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A Man and The Man

A Short Story

By Alex MauricePublished 6 years ago 11 min read
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Photo Courtesy of The Sydney Morning Herald

Roger Paul Jameson, III meticulously pulled the shaving cream from his face as he stared into his large mirror. He saw that no piece of his hair had stayed on, and he nodded at this sight. He then put down his razor and reached for his toothbrush, which already had the toothpaste on its bristles.

Later, as he adjusted his solid, dark blue tie, he stood by his personal king size bed and listened around the large house, and smiled at its usual quietness. No annoying other taking up his bed space, or the sound of crying. It filled him with giddy joy to go against what all of his employees had decided to do.

Settling down is for wimps, he thought.

His four brothers, all under their parents' grip, had settled down, and all worked at smaller employments. They had wives to return to, and kids to raise.

Not I, he thought.

Before leaving, he grabbed "it." A gold watch inherited throughout the generations of the Jameson family. He grinned as he put it on. It often gave him a feeling that he could step on anyone he pleased. With no legacy, he was happy at the thought of being buried with it. After tightening the metal time keeper, he adjusted his "Roger Paul Jameson, III, President" name tag.

He walked out of his mansion, closing his double, brass-knobbed door behind him. He walked down his professionally made walkway, over to his bright blue corvette, and got in. He turned the key and drove off, his mind flooded with the day's tasks.

He arrived at the parking lot for "Jameson Media," and parked in his reserved spot. As he got out, he smelled the fresh morning air. This was a scent that he had long decided was the smell of success.

As he walked toward the office, careful to stand up as straight as possible, he caught sight of a figure sitting near the building. It was an older man, probably in his mid 50s, and he was wearing a dirt stained jacket, tattered jeans, and had a long, rough beard that was almost down to his chest. In front of him was a small, tin cup, and a piece of cardboard with "Will work for food and shelter" written in black marker.

Jameson wrinkled his nose as he walked past the man. He avoided all eye contact with this hideous looking creature.

"Employment and money will do him some good," he muttered under his breath.

Once inside, passing by the large lobby desk, he found the large steel door elevator, entered, and pressed the button for "up." A young looking fellow followed in after. He had on professional business attire, but looked to be in his early 20s, and his tie was slightly loose.

Jameson pretended not to see him as he pressed the button for the top floor.

Interns, he thought, slowly shaking his head.

Once the elevator reached the top floor, he got out. The intern had gotten off on a lower floor, and Jameson had been welcomed by the ability to exhale.

As he walked past the numerous busy cubicles, he arrived at his secretary's desk. The petite towhead sat at the desk, with the phone receiver to her ear. Jameson eyed her, impatient for her to put the stupid thing down.

After she hung up, she turned and met her boss's gaze.

"H-hi, Mr. Jameson." Her eyes widened.

"How are you, Tina?" Jameson said flatly.

She quickly nodded. "I'm feeling good. Can't complain."

"I need to see you in my office."

Jameson beckoned the young lady with his finger, and she obediently stood up, albeit slowly for the president's liking. Jameson, for the most part, knew he had hit the jackpot while looking for a secretary. She was young, recently out of college, and was in desperate need of anything. She even took his condition to pay her below the usual secretarial salary.

Jameson entered his office, with Tina tailing behind him. There was dark blue carpeting covering the large floor. The bookshelves contained numerous thick, expensive reads, and all were alphabetized. On his desk was a large lamp, a large computer system, and a tall, neat stack of documents.

Jameson sat down on his swiveling office chair, while his secretary took the wooden chair in front of his desk. He felt that she had violated his code.

"Tina, how long have you been working for me?"

"Uh, six months," she said quietly.

"Exactly," Jameson blurted out. "But, regarding yesterday, why were you two minutes late?"

"I, uh, had to make a trip to the airport."

Jameson stared unfazed.

"Tina, there are some things you need to know." He began to move his hands in a rhythmic fashion. "A business needs all employees to run smoothly. People like me, and the rest of my company staff, do not tolerate anyone who does not follow the cycle. Without that cycle, bringing in the profit is impossible. I need you to work on getting my business appointments together, and making sure my clients how everything works. If you can't do that, what are you doing at my company?"

Tina's head dropped.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said meekly.

"Prove it!" Jameson snapped, pointing directly into her face.

The thin, blond-haired girl stood up, tears streaming lightly down her face, and exited the office. Jameson nodded.

"Obedience right next to godliness," he thought aloud after he was certain she was out of earshot.

Hours later, twelve o'clock rolled around. Jameson stood up right when the second hand made its round, and slowly pushed open the office door. As he walked out, he caught sight of Tina quickly putting numerous papers into a pile. He turned away, not feeling happy or angry.

Back in his car, he was looking forward to his usual break consisting of a cup of dark coffee with exactly two spoonfuls of cream and no sugar. Aiding this would be a large iced bun to give him some focus. He could feel himself drooling just thinking about it.

He then pulled into the parking lot of "Flynnton Cafe," and exited his car. He walked in, immediately satisfied with the smell of roasting coffee, before he got into the small line of customers waiting to order. He always got a good feeling to see the matching wooden floor and counter, as the color of coffee reminded him of the power of the drink.

