Short Stories

Amber Alert

Amber Alert

Now let me tell you something about my boss: he is one of the most uptight men this side of covering table legs with skirts.

Mr. Benjamin Banks, he was called, and he was a short, fat, bald, beady-eyed money-maker who looked like hog shoved in an expensive suit. His hair was going—except around the sides—which gave him the appearance of either a medieval monk or a roman emperor wearing discount laurels.

Worse, though, he's one of those bosses who really makes an “effort” to try and connect with the young people he employs. I'm sure you know what I mean by “effort.” I mean he's the sort of fellow who'd get in trouble for buying a Kanye West album at a CD store, studying it intently, and then waddling into work the next day to address people as “my nigga” with a soft punch to the upper arm and a chuckle.

Under those circumstances I worked for him for two years—two long, boring years—of which the only redeeming feature was the occasional raise from his greasy pockets. One day I might be a lawyer, for now I must be content with being an intern.

Or “apprentice” as he ingratiatingly calls me. You're starting to get the picture, eh?

I had heard somewhere that Mr. Banks had a wife, but I quietly hid my disbelief (no, despair. There's something tragic about being single when your ugly, insensitive boss has apparently tricked someone into marriage) and joked with the other interns behind his back.

So imagine how surprised I was when Mr. Banks invited me to a local bar after work one Friday to have some drinks with his wife.

Ostensibly it was a Fourth of July party. Ostensibly it was to celebrate my two years of faithful (and, dare I say, high quality?) service. So at five o'clock, or thereabouts, I stepped into the elevator on the fourth floor of the Rockland Park Office Center and headed towards the ground floor. Except, as I stepped in, I heard my boss running out of the office suite towards the elevator. I stuck my hand out to hold the door.

“Mr. Banks?” I called.

“Jimmy,” he exhaled. (Now, how many times had I asked him to call me James?)

“Yes, sir. Is there anything wrong?” Internally, “Yes, sir. Why won't you let me leave your infernal office even at five o'clock?”

“No, no, nothing like that. Just...You're going to meet my wife tonight, you know.”

“Yes,” I said, nonplussed. “You told me that already.”

“Well,” he said, faltering, “we have a strange tradition in our marriage of calling each other certain things.”

“Like what?”

“That's not important. Just...be respectful, alright?”

“Always, Mr. Banks.”

“Good. I know you will.”

With that, he let me go, and I meditated on our strange conversation all the way down. What on earth did he mean by that? Soon I was lost navigating the city's metro line, pushing my way through the crowded streets, and locating the little bar among the many cafes and shops that lined the avenue.

Self-conscious, I walked into the dark and smoky room, wondering if I should have left my jacket at the office. While my eyes were adjusting, I felt a clap on my back and a loud voice near my ear.

“Here he is, sugar bear, just making his way in from the subway I suspect.”

Sugar bear?

I turned to find my boss in a particularly hearty mood. He was carrying a drink, smoking energetically, and steering me between the shoulder blades towards his wife at the counter. Evidently she had saved us two seats.