’s business as usual.”
The conference phone buzzed and Mr. Graf hit the speaker button. A young voice squeaked, “I have Ms. Victoria Carrol in the lobby for you sir. Her second interview.”
Mr. Stanley and Mr. Graf snickered and cackled.
Mr. Bronson walked over to the bar to refill his glass. He took a slow sip and smiled.
“Send her up”
End
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Frank, this is so far your best. You just keep getting better.
Wow, what a read! Loved it! I had to go back and check some details, and noticed it was his third interview. I like to watch old movies and many of them have these huge boardroom scenes. I imagined this taking place in some very twisted Old Hollywood nightmare movie.