Mr. Vanish and the Thin Air

By Paul Hina

In MR. VANISH AND THE THIN AIR, Jeremy works at the nation's leading cloud service provider, Rabblr, and he's heading home after failing to land a huge contract. He's drowning his sorrows at the airport bar when a colorful businessman tells Jeremy the story of a bar near the Denver Airport called the Thin Air. He claims the bar's bathroom has metaphysical properties. After you've been to the Thin Air's bathroom, life, somehow, becomes inexplicably effortless.

Upon returning home, Jeremy's job is hanging by a thread, and he discovers his wife is having an affair. With his life falling apart around him, Jeremy can't deny the appeal of the businessman's odd story about the bathroom at the Thin Air. So, he goes to Denver, and, sure enough, after going to the bar's bathroom, he's whisked away in a private jet with a corporate attorney and the attorney's beautiful assistant. Turns out, though, it wasn't just a coincidence that he ran into the attorney. He wants Jeremy to steal some software from Rabblr's research lab. There's an upcoming project that could forever endanger our ideas about personal privacy, and Jeremy might be the one person who can stop it. Jeremy begins to realize that the businessman's story, the Thin Air, his wife's affair, meeting the corporate attorney—it was all an orchestrated scheme to get him to this moment. At first, Jeremy is resistant to the attorney's invitation into corporate espionage, but once he sees evidence that Rabblr has betrayed him, he reconsiders.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Hina
• Release date: Aug 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005360948

Paul Hina

Paul Hina is the author of eight novels including Imeros, Let it Snow, and Double Play. His eighth novel, The Other Shore, was released in March 2016 with the story From the Boathouse in a single volume, The Other Shore: Two Stories of Love and Death. The Lavender Haze: Three Stories of Flirting with an Affair is his most recent release and includes three new stories. Hina has also published four collections of poetry including Such Deliberate Loveliness, Of Wanting and Rain, Origami Moonlight and Music Only We Know. Paul currently lives in Athens, Ohio with his wife, Sarah, and their two children.

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Mr. Vanish and the Thin Air

Paul Hina

Published by Paul Hina at Smashwords

Copyright ©2021 by Paul Hina

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Mr. Vanish and the Thin Air

One

Jeremy is sitting at the end of the bar, staring into what's left of his drink. He's spent the past fifteen minutes thinking about the disaster he's left behind him in New York, and how he's going to break the news back home. Of course, it's just as likely there'll be no need for him to break the news. News in the tech world spreads fast. His co-workers at Rabblr will almost certainly have known minutes after he did that he'd blown it. Blusea would've wasted no time in issuing a press release announcing that they, not Rabblr, will be the exclusive cloud service provider for C4Sports.

The news will be a setback for Rabblr, no question, but it's an unmitigated disaster for Jeremy. It's hard to imagine a scenario where this doesn't end with him getting his walking papers. His phone could buzz any minute with news that he's been fired.

Can I get two of whatever he's having? a man says. He's standing next to Jeremy.

No, please, I'm fine, Jeremy says.

Who said I was buying you a drink? the man asks.

Sorry, Jeremy says, looking down at the knots he's tied in the tiny, red straw he'd removed from his drink. I just assumed…

Just kidding, the man says, as he grabs the stool next to Jeremy. You don't mind, do ya?

It's all yours.

A not-so-subtle gust of cologne flows down the bar as the man settles into the stool. He's a big guy in an expensive suit. Jeremy doesn't have the best eye for quality, and usually wouldn't be able to tell an expensive suit from a cheap one, but it was obviously a nice suit. It's a brilliant white, which is a bold enough statement as-is, but it was obviously tailored to this big guy's body. He's well-coiffed with a full head of white hair, perfectly combed—the comb's teeth lines are still present. His face is tan, but not too much. It's a natural tan, too—not painted on. His hands, which he's placed flat on the bar, look perfectly manicured, but not at all feminine. They are the hands of a man that has done real work at one time or another, and they're decidedly self-assured. Along with the cologne, there is the distinct scent of confidence that flows around him.

I know a hangdog when I see one.

Excuse me? Jeremy asks, leaning ever so slightly to hear him better.

A hangdog—the look of a beaten man, the man says. His voice is strong and even. He has a rich, Southern accent, and Jeremy can't help but be reminded of Foghorn Leghorn, the rooster from the Looney Tunes cartoons he used to watch as a kid.

That obvious?

Look around you, son, the man says. This is a full bar, and the only empty seats are the ones around you. You might as well have stink lines drawn around ya.

Jeremy looks around, and sure enough the only empty table was the one behind him, and, if it weren't for Foghorn Leghorn, the only two empty bar stools would be the ones on either side of him.

You come through enough airport bars and you see it all the time. Lord knows, I've certainly had my own fair share of hangdog days.

The bartender sets the two drinks down in front of them. Foghorn slides one glass near Jeremy's still unfinished drink before pulling the other one toward himself.

What are we drinking? Old fashioneds? Foghorn asks.

That's right.

Perfect, Foghorn says, before taking a drink. He checks his watch—an expensive watch, but not so ostentatious to suggest bad taste. Good. Plenty of time. How 'bout yourself?

