Tales of Profit, Promotion, and Even Grace

By Patrick Conley

The two novellas in this collection both describe a world gone mad with a frenzied rush for profit and promotion, a world in which bureaucracy seemingly trumps all other considerations. The first novella, “So, This Is It,” finds its protagonist unable to find work anywhere except in the ever-expanding government bureaucracy. Reluctantly, he finds himself employed in the Office of the Word. Assigned to do the impossible, the protagonist struggles to find meaning in a world without a soul. The Second novella, “A Fortnight of Frenzy,” describes how in the midst of suffering and death, a few individuals manage to exploit pain for gain. The main character and his spouse both work in a hospital and both do their jobs well. However, the protagonist wonders just what is the goal of his job. Is it to enrich the administrators or to help the sick?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781665511483

Patrick Conley

Patrick Conley has spent his entire life immersed in fiction. He grew up in a family that treasured books. Both his father and his brother taught English for over thirty years. His mother and grandmother devoted what little spare time they had to reading. So, it’s no surprise that Patrick taught English for forty-five years after earning his Ph. D. From The Ohio State University. He enjoys time with his family and in his spare time enjoys writing fiction. Some of his more recent books include two works that act as sequels to Conversations with the Living and the Dead—A Convocation of Five and Dialogues Among the Species. His more recent works include Two Quests in an Age of Uncertain Spirits and Broken Families, Dreams and Hopes. These and other of his works are available on Amazon.

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© 2021 Patrick Conley. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  12/19/2020

ISBN: 978-1-6655-1149-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-1148-3 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

A FOREWORD &

A FOREWARNING

All characters in this book are fictitious; accordingly, anyone looking for resemblances to living or deceased people will be disappointed. Fiction allows us an escape from reality and a retreat from the mundane even as it teases us into believing, if only momentarily, that this world of letters is real. However, if the characters and situations remain as flights of imagination, perhaps the stories themselves may provide some small element of truth.

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TALE ONE:

So, This Is It

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STAGES

Stage One, Waking Up to Doubts and Fears

Stage Two, Stepping Into New Realities

Stage Three, Juggling With Words

Stage Four, Bringing It Home

Stage Five, Stepping Into New Challenges

Stage Six, Striding Into the Weekend, Playing and Working

Stage Seven, Strolling Into Sunday

Stage Eight, Moving Into Monday

Stage Nine, Continuing the Mission

Stage Ten, Giving Thanks

Stage Eleven, Heading Back to Work

Stage Twelve, Biding Their Time

Stage Thirteen, Celebrating Friendship

Stage Fourteen, Showcasing Showtime

Stage Fifteen, So This Is It

STAGE ONE,

Waking Up to Doubts and Fears

"S o, this is it?"

Yes, it is.

It’s coming earlier than I had expected.

Yes, I understand.

Peter Stonehouse forced his eyes open and soon they stung and reddened because of the torrents of sweat that streamed down his face. His nightshirt—actually just an old T-shirt so tattered that he never wore it in public—clung to his flesh, made heavy with the sweat. With his gaze intent on the darkness above him, he wondered just what was the this and the it he had either dreamed or, perhaps muttered aloud in his sleep. His eyes made their way slowly to his left so he could read the red numbers from the alarm clock that glared at him. Three am, too early to get up and too late to go back to sleep. Peter had prepped late for the interview scheduled at eight am sharp. But, he had set the alarm for four am, so he could review his resume yet again and try to anticipate any questions. He slipped out of bed as noiselessly as he could, careful not to disturb his wife Amanda, who had to get up at four-thirty for her shift as an oncology nurse at Hospital #40721-7C. In the darkness, he took small steps but stubbed his toe at the edge of the dresser. Damn it all anyway.

Peter, what’s wrong?

"Sorry, in the effort to be as noiseless as I could, I screwed up and made a racket. I’m sorry, Amanda. Please try to go back to sleep, and I’ll promise not to bang into things and scream like a banshee. I just hope the kids didn’t hear me.’

I doubt that you woke them up. They don’t have school today and Shannon said she wants to sleep in, just as you would expect for the eleven year old she is. As for her younger brother, well, not the trumpets of doom could wake him. I’m awake, so I may as well get up. Why did you get up so early, Pete? Anxious about the interview?

Yeah, I am. I need to get this job and contribute to the family income again. Six months of waiting for jobs that just weren’t there has driven me nuts. I had some weird dream about some voice—a voice a lot like mine—saying ‘So, this is it? And then another disembodied voice answered back, ‘Yes.’ I was drenched in sweat, still am. I don’t get it."

Pete, go ahead and take a shower. Oh, no, the sheets are soaked. I’ll strip the bed and get them in the wash. Do you feel sick? Do you have a fever?

