A Room With A View

Chapter Twenty-Three - David

September 18th, Monday

David tapped the edge of his briefcase nervously. He didn't know why he'd brought it with him. There was no need for a briefcase to quit your job, unless David planned to walk right out the front door when it was done. David thought about that image: walking out and never looking back. It was a good one.

"Finlay," his boss, George, barked. David stood. He was sweating. He'd gone with the black suit jacket today for this express purpose.

David walked the short distance between the reception and George's office. He counted each step on the vaguely purple carpet. There were nine.

"George," David said curtly.

George eyed him over a stack of Manila folders. He was small, flabby, and constantly red in the face. He sported a mustache as hard and straight as horse hair over his upper lip, and kept what could only loosely be described as a toupee firmly clamped to his scalp.

"So. Tell me. What's up?" George's voice was a constant loud growl that made a simple "Good day" sound like a criticism of the highest sort.

David cleared his throat. He wished George would play some sort of soft background music, it was deathly quiet in the office. Not even a New York City siren could be heard.

"I, uh, am here to discuss--" David paused. He wasn't here to discuss anything. He was here to stand his ground and leave his job. But why was it so damn difficult?

George leaned forward in his chair. The gears grated against each other, and David flinched at the sound. His finger rubbed against the worn leather of his suitcase, keeping time with the beats of his heart.

"Look, Finlay, just spit it out. I have a meeting in five." George looked pointedly at his watch and laced his meaty fingers across his desk. His mustache twitched buried his upper lip.

David clenched his jaw. It would be two small words. Just two tiny words that would irrevocably change his life.

You're miserable, Tanya's voice rang out in his ears. Not the words he had been thinking, but they were enough to spur him into speech.

"I quit." His tie cut into his Adam's apple. It was cinched around his neck like a collar. All George had to do was pull the leash and draw him back in.

David's fingers played across the briefcase, finding invisible strings and bringing phantom melodies to life. A bead of sweat dripped from his nose and hit the leather, jarring the sound.

George blinked. "You what?"

David cleared his throat and straightened his spine. "I quit," he said, more firmly this time. "Consider this my two weeks' notice. I want to thank you for my thirty years at this company, but it is time for me to move on." He stood before George could bellow something in response. David nodded at him once, then turned on his heel and walked on quivering legs through the office, through the lobby, and through the front door. He kept walking until his heartbeat slowed and his brain caught up with his feet.

He had just quit his job. David Finlay had just quit his job.

A car screeched to a halt. David looked up to find that he was on the corner of Broadway and Cedar, staring at the park. High school-aged kids were standing in a loose circle, sharing something that gave off hidden puffs of smoke. It was the middle of the afternoon on a Monday. The sky gleamed grey with impending rain. Sounds started registering; sirens, honking cars, tourists speaking every language under the sun. David watched himself taking it all in. He didn't know what to do with himself. He had specified that this was his two weeks' notice, so presumably he would need to return to the office at some point to put in another ten solid days of work, but he wasn't yet ready to go back in. If he did, George might suggest a counter offer. They were still paying off Alice's student loans. A sizeable raise dangled before him might make David lose his resolve. It would give them the room to pay off the loans in full and have money left over for that trip Tanya had been talking about. Italy. As it stood now, they wouldn't be able to afford it, much less a trip to Tennessee.

David slid his phone from his pocket and pulled up Tanya's name. He was just about to call her, but stopped. Why was he calling? To ask if he could go back to work? David replaced his phone in his pocket and crossed the street to the park, taking the first open bench he saw.

No, he couldn't go back to work. Not today at least. He needed to sleep on this, to see how he felt in the morning. He wasn't above groveling. He could bend a knee and beg if the situation called for it.

You're just biding your time there, Tanya said in his head.

"Yes, but I was well-compensated for it. And I had a place to be," David responded aloud.

The collection of high school students stared at David and edged away from him.

"I just quit my job," David said in defense. The high school kids screwed up their noses and left the park, tossing looks over their shoulders.

"Oh what do you know," David muttered to them. "You're young. You've still got a whole life ahead of you to burn out your brain cells. Giving me looks. We'll see who's giving looks when you drop out of college to become a dad."

David fiddled with the handle of his briefcase. A mood settled over him like a fog, thick and heavy. He didn't often indulge himself in these petty "what-if" thoughts, but what if? What if he hadn't given three decades of his life to a number-crucher and had instead put his hands to something else? He could be playing Carnegie Hall, instead of paying for it. Tanya would be watching from a box seat, wearing her grandmother's pearls and one of those crystal-encrusted dresses. Sadaworski, Swanrovksi...whatever it was they used to top the Rockefeller tree. And David would make poetry from four thin strings and a bow.

A wind drifted through the park, swirling the leaves against the concrete and scattering the squirrels. They chattered angrily. The smell of dollar pizza and pumpkin spice latte mixed together and wafted toward David. He smiled. Alice loved pumpkin spice lattes. She was always excited when the "PSL season" began.

Guilt wormed its way uncomfortably through David's gut. He hung his head and rested his elbows against the briefcase covering his lap. What was he doing, complaining about his life? They had Alice, so every "what if" from age 21 onwards was moot.

"Hey hey! Here's our resident senior vice-president. George's looking for you."

David looked up. Joshua was standing before him, his thick hair waffling with the breeze. He was smiling uncertainly, clearly too polite to pry.

"Ah," David said. He didn't move.

Joshua shuffled his feet. "So, are you going to come back, or...?" Joshua let the question hang in the air.

David took in a deep breath, and exhaled through puffed cheeks. He looked out over the park. The flowers were already turning dry and brittle. Autumn had reached Manhattan.

"No," David said with the last of his breath.

Joshua hesitated. They weren't much more than coworkers, despite living in the same building, so this conversation was decidedly awkward for the both of them.

"O-okay. I will, uh, let George know. I'll say you're ill...or something." Joshua swallowed. He tugged at the white pressed collar of his shirt. He was wearing one of those ridiculous blue shirts with the white collar and cuffs. David always felt the more solid the color and print, the more professional.

"Thank you," David said curtly. His mood was still cloaked around him, and despite the guilt, he felt that he was owed a few moments of solitary wallowing.

Joshua waited for a beat before leaving, as if hoping David would change his mind and join him. But David stayed rooted to his bench, so Joshua walked back to their office alone.

Senior Vice-President, that's what Joshua had called him. Now, he was just an unemployed former violinist who hadn't touched his instrument since shaking hands with George on his very first day. He didn't even know where his violin was. Tanya had probably stashed it away in some dusty closet, letting it both dry out and collect mildew as the seasons had changed.

The sun warmed the tips of his toes, but a tree kept the rest of his body in shadow. He curled the fingers of his right hand, watching the bony knuckles protruding from his thin skin. The position hurt, but maybe, with enough work, he could make it grip a bow.