After a twenty-minute drive through the streets of Fort Wayne, Bret parked his Fairmont in Harris Enterprises’ employee parking lot.
He got out of the Fairmont, leaving the keys in the ignition and the door unlocked, and then moped to the front entrance of the six-story office building.
Brett entered the foyer, observing the gaudy gold “Harris Enterprises, Founded in 1948” sign on the wall behind the receptionist’s desk.
“Good morning,” Brett said to the female receptionist. She gave a little wave.
Brett went to the elevators and got inside the next available one.
Brett exited the elevator on the top floor and walked through the maze of cubicles.
The atmosphere’s grave in the city of cubicles. Brett entered his office, grabbed his coffee cup off his desk, left, and returned with a full cup.
Brett sat at his desk and stared at a stack of paperwork underneath a printed Excel spreadsheet.
He opened a desk drawer, removing the newest edition of the Aircraft Owners and Pilot’s Association (AOPA’s) Flight Training magazine, and kicked back, drinking coffee while the magazine.
Twenty minutes passed, and Brett was on his second cup of black coffee, finishing an article on the art of landing an airplane. His desk phone rang. “Brett Woods,” he answered.
“Brett, it’s Manfred Wilson from Sky King Aviation down in Columbus,” Manfred said from the phone.
Brett immediately dropped the AOPA magazine, and it fell to the floor. “Yes Manfred,” Brett beamed.
“I got your resume, and I feel you would make a good fit in our organization.”
Brett danced in his chair with excitement. “Thank you, Mister Wilson,” Brett smiled.
“Listen, I have to head out to our main office in Los Angeles for a week, so when I get back, I would like you to head down to our facility here in Columbus for an interview,” Manfred offered.
“It would be a pleasure,” Brett said.
“Great. I’ll contact you at this number,” Manfred said.
“On second thought, why don’t you call my cell?” Brett quickly added.
“Okay,” replied Manfred.
“It’s five five five, sixty-forty-two,” Brett quietly spoke into his phone.
Brett’s office door slammed open with a bang, and he jumped, fumbling with his phone.
A flabby older man with permanent grouchy features and a hideous comb-over marched in with papers.
“Ah, hi, Sidney,” said Brett.
“I have an impromptu meeting to attend. I’ll be waiting for your call,” Brett said and discreetly slid the magazine across his desk, dropping it to the floor by his shoes.
“Not a problem, and I’m looking forward to meeting you,” Manfred replied.
“Me too,” Brett said, then hung up his phone.
“How’s that report coming along?” Sidney asked.
“Why, it’s coming along great, Sidney,” Brett replied, holding up some Excel spreadsheets.
Sidney glanced at one of the spreadsheets. “Here’s additional data, and I want this report turned in to me at the end of the day,” Sidney demanded, tossing the papers at Brett. They floated down to the top of his desk.
“That won’t be a problem, sir,” Brett replied, scooping up the papers.
“Good,” Sidney said, turned around, and exited Brett’s office.
Brett frowned at the papers, grabbed one of them, folded it into a paper airplane, and soared the plane across the room.
The paper airplane sailed, smacked into a wall, and dropped to the floor.
Brett picked up his AOPA magazine off the floor and found a new article to read. It was an article about the importance of weight and balance.
Brett spent the rest of his workday buried his head in his AOPA magazine, forcing himself to spend fifteen minutes on Sidney’s report.
The workday finally ended.
Brett opened the drawer and dropped his AOPA magazine on the stack of back issues.
Brett grabbed Sidney’s report as he left his office and walked through the maze of cubicles in the office area. The employees were gone.
I reached the checkpoint of Sidney’s office, manned by an attractive older lady with blonde and silver hair. She typed at her computer.
At a nearby desk, a younger man typed on his computer. He eyed Brett.
“Agnes, here’s the report Sidney requested,” Brett handed her the document.
Brett glanced over at the younger man. “Hi Carl, how are things with the payroll?” Brett asked.
“We’re doing great counting all the millions of dollars Sidney’s bringing into the company,” Carl bragged.
Agnes laid the report on her desk. “I’ll make sure Mister Harris gets this after his meeting tomorrow morning,” Agnes said, returning to her computer.
Brett walked away from the building and through the parking lot. The sound of a rotary engine in the sky drove him to look up and observe a Boeing PT Stearman flying south. “ Man, I wish I were up there,” he drooled.
Brett walked to his Fairmont, keeping an eye on the Stearman.
“Man, nobody stole this crappy car,” he said, then got inside, cranked the engine, then drove out of the parking lot.
Brett turned down the street, drove ways, then drove through the streets and stopped at a nearby Wal-Mart.
Brett entered the store and bought a small potted plant with a beautiful flower and something in the toy department.