His enthusiasm waned when he realized a new barista on duty at the register. Her hair was dyed a brilliant purple, her arms covered in numerous tattoos, and had a gage in each ear. Jameson scanned the shop, and saw that every employee was unrecognizable, and each had at least one piece of modification.

"Stupid young people," he muttered, somewhat audibly.

After pushing his way past a fuming customer with a piercing on her upper ear, he made it to the counter. He attempted to look down, to avoid seeing the smiling rocker barista.

"Hello, sir," the barista said.

"Hello," Jameson mumbled, not looking up. "I'll have a small cup of dark coffee with exactly two spoonfuls of cream, and a large iced bun."

He then quickly looked up. "Also, if there's any sugar in that cup, I am reporting you to the manager!"

"Y-yes sir," the barista let out, and shakily began to punch the order into the computerized register.

A couple of minutes later, Jameson was sitting at his favorite small round table, sipping his coffee. He winced upon the second sip.

Cream is a bit short, he thought.

He then put the cup down back on the saucer. As he reached for his iced bun, he looked up. He saw a strange-looking young man walking toward him. The man had very dark brown skin, not much hair, and wrinkled clothing. A shoulder bag was slung around his shoulder.

Jameson winced again upon seeing the man. "Get out of our domain," he mumbled.

He hoped the man would just pass by, but he then saw him walking toward the table. The stranger came up, and reached his hand out toward Jameson.

"Hello there, my good man," the man said in an odd, thick accent.

"H-hello," Jameson replied.

He shook the man's hand, not wishing to upset any potential clients that may be in the shop.

"What do you want?" Jameson asked him.

The man did not sit down.

"Well, you look very well dressed," the man said. "I'm new to this place. I'm living with a nice young lady for a little while, and I just got in yesterday. As I look around to get the ropes, I figured I should meet someone as well off as you."

"Thank you," Jameson said uncomfortably. "Uh, what's your name?"

"Chinua," the stranger replied.

Jameson nodded. "What brings you to these parts?"

Chinua's face slightly fell. "Well, I needed to find a better place for my wife and my little girl. Bullets are flying everywhere in our country, and that is no place to raise a family. Getting visas over there is like waiting for a dud firework to go off, so thankfully, this young lady was part of a program that will take people like my family and I in. I'm so thankful, and just need to see where I can find a job around here. We didn't bring much with us, but time will help."

Chinua smiled, but a tear ran down his face. "So, sir," he said. "What is your name?"

"Roger," Jameson replied slowly. "Roger Paul Jameson, III."

"I love that name," Chinua said. "What do you do?"

Jameson could only conjure small talk. "I own a company here. 'Jameson Media.'"

"Got any kids?"

"I live alone."

Chinua nodded. "Different paths for everyone. I respect it. What's it like running your company?"

Jameson shrugged. "Heck. Got my personal and company's account to worry about. Whatever decision I make has the best or worst effect on the future."

"I see," Chinua said. The foreigner then looked at the coffee shop clock.

"I better get going. I promised my wife that I would take our daughter to the park." Chinua smiled again. "It was amazing to meet you, Roger. Hope to see you around."

Chinua then turned and walked out the door, as Jameson sat in his chair, his mind unable to construct a coherent thought.

Later, back at the office, Jameson tried to finish signing the many business contracts he had, but he couldn't stop his now wandering mind. He looked around his extravagant office, and then thought of Chinua. Not much seemed to bother that man.

Just then, he heard a knock on his door.

"Please come in," Jameson said gently.

In walked a shuttering Tina, who inched slowly toward her boss's desk.

"Can I do something for you?" Jameson asked.

Tina flinched upon hearing his words, but Jameson knew it was no longer time for his usual high volumes.

"I think I need to get off thirty minutes early. I am so sorry, Mr. Jameson! You can dock my pay if you have to, but this is an emergency!"

Jameson looked at her, a burning pain entering his stomach. "What has happened?" he asked slowly.

"Well, I'm part of this program that allows members to take in refugees, and I took in this family. Their daughter got seriously hurt at the park today, and I need to visit them and help them with the hospital expenses."

Jameson's heart sank.

"What was the man's name?" he asked.

"Chinua," the young lady replied, with brief confusion in her eyes.

Jameson slouched over his desk.

"Take the rest of the day off and go help them," he told her.

"You sure?"

"The cycle has exceptions," Jameson replied.

He looked up and saw tears well into her eyes.

"Thank you, thank you."

She then turned to leave. Jameson was astounded. A girl fresh out of college with a lower pay was taking in someone like Chinua. But now, there were other expenses to worry about.

Jameson stood up and walked toward his secretary.

"Take this," he said, handing her his gold watch.

"Your watch? Why?"

"No matter how long it takes, you'll find somewhere in town that'll take that for cash."

Tina blushed.

"Thank you." She then walked out the door.

Jameson walked back toward his desk, a lighter feeling within himself, and ready to take on the long road ahead of him. He sat down, and pulled up Tina's salary records on his computer, but with no intent to dock anything.

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About the Creator

Alex Maurice

Short story writer, poet, and essayist.

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