The Courage of Deputy Blowhard
“Deputy Blowhard,” as Hank was called around the office, scrutinized Debra as she walked away from Mrs. Ricky’s office. It was Wednesday afternoon. Black Wednesday. Review Wednesday. The windiest Wednesday they’d had in several weeks in the small town of West Whitaker, Wisconsin.
Debra tried her best to walk with the elegant poise of that signature dead-shoulder, one-heel-after-the-other that had, time and again, drawn the attention of her coworkers — especially the men (and Janice). But Hank, listening hard for her body language, had dozed off to enough Vietnam docu-dramas to realize a tactical retreat when he saw one.
The blue eyes — too glazed and focused. The rosy lips — perked at the dimples from effort instead of joy. Her steps — a little too pointed, distracted. Even her dead-shoulder employed none of the featherlike arm sway for which she was branch-famous. Bent at the elbows, it was instead curt and robotic. Most everyone winced at every step.
When Debra reached the other side of the room, having walked past a row of silent onlookers and deliberately avoiding eye contact, she at last tripped and broke a heel. Man-Bun Mitch, eating pretzel thins in the corner, let slip a gasp. No one said a word as she got up and continued. That was, until Calvin broke the silence.
“Hey Deputy?” he said, swiveling a little too far in his chair and pulling himself back. His bright yellow hair stuck out from an otherwise monochromatic office-friendly attire. “How’s your cell reception?”
“I’m going to try it,” said Hank.
“Because you’re going to need Life Alert on speed-dial after — wait, what?”
“I’m doing it. The Bernard. I’m tired of these reviews, Cal.”
“The B-Bernard?” said Calvin. “That hasn’t been done since…Bernard! And even that was different — it’s impossible. You’ll get yourself killed.”
“I can’t keep getting demoted every time we have these yearly reviews. I’m sick of it.”
“But that’s just the game big guy,” said Calvin, grimacing and spinning his chair in circles. “Like the signs say: We all get demoted at Wonder Corp. Did you know Janice started out as VP, Interactive HR?”
“Yeah, and now she’s a Junior Account Facilitation Coordinator. I know.”
“I had no idea she had been here so long. Started in ’98. Was the first hire after the founders.” He looked over his shoulder. “Do you think Debra…?”
“No. But she’s probably Assistant Intern now.”
“My god. And with six kids at home. So now she gets coffee — “
“For the interns, yes,” Hank said. “If I don’t do something about it, I’ll be right there with her. Soon you’ll be there too.”
“Me? Nah, I’ve got a plan,” Calvin said. “Here in a year or so I’m going to coast into Bathroom Specialist and lay low from there on out. They won’t even know I’m here.”
“You do realize they got rid of all the bathrooms last week, right?”
A grumble erupted from behind Mrs. Ricky’s door. Hank and Calvin took cover. It flowed like an underwater current carrying little invisible fish that snacked on happiness. That was Janice’s going theory, anyway. No one really knew because it wasn’t outlined in the handbook, so they took turns theorizing.
The manager’s door flew open and out walked a short, pudgy man whose cheeks rivaled the crimson of his tie. He walked straight over to Hank and, with his enormous belly, knocked over several penholders and files on the edge of his desk. Hank scrambled to catch them.
“H-Hey Bernard,” Calvin said, having swiveled too far in his chair once again. Bernard ignored him. He instead stroked his pencil-thin goatee and squinted his eyes at Hank. When he spoke, his voiced sounded as if someone had punched Mickey Mouse — shrill and aggressive.
“Deputy Hank Blowhard,” he said, smirking — his facial hair framing perfectly the titanic gap between his two front teeth.
“Bluard,” said Hank. “It’s pronounced, Blue-ard.”
“Okay, Blowhard — ‘snapping back at a superior.’ Section 15, Paragraph 3. I’ll be sure to put that one in your file. Mrs. Ricky will see you now. I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about. You’ve had a very big year, haven’t you?”
“Probably not as big as your lunch.”
Man-Bun Mitch gasped.
“Hmph! Another strike for the employee file!” said Bernard. “Well on your way to Doormat Coordinator, Blowhard!” He placed both hands on his belly and with it knocked over several more Manilla folders as he turned away. Goatee raised to the ceiling, Assistant Secretary Bernard marched defiantly back into Mrs. Ricky’s office. Calvin crossed his heart and spun his chair three times.
“Why do you always do that?” Hank asked.
“Because,” he said. “Reasons. It worked last time. My salary wasn’t docked. But that was after we had to start paying the company yearly bonuses, I guess. I can’t stand that guy.”
“Yeah. I can’t either,” said Hank. “But here we go anyway.” He cracked his knuckles and stood as tall and straight as he possibly could. “It’s time. Talk me up, Cal. I’m going to walk in there.”
“You’re going to walk in there!” Calvin echoed.
“And put my foot on her desk.”
“Put your foot on her desk!”
“And ask, no, demand.”
“Demand!”
“That I receive…”
“Yeah!”
“The minimum wage.”
“The deputy is back in action!”
Hank pulled his pants up a little higher and strode confidently over to Mrs. Ricky’s cracked door. He turned around. The entire office had poked their heads up from their desks to watch. Even Debra, holding her broken heel and three coffees with names penned in sharpie that no one recognized, leaned around the corner to see. Sales chatter across the floor stopped. Janice, in the far corner, raised her fist. Man-Bun Mitch chewed his pretzel thins with gusto. Calvin swiveled his chair, stood up and saluted.
Hank nodded. He took a deep breath, puffed out his chest and entered the infamous office. The door slammed behind him.
And he was never seen again.
Thanks for the read. And your endlessly generous claps. They keep me going. If you enjoyed this story, you might enjoy this one too. Have a terrific day, you beautiful reader.