My flight leaves in less than an hour, but I'm in no hurry to get back.

That bad, eh?

Probably lost my job today.

Maybe it's not as bad as you think.

No, it's plenty bad, Jeremy says, taking a long, slow drink, emptying the glass of all but its ice. Then, pulling the red straw from the new glass, he takes a steady pull from it as well.

You sure that's not just the hangdog talking?

Jeremy looks at the guy, half-thinking that Foghorn is making fun of him. The cartoonish quality of his voice is just too thick and syrupy not to be confused with sarcasm. I'm sure. I blew a must-have account this morning. We've been working on it for months, and I was the point man. It was my white whale.

They're all white whales while you're chasing 'em.

That may be true, but this wasn't just my white whale. The whole company has been coveting this account for months. It was my job to bring it home, and you know…, he stops, holds a finger up and takes another drink. I had it, too. I had the golden pitch going. It was flat feet on solid ground. He puts his hand out, palm up, places the fingertip of his index finger softly in the palm. I had them right there. It was… What's the word?

Power.

Well, not exactly, but I'll take it, Jeremy says. You ever give a pitch in a room, where you can feel all the gravity pulling toward you. You feel strong, solid—perfectly capable of holding every person's orbit.

I do. You were in the zone.

In the zone, yes, exactly. Every shot I took—bang. It's going in. I knew it. They knew it.

And? What went wrong?

Nothing, Jeremy says, staring at Foghorn. Honestly, it couldn't have gone better. I did everything right—more than right. Still, they passed us over.

It happens.

That's the thing, though. They'd already known they were going with another company before the pitch. It was a done deal. The ink was all but dry. So, everything I felt—the good will, the gravity—was just condescension. Playacting. They let me in, let me deliver. They led me on.

Why would they do that?

I don't know. Jackals, I guess. Sadists. All these tech and media companies are in it for the game—zero sum. They're not just satisfied with the win, though. They have to see you lose, to humiliate you, and, if possible, they like to have an audience for the whole thing.

Sounds like a cutthroat business you're in.

That it is. And they sure cut me today—ear to ear.

They both take a drink simultaneously as if it were choreographed. Foghorn sits his glass down and watches Jeremy find the bottom of his second drink.

Two more, the rooster says, holding his drink up and shaking it for the barkeep's attention.

No, I've had too much already.

Last one, Foghorn says. Indulge me.

Okay, last one.

Foghorn sets a business card down on the bar as if by magic. Jeremy hadn't seen him reach in his pocket, and it seems to have just appeared in his hand as he set it down. The finesse of it, the easiness of the gesture, made Jeremy think he's being played. He's about to be sold. These drinks were a pretense to a con. No such thing as a free drink. Nothing's given without a string attached.

The bartender sets the fresh drinks on the bar, and grabs Jeremy's two empty glasses. Jeremy hasn't taken his eyes off the card—a plain white card with standard, non-embossed black lettering. It's classic, really—generic, even. Just two lines and four words on the front: 'David Thistlewaite' in bold type on the top line and 'Management Consultant' printed in standard type on the second line.

Jeremy picks up the card. There's nothing on this card. No phone number. No email. Nothing.

When you sit where I sit, you don't need anything else. If people need me bad enough, they tend to find me.

What is it you do, exactly?

I'm a man of all trades, you might say.

But master of none, Jeremy says, but Foghorn doesn't smile at this, or bristle at it, either.

What's your name, son?

Jeremy.

Jeremy's a boy's name.

That's the name they gave me.

No Jeremiah? Jerry?

Those are better how?

Take your point, he says. Jeremy, five years ago—

You're not going to try and get me to sell Amway or something, are you?

I'm not gonna try and sell you anything, he says, spreading his hands out in a way that seems designed to act as if he were laying all his cards out in front of him. I'm only showing you my card as an entrée into a story—an invitation, if you will?

Invitation? To what?

You ever entertain the metaphysical?

The metaphysical?

Yes. Beyond the physical realm. Outside the bounds of the corporeal.

Is this a Jesus thing? Are you about to tell me the good news?

Lord, no. Boy, you are a suspicious son of a gun. It's just a question.

I guess I'm just confused how to answer.

The metaphysical doesn't have to be a God thing, unless you need it to be, I suppose. It's just when you witness something or something happens to you, and… Something happens that you can't quite explain, and it just seems a bit… Well, magical.

Like?

Could be anything. Déjà vu might be a universal example, or a coincidence that seems too good to be true could be another. It could also just be a serendipitous event. For instance, you and I both in Atlanta at the same time, and my having something I felt compelled to tell you as soon as I saw you.

You did?