No, just terribly anxious. What does GS stand for, Government Sycophant?

Something like that, Peter. Actually it means ‘General Schedule.

Ok, I’m still clueless. What does General Schedule mean?

It refers to both a pay grade and a type of rank. There’s fifteen of them with each one having ten steps.

So, it’s like the military?

Pretty close. Look, Peter, you’ve got to get into the shower and stop simmering in your own sweat. You’ll do fine on the interview as long as you can get control of your nerves.

The e-mail I got back stated that the position would be a GS 1-3, depending upon experience and education. What GS level should I ask for? I don’t want to go too low or too high.

Pete, you’re still living in the world of private enterprise. Don’t worry. You’ll be assigned a GS grade and step. In fact, you’ll be assigned everything, except perhaps your underwear.

So, I become a ward of the state?

Till death do you part. Come on, get that shower and rinse away your doubts. You’ll get the job.

Mechanically Peter went through the morning routine of shaving, showering, and getting dressed with the clothes he had set out the night before. The normality of this regimen masked his gnawing uncertainty. No butterflies danced in his stomach; instead he had the sensation of parasitic worms gnawing their way through his entrails. No caffeine for today, he schooled himself. A year ago he had felt at ease, secure in his job as compliance officer for a major industrial firm that produced office furniture and supplies for the burgeoning government bureaucracy. Now that very same bureaucracy had absorbed Peter’s company and in the process disgorged Peter and many others. For six months, he had desperately sent out his resume. He applied wherever there might be an opening. Because of her work as an oncology nurse, Amanda could work almost anywhere and had graciously agreed to move when Peter found a job. But no job was to be had. Increasingly, Peter felt he had no choice other than to seek a government job. After weeks of desperate waiting, he had found an opening and applied. At age thirty-nine, he’d have to start at the bottom rung and prove himself yet once again. After dressing, Peter scanned his resume again—and again. Maybe they’ll ask me about Codex 656, the one prohibiting verbiage offensive to one and all. What does that expression, ‘to one and all’ mean? What are the universal values implicit to one and all? Who determines these? Maybe that will be part of my job? If so, they’d need more of a philosopher than a humble compliance officer. After turning over these thoughts, Peter at last surrendered and admitted to himself but no one else that he had no idea what would be going on at the interview.

Normally, Peter got up and prepared breakfast for Amanda and their two children, but Shannon and Kevin were sleeping in this morning. For Amanda, he set out a cup of yogurt graced with blueberries and then toasted a slice of bread and glazed it with honey. He poured her a small glass of orange juice and made her a cup of coffee as well. From years of practice, he timed the brewing so that the coffee would still be steaming hot when Amanda came down. Superficially, the monotonous routine had cloaked over the doubts and fears eating away at Peter internally.

Nothing for yourself, Peter? Amanda asked when she came down, dressed in scrubs and ready for work.

No, nothing, Peter responded. I’m not hungry.

That’s normal, Peter. When people are fearful, agitated, they tend to either eat ravenously or not all. Why don’t you see if you can eat just a little yogurt and banana? That may settle your stomach enough so that you don’t get wolfishly hungry right before the interview and then hit the vending machine for a greasy bag of chips.

You’re right, Amanda. Peter forced himself to take a small bit of yogurt and banana. He felt better, almost normal, so he then took another bite larger than the first.

He kissed Amanda good-bye and then checked on Samantha and Kevin, sleeping upstairs. He didn’t kiss them, for fear of waking them up. Samantha was so proud. This was to be the start of her babysitting enterprise. She would take care of herself and her younger brother for the four hours that Peter would be gone on his interview. She really wouldn’t have much to do. Still it was a start, and Peter realized that for Samantha this would be the first step into adult responsibilities.

So, off Peter went, walking to the bus stop three blocks away and then stepping on a bus crowded with individuals absorbed in their own thoughts, fears, and hopes. Two teenagers sat with earphones on, lip-syncing to distant music and tapping their fingers, but most of the riders were busily pecking away at their cell phones, playing video games, reading the news, or relaying last minute instructions to spouses, partners, children, or friends. Peter’s mind drifted back to last night’s perplexing dream, So maybe this is it, he mused. "We’re all rushing to somewhere so that we can rush on to somewhere else. The bus eased over to the next stop. A man in his late fifties boarded the bus, his grey, matted hair sticking out from under a back stocking. Other than Peter and the bus driver, no one else had taken much note of him. But then the man in the stocking cap pulled out a hammer from his torn, grease-stained brown leather jacket. The driver halted the bus and opened the door.

Get out! the driver barked.

