My Boss Has an Interesting Proposition & I Meet Mr. Robinson's Friends

I spend the entire bus ride to work thinking about my conversation with Mr. Robinson. He never steered me wrong in high school and saw something in a quiet, nerdy kid without a dad. I mean he helped turn me into a pretty successful adult. I have a great job, a nice apartment, and a beautiful, wonderful fiance, all because he believed in me in high school. I owe him a lot, and I am glad that I can pay some of it back to him by letting him stay at the apartment. I am also glad that he has taken a shine to Sarah and now is mentoring her like he did for me. I know that although his methods are unconventional, sometimes harsh, and push people out of their comfort zones, Sarah and I will be better off listening to him. I decide to have Mr. Robinson talk to Sarah, and if it is ok, then I will “practice” with Kylie.

Work goes by quickly; Kylie's presentation went really well, and she publicly thanked me for helping her with some of the calculations. Our boss, Mr. Carrey, was very pleased at our ability to work together and made a quick comment about wanting to speak with us before the end of the day.

Kylie and I sit together at lunch; she is very excited that her presentation was so well received. “Thank you so much, Liam!” she gushes. “I could not have done it without you.”

“Yes, you could," I push back a little. “You are kind, you are smart, and you are important.”

“I hate you so much,” she says, laughing. "If you keep this shit up, I am going to bake you a pie.”

We both break into a fit of giggles. The other people in the cafeteria begin to look over at us like we are crazy. We finish lunch and on the way back to our desks, Mr. Carrey's admin stops us and asks us to come up to his office. We must have both looked concerned, because she quickly reminded us that he had wanted to speak with us before he left for the day about a new project.

Relieved and intrigued, we followed her up to the top floor and into Mr. Carrey's office. Mr. Carrey is an extremely large man; he was an All-American lineman in college and could have gotten drafted in the NFL. Instead, he started his own company and is now one of the richest and most powerful men in the state. He always kind of intimidated me, and I am still surprised he even knows who I am.

“Liam! Kylie!” he voice booms from behind his desk “Come in! Come in!” He waves us into his office and urges us to sit down and begins to talk.

Kylie and I are both in shock; he wants us to go out of town for a week. The McCallister Systems account is our biggest and most profitable account. The account that keeps the lights on and pays all our salaries. Mr. Carrey tells us about the new program they are developing, about the missed deadlines, and about the bloated budget—all the gory details.

“I want you to help fix it," he says with finality. “You two work really well together and compliment each other. Kylie has a knack for the numbers, and Liam, you are a whiz with programs and shortcuts.”

“I know that this is a big ask, but our company needs you; don't let me down," he says like a coach giving a pep talk. “It is short notice, but we will fly you out tomorrow morning. Company jet and an expense card with practically no limit.”

“Yes sir.” Kylie and I say in unison, What else could we say?.

“At least Mr. Robinson is there to keep Sarah company.” I think to myself.

Walking into the apartment, the first thing that I register is the strange smell; usually the house smells like Sarah's lotion or the lavender-scented cleaner we use to clean. This was muskier and a little stale, like the house was full of people who had exerted themselves for hours. Turning the corner into the living room, I see old Mr. Durbin, our neighbor from across the hall, sprawled out on the couch, head tilted back, mouth open, a thin string of drool connected his bottom lip to the collar of a cardigan that had probably been knit during the Eisenhower administration. His breathing came in wet, rhythmic rasps.

“Sarah?” I call out in confusion.

I hear the click of a door opening down the hallway. The bathroom? The bedroom? Mr. Shetler walks down the hallway tucking in his shirt and cinching his belt. The same man who’d looked at him over reading glasses during a parent-teacher conference and told Liam’s mother that the boy “lacked direction.”

I realize that these must be the friends Mr. Robinson mentioned. “Where's Sarah?” I ask?

“Shower.” The word came from behind him.

Liam turned. Mr. Robinson was leaning in the kitchen doorway, still shirtless and in the same stained shorts from this morning. His hair seemed even greasier than usual and his chubby hair body was coated in sweat.

“We just finished playing a game,” Robinson said with a wry smile. “Durbin there—he’s out early. Could not handle the stimulation”

I looked down at the table. No cards. No board game. Three glasses, one of them still half-full of amber liquid, the other two empty except for melting ice. “What game?”

"Poker," Mr. Robinson says, causing a snort from Mr. Shetler from behind me.

A door opened behind Shetler. The bathroom, adjacent to it. Steam billowed into the hallway. Sarah stepped out wrapped in a towel, her dark hair plastered to her shoulders. Water beaded on her collarbone.

“Babe.” Her voice was bright, almost too bright. “You’re home. I lost track of—”

“I heard.” Liam watched her eyes. They flicked toward Shetler, to Robinson, then back to him. “Mr. Robinson explained. The game.”

“Right.” Sarah said after a strange pause and tightened the towel on her chest. Her knuckles were white. “The game. I should get dressed.” She turned in our bedroom and closed the door behind her. I heard the lock click.

Turning back to the living room, I see Durbin rousing from his nap, his mouth closed and his eyes starting to open – just slits really – watching me from beneath heavy and wrinkled lids.

“We better get out of all your hair.” Mr. Shetler said, grabbing his suit jacket. "Denny, come on, let's go.”

Durbin stirred on cue, groaning as he pushed himself upright. The crotch of his trousers was dark, like something had spilled there. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and blinked at me as if seeing me for the first time.

“There’s the man,” Durbin muttered. His tongue moved around his mouth, working moisture back into it. “Good man. Good, good man.”

They shuffled toward the door like a single organism, Shetler leading, Durbin trailing with his uneven gait. Mr. Robinson said nothing, just took the bourbon glasses into the kitchen as I headed down the hallway to mine and Sarah's bedroom.

I knocked. “Sarah.”

“One sec!” Her voice was strained. Out of breath.

Liam’s hand rested on the doorknob. The bedroom door was still locked.

“Can I come in?" I asked.

Too quick: “Don’t—I’ll be out in a minute. Just wait in the living room.”

“Ok” I say confused and slightly concerned. “I love you. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I know.”