Jackpot. Chapter 6
Michael’s back in Leroy’s office again, supposedly to talk business, but really he’s just wasting time making pointless chit-chat. Leroy really ought to find a new vice president. Outside, dark clouds gather over the sea as Michael launches into some spiel about Piccadilly Willy, or maybe his son. Neither of them are sure, because neither of them know much about country music. Michael just thinks he’s impressing Leroy.
“So like, I’m pretty sure without his influence, country-western never would have become what––”
“Where is this going Michael?”
Michael squeaks like a prom queen who’s not on board with giving her crown to a hardworking disabled girl. “Jeez, Leroy, I’m just making conversation.”
“Well how about you go make some money instead?”
Michael’s shocked. Leroy never talks to him this way.
“Alright, I’m on it.” Spirits low, Michael shuffles back to his desk. A subordinate comes over to him with a problem and Michael explodes, really lets him have it. Holding back tears, the subordinate scurries away crying. His coworkers ask what’s wrong and he tells them and they feel for him and swap Michael stories and go out for drinks and start a band called The Winds of Justice. Soon they’ve got a hit single about their work troubles. While Michael or Saguaro Sombrero Solutions Unlimited aren’t mentioned by name, anyone in the know can tell what it’s about right away. The song becomes an underground sensation and soon it’s playing during rush hour on 111.1, LA’s Most Alternative Station. And thus it reaches the ears of a man named Arbuckle, the tech whiz in charge of Saguaro Sombrero Solutions Unlimited’s computer systems. He can’t believe what he’s hearing, the song’s describing all sorts of company drama to a tee. Back home at his personal computer, Arbuckle does some sleuthing and sure enough, the members of The Winds of Justice all work at Saguaro Sombrero Solutions Unlimited. Utilizing the company’s state of the art electronic mail delivery system, Arbuckle spreads the word to all who might be sympathetic to The Winds of Justice’s secret message. And so it begins.
Michael feels his authority slipping. Paralyzed like an overburdened dog walker, he watches the tide of anger wash over the office, growing louder and larger until it threatens to drown him. He makes a break for the men’s restroom, grabs a mop, and locks himself in a stall just as the entire office floods in after him. Crouched low on the toilet seat, Michael beats back the clawing masses reaching under the door, silently thanking José for his insistence on strong locks and hinges on every stall due to some kind of traumatic experience to which he only alluded. Nevertheless, as strong as the lock is, it’s starting to bend. Michael raises the mop handle like a dagger and stabs it through a pipe. He pulls it out and water gushes, breaking down the door from the inside and launching him high over the mob upon a triumphant wave. Door as his board, Michael surfs his way across half the office until the wave crashes. He kicks off the top, does a gnarly flip, and sticks the landing. The soaked drones stumble back to life and Michael sprints into Leroy’s office and locks the door. When he realizes he’s interrupting an Important Meeting with the Important Client, he wishes he’d let the mob take him.
“Can I help you, Michael?” Leroy asks, eyebrows raised.
The Important Client smirks and twists his moustache, relishing his position above the conflict.
Before Michael can answer, the office shakes like a ship in a tempest as the mob slams against the wall. Dust and plaster fall from the ceiling, furniture slides across the room, and the Important Client bursts into laughter.
“I warned you, McMenahan!”
“But I’ve been good to these people! I pay them well, I treat them right!”
Michael looks at his shoes, relieved the blame hasn’t fallen on him, still nervous it might.
The Important Client strikes a match and lights a cigarillo. “After all my mentorship, you still blind yourself to the reality of the world. In our imperfect society, there are Creators, and there are parasites––”
“Am I a Creator?” asks Michael, glowing with hope.
“I don’t know you,” says the Important Client.
Michael collapses into a chair.
The Important Client rolls his eyes. “Who’s responsible for this fiasco, whatever your name is?”
Michael’s lips flap uselessly for a minute before he’s able to speak. “Papapabapabapabapabapitts, it’s, it’s the whole, it’s everyone, sir!”
Leroy throws his hat on the ground.
The Important Client chuckles. “Relax, McMenahan. I’ve been in this situation many times.” The building shudders and the lights flicker. The shouts outside grow louder. “You say you paid these people well and treated them right. I have absolute confidence this is true.”
“Then why is this happening?” asks Leroy.
“For the specific causes, we might ask this sad excuse of a man.”
The Important Client’s words hit Michael like a dump truck. He slips out of his chair and slumps face-down on the floor.
“There’s no doubt in my mind that this fellow is to blame. Though he has admitted nothing, just look at how the weight of his actions crushes him.”
Leroy has to admit, Michael isn’t looking so hot right now. “Get up, Michael. Tell us what happened.”
“I don’t want to!”
Leroy lifts his boot, ready to stomp on him, but the Important Client shakes his head.
“Leave him be, McMenahan. I don’t know what mistakes he’s made, but I can guarantee they were not as critical as yours.”
“And what might that be?” asks Leroy, his head spinning, shocked at what he almost did.
“You treated parasites as Creators. When underpaid workers strike, they strike for money. But what you have here is something different. These people are comfortable in their homes. They have no trouble feeding their families, sending their children to private schools, wasting company time on lavish vacations. You have given them happiness, but happiness is an illusion, and they are beginning to realize that the only thing worth having in this world is power. With one pursuit finished, another has begun.”
The walls of the office bulge inward.
“Then what do I do?”
The Important Client blows two smoke rings and fires a smoke bullet through them. “Things may look dire now, but you’re a Creator, just like me. Use this as an opportunity.”
“For what?”
“I thought a fellow Creator would know an opportunity when he saw it. Michael, is it?”
Michael sits up, the color returning to his face. “Yes, sir.”
“Who instigated this fiasco?”
“I don’t know, sir, everyone just––”
“Everyone did not just spontaneously coagulate into a blob of rage. Think, Michael. Who might their leader be?”
Michael thinks about it. “If I could point to anyone, it would be Arbuckle.”
“Arbuckle. A strong name. What does he do?”
“He’s in charge of the computers. I heard there was some kind of electronic message he sent out that riled everyone up.”
Leroy’s heard of these computers, but he ain’t exactly sure what they do. He reckons this Arbuckle fellow will be a tough sucker to tangle with.
“Well then, Michael,” says the Important Client. “You must go out there and bring this Arbuckle in to speak with us.”
Michael shakes his head so hard his hair almost falls out. “No way! They’ll kill me!”
The Important Client chuckles. “No they won’t. These are people accustomed to luxury, not killing. As a man accustomed to both, I can tell these things.”
After some more convincing, Michael agrees to talk to the mob. He slips out and Leroy slams the door behind him. Gunshots. Screams. The Important Client realizes his folly and radios his personal helicopter. The walls look ready to snap in two.
“Let me in! Let me in!” Michael presses his face through the gap between the bending door and its frame, his shirt collar soaked in blood. Leroy grabs his arm. The helicopter arrives and the Important Client pries open a twisted window.
“Leave him, McMenahan!”
“Don’t leave me!”
“I won’t!” shouts Leroy, but he loses his grip and Michael’s sucked back into the crowd. The lights cut out and chunks of ceiling fall from above. Leroy runs through the debris, scoops up his hat, leaps out the window and joins the Important Client on the rope ladder dangling down the side of the building. The chopper flies away and they hang tight, watching the smoke rise.
😯