The hammer wielding man did nothing but glare at the driver. Most of the passengers, Peter included, seemed frozen in place. Then the unwelcome passenger waved his rusty hammer around. Listen up, you sons-of-bitches, this is my tommy-hawk, and I’ll take you down one-by-one. While the hammer-wielding man glared at the passengers, the driver courageously got up behind him and pushed him out of the bus. The man staggered out, tripped on the curb, but regained his balance, cursed, and then hurled his hammer at the back of the bus. The tommy-hawk" clanked harmlessly against the back of the bus.

One rider, a woman in her fifties stuffed into a heavy overcoat that may have fit her thirty years and thirty pounds ago boomed out so everyone on the bus could benefit from her knowledge. That’s Crazy Charlie, at least that’s what everyone calls him. One of these days he’ll get himself killed. Either that or he’ll kill somebody else. He’s been that way for years. He’ll probably retreat to some vacant building and hang out for a while, maybe get drunk, and then start it all up again. Peter’s eyes followed Crazy Charlie—or whatever his name really was—for several seconds as the deranged man meandered his way through an alley littered with trash. Passengers exchanged knowing glances and a few pleasantries before once again retreating to their own individual universes.

Ten minutes later, Peter disembarked, still puzzled by the sudden intrusion of Crazy Charlie. I suppose he needs mental help, but then again maybe we all do.

When Peter crossed the busy street, he confronted a multi-ton monstrosity that squatted on the intersection of Main Avenue and Second Street. The grey, concrete building rose only three stories, and the impression of ponderous grey concrete weighed on Peter. He had walked past this intersection before, had driven past it, as well, but never before had he paid any attention to a building that just seemed to fade into the urban landscape. While its bulk may have rivaled that of the pyramids of Egypt, it lacked any elegance as if it were an afterthought. "Perhaps, they intentionally designed it so plainly that it would be inconspicuous but weighty. Or, maybe they decided just to dump concrete left over from the construction of government buildings all in one place and call it an office. In any event, I wonder just who the they are anyway. Not architects, that’s for sure."

As Peter flashed ID and his admission letter to a security guard, he noticed that behind the desk about six feet high in black three-foot letters was inscribed, OFFICE OF THE WORD. As the guard scanned his ID and reviewed his admission letter, Peter recalled to himself the opening words of a text he had read long ago, In the beginning was the word . . ..

All right, Mr. Stonehouse, the guard said without emotion, you can go in. Take the stairs to the third floor to room 333. The elevator doesn’t go up. It’s been broken for a while. You know it takes forever to get the requests for repair approved.

Thank you. Peter trudged up the stairs and made his way through barren, bleak hallways, painted the same grey as the exterior of the building. The only break in this cloud of grey was the lettering, all in black one -foot letters. Room 33 stood adjacent to the elevator, which he couldn’t take. Peter knocked twice and waited for an answer. There was none. He rapped again. Then a mechanical voice announced, Come in. Adjusting to the funereal atmosphere, Peter edged the door open slowly. When he quietly ushered himself, he faced a balding man with close-cropped hair. This guy could be anywhere from thirty to sixty he’s so nondescript, Peter thought. Nevertheless, Peter extended his hand and announced with a forced smile, I’m Peter Stonehouse. I’m here for the interview.

No, you’re nothing, not even a GS-1. As for me, I’m a GS11- step 10. Sit down.

Peter did as instructed, all the while thinking, If I didn’t need this job, I’d get the hell out of here.

Are you a fascist?

Startled by the question, Peter barked out a definitive No.

In my eyes you are, so you are a fascist after all the denial.

Suddenly, Peter thought he had gone back in time to playground insults. Without thinking, he blurted out, You’re a fascist for calling me a fascist.

So, you embrace fascism?

What is fascism?

It’s whatever we make it. Words are power and power resides in words and we have the power, so we have the words. We also have other powers, the powers to hire and fire, to tax, and to imprison, and then call it whatever we wish.

But only two certainties exist, death and taxes.

You overlook the third, government agencies to impose and collect the certainty of taxes. And agencies need employees, the more the better. More employees mean bigger budgets and bigger budgets mean more power and more power means more truth. And we have the power of words, so truth means whatever we want it to. Here the balding Human Resource officer—at least that’s what Peter presumed he was—paused, glanced over the resume and then looked Peter in the eyes. You are a fascist, my kind of fascist.

So, we’re both fascists?

In a manner of speaking, yes.

Nonplussed, Peter then waited for the only words he was hoping for. Finally, he could contain himself no further. So, am I hired?

Of course, you’re exactly the type of fascist we’re looking for, the truth-shifter, protean type. You are now dubbed a GS-1, step 1. You may proceed to the inner office behind me. You are now GS1, step 1.