That's why I'm here, he says. About five years ago, I was sitting where you're sitting now. Quite literally. At this bar and on that very same stool. A guy came up to me, introduced himself, and bought me a drink. And he was a self-assured man—a man in full, as my mama might say. And, like you, I'd just had a disastrous day. I'd blown it with my company's most lucrative account. I mean, really blew it. No question. And it wasn't just my job that was on the hook, either. It was the whole damn company. This was the kind of account that keeps a company in the black. I don't mind telling you, in that moment, at this bar, I needed some self-assurance. And here was this stranger—a man in full, cock of the walk—putting his business card down on the bar, Foghorn says, and places his hand on his card. Then, he told me a similar story to the one I'm telling you right now. A few years before, a guy came up to him at this very bar when he was sitting at that very stool after a very, very bad day.

What is this, really?

Now, just hear me out. Suffice it to say, I was skeptical, too. Trouble is, things aren't going to get any easier to believe, he says, looking at Jeremy now with a deadly serious look. He told me about a bar at the airport in Denver. Not in the airport, but near the airport—just down the road. Not a fancy place, just a bar—place called the Thin Air.

Jeremy's looking at him now with confusion and curiosity, but he's listening closely.

He described my problems to a tee. He asked me how things were going at work, at home. Then, after I gave him my hangdog story, he said something that plumbed me to my core.

What'd he say?

He asked if I'd ever had the feeling of being a man erased.

He said that? Erased?

He did. Erased.

The confusion seems to leave Jeremy's eyes now, and he's looking at Foghorn with a clarity that belies his insobriety.

I can see by the look on your face that you understand that feeling as much today as I understood it then.

I do.

Go to the Thin Air, Jeremy. It doesn't have to be today. Hell, wait until you know it's time. Lord knows, things can always get worse. But I'll bet you find, no matter how long it takes, you won't stop thinking about it. And, eventually, you'll go. And it'll restore you.

Into what?

Self-assurance. From a man erased to a man in full. Cock of the walk.

How?

I don't know how. Remember, it's metaphysical.

How can a man going into a bar in Denver—?

I don't know. It's bananas. And if it hadn't happened to me, I wouldn't believe it myself.

Something must've happened there that you're not telling me.

The man told me to go to the Thin Air, which I didn't do right away. I waited, though don't think for one second I wasn't thinking about it. It never left my mind. It was the only hope I had. But you know why I didn't go?

Bananas.

"Absolutely right. Bananas. But after a few days of my problems snowballing—hanging by a thread at work, everyone at the office looking at me like I'd single-handedly sunk the company. And at home, having the hope of this card—the invitation seemed to highlight my domestic problems—made an escape all the more enticing. I started to realize that his card—the one that by now was burning a hole in my pocket—was calling to me, and it was the only real hope I had. It started to feel like it was my sole saving grace. So, I did it. I flew to Denver, and I walked the mile or so from the airport to the Thin Air.

I go in, and I don't know what I was expecting to find inside, but it's just a tavern. Nothing special. No magic. Nothing. I go to the bar and order a drink—an old fashioned, coincidentally. Then, I looked down the hall to the bathroom door. It was at the end of a small corridor that started right at the end of the bar, and the door was lit from up above. And I remembered the guy had told me I had to go to the bathroom.

Why?

No earthly idea. But I'd come this far. Why not? So, I go to the bathroom. I'd had to go anyway. Outside of the peculiar lighting—otherworldly bright—it was just a standard bathroom, really. Again, nothing special. No magic. I just took care of my business, washed my hands, and that was it. I left the bathroom.

What do you mean that was it? Nothing happened?

On the contrary. Everything changed. I changed.

I don't understand.

Me, neither.

Changed how?

Everything. I was one man going in, but another one coming out. I mean, I was the same man. I wasn't physically changed in any way. But, mentally, it was like… Everything just clicked neatly together. It was like I'd been living with loose screws and suddenly things were all tightened up.

So, your life turned around.

Things started going my way. I could do no wrong.

You saved your company?

No, no. That was gone—beyond saving. Good riddance, too. What changed was that I wasn't afraid of letting it go anymore. I started my own business, and, let me tell you, things are very good.

And at home?

Say again?

Your home life. Did it improve?

No. That was gone, too. No saving that, but, he pauses to show Jeremy a nice, thick gold band on his finger. I'm happier now than I've ever been. Didn't know it could be so good.

But it doesn't sound like any of your problems were solved. It just sounds like you had the confidence to let your problems go.

What's the difference?

Well, I… I don't suppose there is a difference, Jeremy says, seeming a little troubled before throwing back a drink of his old fashioned. But how can you be so sure that any of this happened because of the bathroom at the Thin Air?

If I could explain it better, I would. But I can't. All I can say is… I know it was the bathroom at the Thin Air by the Denver airport that changed my life. I don't know what happened or how it happened. I can't explain it at all. I can say this, though, there was a moment of syncope where I—

Sorry, syncope?

"That's right. There was a moment just as I pushed on the door of the bathroom to go back to the bar where I felt something. It was like a temporary loss of self. It happened so quick—like a record skip—that I half-think it could be I'm misremembering, but when I walked into that hallway with that light shining down on me from above… Do you know when you're a kid and you play one of those party games where you're blindfolded—rather it be pinning a tail on something or beatin' the hell out of a piñata—and they spin you 'round before you go to it? There's the moment just after they take the blindfold off when everything you've been doing in the dizzy darkness is finally laid out in front of you. It