He returned to his Fairmont and drove out of the Wal-Mart parking lot.
Brett later drove his Fairmont to Highland Park Cemetery and parked in the parking lot.
Brett got out with the potted plant and Wal-Mart bag. He walked around to the rear of the Fairmont and opened the trunk. Brett reached inside, removed a trowel, and closed the trunk.
Brett walked through the cemetery with the Wal-Mart bag, potted plant, and trowel.
He stopped a headstone engraved with “Here Lies Robert S. Woods, Loving Son, Born March 4, 1999, Died July 20, 2006.”
Brett glanced at the headstone. The sound of screeching car tires haunted him.
Brett knelt at the headstone, dug a hole with the trowel, and then planted the potted plant.
He opened the Wal-Mart bag, removed a small metal toy airplane, a Piper Warrior, and placed the toy on top of Robbie’s headstone.
“Bye, buddy,” he said.
He walked away.
An airplane sounds from the sky. He glanced up, noticing a Cessna 172 flying overhead, and watched for a few seconds.
Brett walked through the cemetery and back to his Fairmont.
He got inside his Fairmont and left the cemetery’s parking lot.
Brett drove by the House of Nissan dealership, spotting a beautiful shiny 370Z displayed out front by the street.
“Man, if I can only have one,” he drooled, then drove away.
Five minutes passed. Brett turned his Fairmont into the Whitestone Estates.
Brett pulled his Fairmont into his driveway and stopped, staring at his house. Bret then reversed the car, inching his Fairmont down the driveway, gave up, and drove back up the driveway.
He opened the garage door dro, went inside, and parked. The garage door closed.
Brett entered his home through the utility room from the garage.
“I’m home, Dorian,” Brett called out.
“Good, now let your stupid dog outside,” Dorian yelled from the living room.
Brett walked out of the utility room, through the kitchen, and down the hall.
He walked inside the empty bedroom. Abby’s asleep in her kennel.
“Hey, girl,” Brett called out.
Abby woke up; she yawned. She saw Brett and wagged her tail. Brett opened the kennel.
Abby got out and stretched. Brett knelt on one knee, and Abby licked his face.
“How’s Abby today?” Brett asked, petting Abby’s head.
“Brett, where have you been?” Dorian called out from the living room. “You’re late!”
Brett cringed.
“I stopped off at the cemetery,” he replied.
“Did you put one of those stupid toy airplanes on Robbie’s headstone again?” she called out.
Brett hesitated. “Ah, yes.”
“Stop that! It looks tacky to have toys at his gravesite,” she scolded.
Brett looked down at Abby. “Come on, girl.
We’ll have to face her sooner or later,” he said, getting up off his knee.
Brett walked down the hallway. Abby followed.
They walked by a beautifully framed pencil sketch on the wall by Brett of their son Robbie at age six.
They went outside.
Later that evening, Brett and Dorian ate a pot roast dinner in their dining room. Bach played from the CD player in the living room.
Dorian’s dressed in a conservative outfit during dinner. She ate with perfect etiquette. Miss Manners would be proud.
Brett wore nice slacks and a dress shirt and ate with his elbows on the table.
Dorian glared at Brett. “Elbows off the table, please,” Dorian demanded.
Brett removed his elbows from the table. “How was work today?” she asked. “Boring,” he responded.
“How can it be boring? You’re the assistant manager of finance.”
“I’m sorry,” Brett replied.
“By the way, did you ask Daddy about being promoted to Vice President of Business Operations? That job will be available as soon as Donald Toby retires in two weeks,” Dorian said.
Brett cringed and hesitated. “No. I didn’t have time, plus Sidney was busy,” he replied.
Dorian slammed her fork down. “You better make time! I don’t want you to be an assistant manager for the rest of your life! And how can you expect to take over Daddy’s business if you don’t move up his corporate ladder,” Dorian scolded. She picked up her fork and ate some corn.
“I hate financial work,” he confessed, picking at his pot roast.
“As I said, you’ll never amount to anything if you don’t climb the corporate ladder. And after you take over Daddy’s company, we can increase our standard of living,” she said.
Brett’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, dear.” His eyes lit up. “Oh, guess what I saw on the way home? I saw a beautiful new Nissan 370Z at the House of Nissan dealership. I was thinking of trading my Fairmont in for one. If I get promoted, can I at least have a sporty car?”
Dorian slammed down her fork, glaring at Brett. “We don’t need to be wasting money on a Japanese car. The Fairmont years of life left in her. Besides, I talked with Daddy, and we’re moving into the Brooksville Estates.”
“We can’t afford a house in that neighborhood.”
“We’re moving in two months, and that’s final! So you better get that promotion, or you’ll be working two jobs to afford our new home,” Dorian commanded.
Brett’s shoulders slumped further, looking whipped.