Peter took a deep breath and thought to himself, So, this is it.

STAGE TWO,

Stepping Into New Realities

A s Peter strode past the heavy iron-grey door behind whoever it was who had interviewed and / or interrogated him, he had second thoughts about being christened GS-1, step-1 not only because of the low pay and even lower esteem of his position but also because of the banality of it all. Soon, however, his eyes were dazzled by a dizzying array of bright colors: reds, oranges, golds, yellows, vibrant greens. Even the institutional greens seemed vibrant. In this passage from the windswept, desolate plains of the office behind him to the dazzling diorama before him, though, Peter had strange misgivings. Am I being manipulated for some perverted purpose? he wondered.

Hello, you must be the new GS-1. I’m Candace, GS-12, step 4, in charge of Enhancement Activities. To my right is Devon, GS-12, step 3, in charge of Denigration Activities. You’ll be working for both of us, though at different times. Candace did not offer to shake his hand but merely steered him over to a cluster of desks in the rear of the room. She stood almost six feet tall, and sported a tight-fitting red outfit that accentuated her physically fit, lean (and perhaps mean) build. She seemed too brusque to impress Peter with her sexuality. Instead her dominant impression was one of power. Her close-cropped black hair also projected her no-nonsense approach. In contrast, Devon was dressed all in black: a black, turtleneck sweater, black dress pants, and military issue dress-black shoes, meticulously spit-shined. His hairstyle mimicked Candace’s. He stood a non-descript five feet, ten inches, with chiseled face: high cheek bones, a narrow nose projecting downwards like an arrow falling from the sky, a chin that jutted outward, and elfin ears, not oval but almost diamond in shape. He said nothing, but his blue eyes seemed to be probing into Peter’s soul. As Candace and Devon strode off, the latter whispered to his colleague, I don’t trust that fellow. He’s too old to be a GS-1, step 1. Do you think he may be a plant from the Office of Internal Investigation?

Candace dismissed the very thought as absurd. "Him? He looks so supremely banal to be a spy. Look at him. He’s almost shaking there in fear. No, if they wanted to send a spy, they could do better than that.’

I don’t know, Candace Sometimes, the best investigators are the ones so mundane they can almost fade into the concrete.

When the two supervisors stepped into their private offices, Peter was left standing before three people, each in her or his cubicle. They said nothing until Candace and Devon had strode away out of earshot. Then one man stood and extended his hand in greeting. Peter shook his hand, a bit relieved that for the moment he felt safe from the GS-12’s. I’m Jim Worthington. Welcome to the very small world of the sub-GS-5’s. We do all of the grunt work, researching and writing. Those above us take our work and then disseminate it to the masses in televised news reports, social media, and—most importantly—in private parties with the rich and famous. To my right is Mary Albright, and to my left is Tom Owens. You are Peter Stonehouse, right.

Right you are, but how did you know my name?

It came across as an info-blurb on our computer screens as soon as you entered the room. Jim explained in a deadpan voice that seemed almost apologetic. Jim was of average height and weight, had brown hair greying at the temples, wore loose-fitting cream colored sweater, and worn blue jeans. "Come on, Peter, or would you prefer Pete?

Just monosyllabic Pete is fine.

Keep it simple, huh. Well, shake hands with Mary, the best researcher this side of the iron-grey door you walked through."

Mary stood up and extended her hand. Like Jim she wore a loose fitting sweater and jeans. She was, perhaps five foot five and had blond hair in tight small curls. She seemed friendly enough, quite the opposite of Candace in that respect.

The last denizen of the sub G-5’s was Tom Owens. He, too, was about five foot, five and wore an oversized green sweatshirt and faded jeans. He extended his hand in greetings and then went on to explain some practical matters. Well, Pete, you’ve made it this far. I’ve got some good news. You won’t have to enter the office through that bleak anteroom any more. As soon as you check in with security, all you have to do is to take the elevator or stairs behind him and go straight up to the third floor. The elevator isn’t really broken. The powers that be just say that so they can monitor a newcomer’s reaction to trudging up the steps. Once you’ve gone up as far as you can go, you’ll find a hall running perpendicular to the elevator. Then turn to your right. That will lead you directly to the entrance to the left of Candace’s and Devon’s private offices, the forbidden zones. Don’t ever dress for success. We’re supposed to act as lesser beings, the groundlings of this grand stage."

We eat lunch at our desks, so brown bag it tomorrow, Jim explained. There’s a small refrigerator behind my desk and Tom has a microwave that pops up beside his computer whenever Tom wants it to. I still haven’t figured out how he does it. But he does it, and that’s what counts. Mary has brought all types of condiments to enhance a basic sandwich